Where was Aerandir? Well, he didn't know actually. He had been somewhere near the Taurai Woods, but, by the looks of things, he wasn't anymore. He was now in what seemed to be a barren wasteland, there were few trees, and even where there were trees, they were gray and dead, bearing no leaves what so ever. The ground was a faded grayish color, which bore no vegetation, besides small patches of dead grasses, which looked almost as though they were diseased. The air around him was cold, but worse than the cold, was the chills running up and down his body, raising hairs and Goosebumps up his arms and neck. Aerandir's bright, usually lively, golden-blonde hair even seemed dead in this barren place, it seemed to have faded to a dull yellow, and it hung motionless around his head, like a yellow mop. He was trying to stay warm, garbed in his black ranger's cloak, pulling it tightly against as much exposed flesh as he could cover. He would have liked to get out of this depressing place, but first, it would be nice to know where he was.

The eerie silence around him was broken by the shrill cry of a woman, far off, and Aerandir broke into a run, his bow already strung and in his hands, an arrow resting on the string, ready to shoot at whatever creature may be attacking this person in distress. He came to an open area, and saw a woman, standing in terror atop a gravestone, batting downwards at a mob of creatures. Maybe if Aerandir had been jogging by, only stopping for a fraction of a second to look, these creatures may have appeared human, but it was easy to tell, they were twisted freaks. The Undead. An assortment of Zombies, Skeletal Creatures (human and animal), Vampires, Wraiths and even several Liches, standing around the outside edges of the gang. Whispered an arcane syllable, and the arrow in his hand began to glow with a brilliant golden light. He loosed the arrow at one of the liches, deciding his best ploy would by to take them down first, to stop them from reraising the dead Undead. The arrow hit the lich in the thigh, and it shrieked in bloodcurdling pain as it fell, rolling itself into a ball.

It wasn't long before he was firing holy arrow after holy arrow into the mob, trying his best to destroy the undead spellcasters before they could reraise their fallen allies. But this would be an impossible feat without help...

Lyon couldn't believe it. He had no bloody idea where he was. He had prided himself with his knowledge of the grasslands, and yet that invaluable knowledge had failed him. How could this possibly unfortunate event occur? He had just been headed towards Ondolond. Now he was stranded in some very creepy looking area of the Salquedor Grasslands.

Trekking on was difficult. For all he knew, he could be headed towards an even more isolated region, even further away from civilization. But he had no choice. It was either move or stay where he was, and the latter wouldn't help his predicament in the slightest. So onward he went, deeper into this dead-looking land. Where he would end up, only the god knew. Hopefully, it would be the path to a city. More likely, he would run into a gang of bandits.

His negative thoughts were interrupted by a terrible scream that had definitely come from the throat of a woman. Swearing, he drew his sword and ran towards where the scream had come from. If someone was being attacked, his conscience wouldn't allow him to stand by and witness a meaningless death. But he never could have prepared for what he saw next.

A woman was standing on a gravestone, a hideous gathering of undead beasts surrounding her. A man had already reached the scene, an elven archer by the look of him. He was skillfully firing arrows into the group, arrows that glowed and burned those that they struck. There was obviously some sorcery involved.

The mercenary didn't have time to wonder at the skill of this man. He drew his sword in a flash, and immediately charged towards the fiends, blade swishing back and forth as it sliced through the weak, corrupted flesh. A zombie attempted to sink its teeth into his arm; the next second, it dropped to the ground, headless. Lyon gave a quick, curt nod towards the elf, a simple acknowledgment and a sign that he was here to help. Then he ran his blade through another monster, and forced his mind to keep his reflexes sharp for the battle ahead.

Only moments after Aerandir had settled himself into the scenario, another man burst into the scene, wielding a longsword. The man appeared human, and was presumably not evil, as he began instantly slashing through the foul freaks of nature. The man nodded at him, and he nodded back, unsure of human customs or greetings, but not wanting to be rude.

Aerandir continued his firing of enchanted arrows into the mob, and he had succeeded in removing the Liches from the equation. He continued firing his arrows, into the mob, although he was not always hitting the creatures in straight on, a combination of Holy Arrows and his enchanted longbow were quite effective in wounding the creatures, killing many of them on contact. He turned his gaze to the woman, who stood above the gravestone, now waving her arm around and mumbling. This odd behavior made him at first assume she was mad, but then he realised she was casting some sort of spell. He shifted his full attention to the woman, watching incase it was some sort of trap, but his suspicions were releaved when she conjured several great fireballs, hurling them into the undead mob. Aerandir smiled now, as he was sure of this victory. He continued his firing of arrows into the mob of undead, until he realised his mana was quickly draining. He decided to switch to normal arrows, although not quite as affective, he would have to deal with them until his energy returned.

He now realised that the Undead creatures were dying much slower than before. Groaning in disappointment, he continued firing arrow after arrow into the mob, as the man hacked and slashed through the mob with his longsword.

Lyon's berserk charge into the undead horde had been effective while his momentum pushed him forward, but he found himself in mortal peril. He was surrounded by the cretins, the lot of them bearing down on him, hoping to get a piece of him. He lashed out with his sword, forcing a few of them back, but knew that there was no way he could hold them back for long. There were simply too many. He swore quietly to himself; why had he been so stupid!? It would have been much more wise to stay on the edge of the horde, and fight from there. Now he was at risk of being overwhelmed.

To make matters worse, Lyon saw that the elf was no longer using his enchanted arrows. Now, he was firing ordinary ones, which certainly hurt the monsters, but was much less effective. Lyon had been hoping that with an archer on the outside of the battle, he might receive some supporting fire, but it looked like he might have to fight his way out on his own.

Fortunately, it seemed that the damsel in distress wasn't as helpless as she seemed. Fireballs erupted from her hands and struck the undead, catching many of them ablaze, some of them simply getting blown apart. With this new variable added into the equation, Lyon began to fight harder, slicing and slashing through numerous decayed bodies.

As he easily dispatched yet another beast, a sharp pain shot through his shoulder, and he cried out as the pain only increased. He lashed back with his free hand and knocked loose a zombie that had clamped down on him with it's teeth. Furious, he spun around and cut it in half. He then began to push his way forward, with his blade flashing to and fro, attempting to get out of the throng and into a clear space.

For nearly a week, Dean had been tracking this necromancer. He had managed to evade his grasp thus far, and the trail seemed to come to a very strange and sudden end on the plains of Salquedor. Dean wondered where the sorcerer had managed to slip off to; it was as if he had simply vanished into thin air. Dean was certainly no expert on tracking, but he knew how to hunt, and somehow, the trail had simply dead-ended right in the middle of this horrible place. The land of the dead, Dori’ba. He grasped the hilt of his double-bladed weapon, not knowing where the next attack would come from. He had pulled his hood back a long time ago; the sun never shone here. His face was grizzled from the long trail, his normally clean-shaven features now full of prickly hair. Dean wondered at how anything could live here, and yet there seemed to several trees and even patches of grass here and there.

He heard screams from his left. Turning and gripping the hilt of his weapon tighter, he dashed across the wasteland as fast as his legs would carry him. Bones and twigs snapped underfoot as he ran, throwing caution to the wind. The wind rushed past his face, carrying his hair along with it in a stream behind his head. Dean came upon a horrible sight; an undead horde surrounding two fighting men and a woman who had apparently gotten herself trapped while standing upon a gravestone. He watched as one of them dashed headlong into the mob, swinging wildly with his sword. Dean rolled his eyes, knowing that this tactic would be about as effective as throwing pebbles at the beasts.

He dashed forward. The longsword man’s momentum came to an end, and now he found himself trapped within the horde of monsters. The undead creatures turned to avenge their brethren who now lay in pieces on the ground. Dean sighed, and then ran straight forward, twisting and twirling the blade in his hands. It sliced through decaying flesh and bone, creating a sickening noise every time it made contact with one of the risen corpses.

“Damned necromancers,” he muttered, making his way through the mob towards the foolish man. Arrows rained down overhead, sticking into the beasts but not felling them. Normal arrows would hardly do any good against these horrific abominations. Dean finally made his way into the tiny area around the man, where the undead monsters were congregating, trying to get at him. Dean stuck out his own blade in a parry position to keep from being the unfortunate target of the man’s next swing. Without any hesitation, Dean grabbed the man by the arm.

“Come on, let’s move!”

Lyon was being surrounded. There was no way he was going to get out of this predicament. Everywhere he looked, his eyes were met with the disgusting sight of decayed faces, all with their sunken eye sockets turned towards him, intent to rip him to shreds. He fought as hard as he could, but without magic, there was no way he could save himself. The inevitable would soon come, and he would be swept down to join the ranks of this undead army.

Fate had other plans, however. Reinforcements soon arrived in the form of a grizzled man wielding a double-bladed sword. He skillfully fought his way through the corpses, spinning and slashing, with the air of one who knew exactly what he was doing. Numerous undead were slashed apart as his weapon made contact with them. Upon reaching Lyon, he grabbed hold of the mercenary's arm.

"Come on, let's move!" the newcomer said.

Lyon didn't have to be told twice. He was already sporting a nasty gash on his shoulder from the bite, and had no intention of having anything life that happen again.Doing an immediate about face, he began to walk forward steadily, methodically cutting a path through the sea of decayed flesh, going forwards towards the open space at the edge of the mob. Before he took even a few steps, however, he shouted over his shoulder, directing his words towards the woman.

"Get over here, and stay between us!" he called. The female managed to reach them, and positioned herself close to him, occasionally firing a spell if one of the fiends got too close. With her in tow, Lyon pushed forward, doing his best to keep himself alive while also protecting the woman. Hopefully, this strange new arrival would also help defend her. Lyon couldn't do it on his own.

The one good thing about fighting the risen dead was the incredible softness of their rotting tissue. It was so easy to cut through, especially with the vampiric strength that Dena possessed. Combined with the arcane strength-enhancing properties of his weapon, it made for an unending flow of lethal, accurate, incredibly strong blows. Limbs flew everywhere, accompanied by strands of centuries-old cloth and the occasional internal organ. Sometimes the old bones splintered and dispatched themselves in a spray of shrapnel if the body was really old. Dean slashed to and fro, cutting into heads, arms, legs, anything he could reach with his blade. The second good thing about fighting the undead was their impeccable stupidity; no matter how many of their comrades were slain right before their eyes, they just lined up to get slaughtered.

Dean knew that hacking them to bits would immobilize the bodies, but not fully destroy them. Fire was the best way to do that, but he didn’t have any accelerant on him. He could only hope and pray that one of the other two men had the means to light up the growing pile of corpses.

Pain seared through his arm as one of the wretched creatures managed to land a blow on his forearm. He turned, lashing out in a quick series of cuts, renting the beast literally limb-from limb. He turned again, this time lashing out with all of his might at the others who surrounded them. The man he had just rescued called to the woman standing atop the gravestone to join them in their escape. She obliged without question, positioning herself between the two of them. Dean turned on heel, covering their backs while the other man lead the way out and the woman was protected on almost every front by the two of them. He lashed out at whatever crossed his line of sight, weather it be a direct threat or not. He was careful, however, not to leave himself of his new charge vulnerable to attack. His swings remained closed and confident, and he only took them if he knew he could land them successfully.

He called to the archer, “You shall not find much success with naught but wooden arrows. Let us make our escape!”

Lyon swung and swung his long sword, but the damned beasts just wouldn't die. It was extremely eerie to see a zombie with only one leg hobbling towards him, it's eye sockets staring without seeing, it's only desire to rip into him and consume him. Lyon cut off it's other leg, and it collapsed to the ground, but that didn't stop it. It used it's arms to continue crawling towards him, slithering across the ground like a snake.

The newcomer appeared to be a veteran at this kind of thing. Lyon was stunned by his skill as he swung that double-bladed weapon, keeping multitudes of the supernatural creatures back. Lyon felt a rush of gratitude for his aid; if it wasn't for him, he would already be another corpse.

Nevertheless, he wasn't safe yet. Nothing but powerful magic could truly destroy the undead, and Lyon had never had success in magic. The woman he was fighting to protect seemed to have some skill in the arcane arts, but it was simple combat magic, nothing that could keep the monsters at bay. She sent fireballs and magic missiles everywhere, blowing the enemy to bits, but those bits still survived, and were intent on their mission.

As the mercenary pushed forward, he realized that they were getting close to the edge of the throng. He placed a hand on the back of the lady, and pushed her forward, sending her into the clearing, while he backed away slowly. He glanced at the other human to see how he was faring. It looked like he had been hit on the arm, but it was nothing serious as far as he could tell. Relief spread through him. They would make it out of this nightmare. They would survive.

“You shall not find much success with naught but wooden arrows. Let us make our escape!” The man shouted at the elven archer. Lyon couldn't agree more. It was high time to get out of here.