[Pandionwolf]

Lychfield graveyard. The last resting place for all Albion.
Mist lies low against the grey soil, occasionally punctured by a rotting hand punching the soil. The old black iron gates groan as they shift in the breeze.
A figure wandered through the graveyard, occasionally swearing as it stubbed a toe on a headstone.
Web had been having a bad day. He’d spent four hours wandering the graveyard in search of one particular headstone and had turned up nothing. He’d started to head back, got confused, fallen over and cracked his head on a particularly sharp stone cross. And he’d lain in the dirt as the light had faded and then he finally regained his wits and set off once again.
And then the light had faded and he’d spent yet more hours wandering around. But he was beginning to get his bearings now – wasn’t that old Nostro’s tomb up there? And the grave of Capt. J. Sparrow? His mental map shifted and fixed his position. Not far now…
Web was a Hero, one of the last to graduate before the Guild had been destroyed. The certificate had still been in his pocket when he’d heard. Now he was forced to wander – people were more wary of Heroes now, after Jack of Blades. And he’d run out of money and luck, and now he was here, wandering the graveyard paths, occasionally sticking his spade half-heartedly into one of the graves to see if there was anything valuable in there. There wasn’t.
The Graveyard was quite popular among young Heroes – the Undead problem always needed to be sorted out, which gave them the opportunity to gain a bit of renown and experience. And the tales of treasures in the grave were rampant in Albion – in every pub was at least one person telling the tale of ‘Ol’ Such-an’-such’s fortune, buried with ‘im, yer know’. Of course, no civilian had been inside the graveyard for years – the service was normally held in the town square and then some guards would take the coffin and deliver it to the graveyard. It didn’t even have a gravekeeper anymore – after the old one died, no one had volunteered – but it wasn’t really an issue. In Lychfield, the dead normally sorted themselves out.
Web’s toe caught yet another headstone. “D*mn it, by Skorm!” he swore, as he plunged forward into the ground. Bugger this for a lark, he thought.
He pushed himself to his feet, not bothering to dust himself off. His apprentice uniform – the only clothes he had – was wrecked now anyway, one trouser leg torn and bloody where one of the Undead had grabbed it, and it was so smeared with grave dirt he could probably make a fortune by selling it to a necromancer.
He sighed and shook his head, absent mindedly smacking a grinning, rotted head emerging from the soil with his spade. Damned undead, been following him all day, never actually attacking, but always close.
It wasn’t that they were evil, exactly. Just stupid, and single minded. Whatever drove them now was very different to what had driven them in life.
Lychfield. The dead rest uneasily.
Web looked around. He definitely recognised this place now. There was a large closed tomb just ahead, with a statue of a hooded figure on the roof.
He moved closer. The inscription was carved on the door in a heavy, gothic script – Death’s own hand. It read: The Dark Duke Sibelis. Your reign of terror is no more.
Web shivered. Sibelis… It was familiar. He’d heard it at the Guild somewhere. Sibelis…
He rapped sharply on the stone. It echoed.
He looked at the statue. Maybe the door opened that way…
After a few fruitless minutes of twisting and pulling every knob and dangly thing on the statue he gave up and walked away. Out the gate, towards home.
The graveyard was quiet. The only sound was the sudden cold blast of air, which sounded hauntingly like a sigh.


Four hours later, Web lay sprawled in an ancient chair of an abandoned gatehouse, fast asleep. It had taken him three hours to get there – after leaving Lychfield, he’d headed in a roughly straight line, towards where he thought lay Bowerstone. His direction had become increasingly erratic over the last hour, as he rapidly emptied his supply of beer. He’d stumbled against the gatehouse, tried to pick the lock with a twig and a feather, and then blown it apart with a massive fireball that stank of alchohol.
The creature that had been stalking him watched this with interest. It understood humans very little these days, and watching this one make his stumbling way through the marshes and woods of northern Albion had seemed to be both amusing and instructive. But as it moved towards the wrecked doorway it perceived greater possibilities. The human had been in the graveyard earlier – Skorm knew why, but he stank of it, the smell of damp earth and ancient dust mingling horribly with the stench of alchohol. Maybe it knew something. The creature evaluated the possibilities as best it could. It’s cold, dry sentience was very different to humanity’s kind, which was colourful and explosive and erratic. It knew a little of such terms as imagination – it sounded horrible, but that was the tool best suited for this purpose.
The creature loped away into the darkness, scratching it’s head.

End of Part 1

[Vegeta]

I Think it was good... But not great.

Good job though I would definately read the next chapter.

[Angel]

I actually really like this - if you have anymore of it, please put it on here...I'd love to read it

[Rhadiel]

hmmmm pretty good ^^ if ya want....read MY story http://forums.projectego.net/fate-2791/

[Angel]

Cheeky self-promotion there, per chance?

[Rhadiel]

lol....i didnt make my new chapter till recently...and nobody responed soooooo ya
i say it worked out pretty good....plus...this chapter explains wat droded was doubting......

[droded]

Well I decided to read it after Rhadiel's post, and I thought it was very good. +Rep!

By the way Rhadiel- Your post confused me, what was I doubting?

[Pandionwolf]

Sorry it's taken so long guys
A week later the Garveyard was silent again.
Two guards trooped up to the gates, holding a large black box between them. The newest of the graveyard’s denizens…
The leading guard began to fumble in his pocket, eventually pulling out a large key. He nodded to the other.
“Best pull out your blade now, lad. Keep an eye on the ground.”
The key turned in the massive padlock, which clunked.
The gate swung open.
The guards advanced, carefully now. The site was at the top of the hill, nearly a kilometer away. Both had their swords out now – the standard guard issue double-edged shortsword, with silver inset down one edge. Good against the Undead…
…except there wasn’t any. For the whole trip, not one mouldering hand punched through the soil, not one cracked skull grinned up at them. It was eerie.
By the time the guards had reached the site, buried the coffin and hurried back down the hill they were spooked. The Undead were bad, but… this was Lychfield. It wasn’t right.
They left in a hurry, barely checking that the gates were locked, not even waiting before they were a few yards away before breaking into a run.
Below the garveyard, below the thousands of graves and tombs, below the ruins of an earlier building dating back to the Old Kingdom, something opened it’s eyes.

Web was asleep.
Gentle snores echoed around the small ship’s cabin he had got, fighting with the soft sound of the water slapping against the wooden walls.
The ship was called the Odd Frog. Not a brilliant name – it’s captain had wanted something a bit more wild and viscious and manly, but it’s previous owner, an old man who had taken it out only twice in the immensely long time he had owned it had been a whimsical fellow, and the Bowerstone historical society wouldn’t allow him to change the name because it was so old and therefore important, in their rather indiscriminate view.
Currently she was headed for Hook Coast and then Snowspire, to trade rum and furs and other things that kept out the cold. Web, thinking of the opportunities overseas and the fact that he hadn’t had nearly enough to drink, bought passage and hopped aboard.
Currently she was moving along at a nice pace up the coast of Albion, gently pushed by southern winds. They sailors and passengers were merry – half the rum stock was already gone – and the oceans calm and perfect.
Then the ship hit something.
A massive wooden thud echoed up through the bilges and hold and cabins, stopping everyone in their tracks. The sailors rushed to the sides and peered over, closely followed by the passengers. The water hissed smoothly round the edge of the boat, giving nothing away.
“It’s all right people, thank you!” called the captain. “Nothing to worry about!”
I hope, he added silently. Still there seemed to be no harm done, but he was still uneasy…
“Bruvil, Mandos, go down to the hold and have a look around,” he said to a couple of young sailors, once the passengers had returned to their former activities. “I don’t think there’s any problem, but we can’t be too careful…”
After the sailors had gone he went up to the steersman.
“How’s our course?”
“She’s going fine, Cap, we’ll be there in no time,” the sailor tried to smile reassuringly.
“She’s right as rain, steering like a charm, won’t take us long at – by Skorm, what the hell was that?!”
The wheel had suddenly jerked out of his grip and was spinning freely.
The captain looked up to the sails. Still calm…
“What’s our course?” he said, keeping his voice level.
“Er…” The steersman looked ahead. About now they would have been turning West, towards Snowspire, but the wheel was still spinning, and the boat was turning the other way – East, to the northern coast of Albion. And there was only one place to land up there.
The boat lurched horribly and began to gather speed.
“Where?” said the captain, his voice low now.
Both he and the steersman answered at the same time.
“Lychfield…”
And as the boat sailed on towards Lychfield, Web slept peacefully below.
End of Part 2