Mists of Bilehall Campaign

A strange curse taints everything. It clings to the flesh and lingers within the lungs, a poison that destroys the soul while leaving the body to shamble on. A small settlement of the damned has formed near the border, a collection of unfortunate trespassers unable to leave the accursed land. You have joined their number, but not in their despair. Ready your gear and bolster your courage; your journey into the Mistlands us about to begin.

You find the horde of undead at the edge of the Mistlands. The skeletal soldiers and wavering corpses stand docile just within the mists, as if all consciousness had left their bodies as they reached the border. There are at least a hundred within sight and presumably many more beyond the heavy fog.

"Been like that for days," your young guide explains. "Here, watch this." The girl scoops up a stone and winds her arm back to throw. Your hand snaps out and catches her wrist. "No, really, we've been doing this for days. Trust me."

You release her arm and watch the well-placed projectile shatter the jaw bone of one of the closer warriors. The skeleton's only response is a small step backward, catching its balance. "Ugh, couldn't have done that yesterday when Kamila was watching, could I..." the girl mumbles.

You send her home with a few coins in her pocket. As she disappears over the hill, you draw your weapons and approach the mists. You clear the soldiers within arm's reach first, pulverizing their bodies until you are convinced they won't rise again. Then you carefully breach the unofficial border, moving back and forth across the line, slaying the undead by the hundreds. You continue into the late afternoon.

Then you see the twin figures slicing their way toward you, more efficient than a scythe through the late-autumn harvest. They drop the dead with perfect efficiency, a short blade in one hand and a stave in the other. You call out, hoping not to startle them-the last mistake of your mortal lives.

They approach with impossible speed. You call out again, explaining that you are working toward the same goal, but there is no response. You barely have time to band together before they are upon you. The two warriors are chained together, but leap and spin as with one mind. Your every strike is parried by one as the other counters. Your skill and strength are equally matched, and despite your opponent's unending stamina, you believe you may yet survive. Then the dead begin to move, slow and clumsy. They are barely a nuisance, but it shifts the balance of the battle. You decide to run far too late, the mass of bodies impossible to penetrate. The two warriors fall upon you with their staves and beat you mercilessly. Under the torrent of blows, your bones crack and break. Then merciful darkness takes you.