𝑼𝑵𝑭𝑰𝑵𝑰𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑫 𝑺𝒀𝑴𝑷𝑯𝑶𝑵𝒀

01

You shiver as you walk along the darkened path, pulling your black cloak tighter around your shoulders to try and keep any warmth inside. Even with the light of your lamp, the path ahead was barely visible, so you kept your gaze on the ground in front of your feet, keeping an eye out for any twigs or roots that could end up tripping you. The sound of a branch breaking off to your left startles you, and you quicken your pace, reluctant to stick around and find out what lurked in the darkness that enveloped you.

You weren't anyone of importance; you were just an apprentice, after all. Your mentor, Sir Jordan Maron, had sent you out on a delivery just before sundown. You were hesitant, but this delivery was important: it was to save a life. Jordan specialized in medicines: potions, herbs, spells, etcetera. When you had arrived in the village about five years back with no recollection of who you were or how you came to be there, Jordan had taken you in. The only thing that you knew about yourself was your name.

You and Jordan had grown very close over the years, but nothing more than a good friendship blossomed from your relationship. He had taught you everything you know about medicine, and had even shown you a few spells. You were a quick learner, and were confident when casting certain spells and creating potions. You worked well with your hands, and you knew it.

Soon enough, the warm glow of lanterns could be seen shining through the trees, and you smiled in relief. Almost home, you thought, Almost to safety. 

Today, however, the gods of luck did not seem to be on your side.

With a groan, a zombie stepped out from behind the treeline. It caught sight of you and snarled, making its way towards you. You grimaced, the distinct stench of rotting flesh attacking your nose. Dropping your empty satchel and dying lantern at your feet, you unsheathed an iron dagger from the belt fastened around your waist, preparing yourself for a fight. Sure, Jordan was a skilled apothecary. But he was one hell of a swordfighter as well; making a point to teach you how to defend yourself.

The zombie advanced on you, and you stepped forward to take a swing at it. Before you could, however, an arrow embedded itself in your shoulder, and you let out a cry of pain, dropping the dagger. You fell to a knee, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. The zombie came closer, and you could hear the rattling bones of a skeleton nearby, no doubt preparing another arrow to send your way. 

Shakily, you pushed yourself to your feet, backing away from the mobs, your eyes flitting every which way to try and find an escape route. Unfortunately for you, more groans joined the ones of the first zombie, signaling that a few more of the undead had caught sight of you. 

Your left hand clutched at your injured shoulder, debating whether or not to pull it out. It was stopping the blood flow pretty decently, but it hurt like hell. And, honestly, you weren't sure how much time you had anyways. So why hasten your death by—

The thwack  of another arrow finding its target made you flinch, but no pain blossomed immediately. Had you not been hit? Were you...dead? Popping one eye open disproved the latter, which you found relieving. But then who...?

Your answer came in the form of a zombie collapsing at your feet, three arrows sticking out from its back. Your frowned, pain momentarily forgotten, as you scanned the surrounding area for your saviour. 

They came in the form of a battlecry. Two young boys, seeming to be about sixteen or so in age, rushed from the treeline, sinking their swords into the remaining zombies. Another young man stepped out in front of you, much quieter than the boys. He held up his shield, standing with his back to you, and deflected oncoming arrows from the skeleton. One more figure, that you couldn't quite make out, dropped down from the trees and slashed his sword towards the skeleton, finishing it off in a few skilled strokes.