I woke up and my throat wasn’t there anymore, just some leather straps. With my vocal cords gone no use to scream. The shadows keep following me, they stitch something to me and all of the sudden I can move, they hand me my rusty sword, my helmet, my armor. The world is too heavy to move, but they carry me to the battlefield. Some ancient words and the stench of a dozen swamps fill me with new-found strength. All around me the army of the dead succumbing to white horses and shiny armors. How fragile are they to my blade. How fragile are their stone walls. How they fall and join our ranks with their alabaster capes painted crimson. How their fallen comrades smile without the prison of breath. How everyone of them move to the hollow rhythm of necromancy.
It’s difficult to see when you carry your head under your arm.