Journal of Cara.

[mangel]

Cracking the Mask.

Boots sinking into the near constantly wet mud around Triel. The weather did not appear to be getting any better since the orcs arrived. They kept themselves mostly hidden in caves but their presence was noticable everywhere. From the campfires and occasional orcish shaman of the Maggot God leading packs of the undead from place to place.

"There is something inherently wrong with seeing the dead that followed my commands scant weeks ago being lead by the shamans and priests of the god who dragged them to the grave in the first place." Frowning as she traipsed through a field that before the plague had grown wheat. Trying to recall the farmers name, but failing. Just one amongst many more dead that she either dug a grave for, or watched as it climbed up from one.

Her target a particular shaman of relativly low power, she both assumed and hoped. Having no wish to commit to this particular test against Tarok or any of his elder shamans. Spotting him and the undead up ahead she lurked ever closer.

Upon spotting her the orc growled out in it's gutteral speech, not intent on picking up any of it's threats, she did catch atleast one name "Bone Collector" the odd name they'd begun to call her time after time.

Whispering a prayer and reaching out with one gauntletted hand focusing all her hatred and spite for the orcs and their maggot god onto the shamans heart. Which goes suddenly from thumping along to stopping in it's tracks. Watching the orc gasp for breath coldly until it's movement finally cease alltogether.

Focusing her attention finally on the approaching undead, slow moving zombies and one skeleton grasping rusted weapons and wearing ragged moldy remnants of clothing.
Grasping her amulet thightly in the palm of her right hand, whilst the left goes out unarmed. "In the name of the Lord of the Dead, I command thee halt and do as the Reaper wishes!" Waves of negative energy flow from her hand, fuelled by her own personal faith and the power of her god.

The rebuke washes over the undead, but refuses to take hold. The undead just keep advancing. Frowning deeply. "Even with the shaman cut away I cannot regain control..what is wrong is it me, Triel...or Myrkul. The Maggot god cannot be migthier..."

Brandishing a wicked scythe she quickly dispatches the undead. Watching the dismembered corpses morosely she then proceeds to dig a grave for each. The recent events pounding in her head as she does.

"Nothing is going according to plan, Triel infested with orcs, the Dukes remain adamant, Myrkulites openly commiting rituals and murders, nothing is working!"