Pestilence: Rise Of The Pure Undead

'Dammit!' nearly tripping over something laying on the ground, Isilt stepped back, a small cut left on his cheek.

Ignoring the blood flowing from the negligible wound, the knight-in-training eyed his options, but he might as well have been blind for there was nothing to consider, Frenand was the undead who had faced his king in combat, and just the fact that he had fought Cleavster and was still here was proof that Isilt could do nothing.

'If I somehow manage to run away, the other undeads and beasts will just come after me… I can't possibly outrun any of those creatures…' not only were they much faster than himself, but they would never run out of stamina too.

'If I try to fight this guy, I'll just get pounded into red sludge…' he didn't even have a weapon right now, unable to even find solace in the lie that he had the reach advantage, this was unarmed combat for the both of them, and Frenand was stronger, taller, an undead, and a champion of Loimos.

Whilst Isilt was just a random knight trainee with little experience of combat, he would probably break his own fists trying to strike the undead's armour.

'Could I try hiding? No, that's also impossible, even if my lack of strength makes it easier to hide, this doesn't mean that they can't track me down… Especially since he already has a grasp of what my presence or whatever feels like…' brushing the back of his hand against the bleeding injury, then he had no choice.

He just had to stand his ground and hope that the heavens would be kind enough to give him the win, not that he even believed in or knew of any heavens, this was Belliste, this was the Southern Shores, the only deity around was the strength one cultivated for themselves, raising his fists in the unarmed combat style of the south, Frenand raising his like boxer's.

The undead had honed his punches since the very beginning, during the very first expedition of the vanguard when he had beaten to death a few islanders, with just the sensation of his strikes against the body of his opponent, he could tell exactly what was hit and just exactly how much damage had been dealt.

"Hey, what did you mean by that? Not having to deal with three of them?" moving backward, careful not to trip over anything, subtly moving toward the entrance.

"Well, I guess I answered the one's before you, but it should be obvious! As worshippers of strength, three of your fellows made the correct choice of defecting to our side, for death is the way to greater strength, every single time, without fail, one can be turned from a living without any loss of in capabilities, only gaining a superior body, soul, mind and spirit!-"

"-Everything is better when you are dead, you will find that out eventually" stomping one foot down, raising hay and dust then slamming his palms together, launching all that was risen right at the living.

'Traitors? I don't see her here… Which means-' throwing himself out of the way, rolling behind a stack of hay, running and leaping for a ladder, the wooden object creaking and squeaking under his weight as he climbed up to the level above, where even more hay was to be found, this was where the visitors that felt amorous hid away, and just like them, Isilt pulled up the ladder to prevent anyone from climbing after him.

Taking half a step back, feeling something hard being moved under his foot.
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'Hey…'

The barn creaked once again as the undead made his way up, grabbing onto the ledge and pulling himself up with one hand, swiping his hand as a ladder was thrown at him, converting the wood to splinters.

Seeing Isilt disappear behind another stack of hay, it was truly egregious just how much of the yellow thing there was in this abandoned building, people here really had to come here often to maintain such an amount, in fact, there had to be someone furnishing all of this hay.

"Mmh, say little guy, do you think bringing a girl that's not a farmer here would work out? Asking for a friend-" through a pile of hay, a pitchfork bursted out, the three points aimed right at the undead's neck "-Come now, I was talking"

Catching the old tool before it could reach it target, Frenand felt no push after catching it, meaning that Isilt had already let go of his impromptu weapon, throwing it to the lower level, the undead charged right through a stacks, fist going right through a beam, just barely missing the living.

Grasping upon the destroyed beam, he snapped part of it like a branch off a frail tree, slinging it at the ground in front of the trainee, the living instinctively jumping up as he expected Frenand to aim at his legs.

Placing himself to land a punch directly to Isilt's guts, knowing that the knight-in-training did not have anyways of dodging mid-air, in fact, this was a problem for all of the knights, although their strength, skill and combat awareness were great, they did not really have means to do things that defied the physic regular folks were bounds to.

But like some sort of spider-monkey on excessive amounts of caffeine, Isilt grabbed onto one of the beams supporting the ceiling and hoisted himself through a gap in the roof.

"And you want to be a knight? You have talent, but to be an assassin rather than a warrior!" jumping straight up, Frenand had to admit that he was playing with his food there, which he had done with all eight others who had shown up before Isilt, who knew when one might stumble upon a talented individual that should be watched when integrated to the ranks of the undead empire.

King Nitok's policy was a simple one, and General Loimos not only seemed to follow it, but also agree with it, which was to not trample upon what they were to conquer, at least, deal the least amount of destruction as was possible, be it small tribes to entire kingdoms, preserving the culture, the identity and all else was deemed important as they were made into vassals of the empire, all kingdoms of Viridis had become regions, every islands had as well, and so was to be Belliste and its five regions.

The same could be roughly applied to individuals, King Nitok was a known collector, and Frenand felt like the trainee was a bit of a rare breed around these parts, he had trained to be a knight but had still somehow ended up as a spindly and agile sort.

So, keeping in mind that he might be more valuable than his weak appearance inspired, Frenand went right through the ceiling, landing on the inclined roof, locked in on his target, deciding to finish his job right there and then, bursting forward.

Isilt considered just letting himself slide down all the way to the ground, but he was outsped, feeling his shirt grabbed, body lifted like it weighed nothing and then slammed right through the roof, through the second level, onto a pile of hay on the first level, rolling down onto it, nearly falling face first onto the pitchfork from earlier.

"Shit… That was close" feeling his body aching, he tried to stand up, only to see Frenand's two feet landing right in front of him.

"Dear death, I almost committed a slight snafu… But good for you, you aren't even knocked out even after going through all of this!" congratulating the living, he raised his leg, preparing to kick him right across the chin to send him to sleep for good.

Isilt stared straight at the oncoming, a shadow falling over him.

Contrary to what he believed, this shadow was not actually the dark of unconsciousness, but an actual shadow casted by a person.

And for some reason, the undead stopped right in his track.