"The age of his reckoning was uncounted. The scribes carved his name deep in the tablets of time across eons, and each battle etched terror in the hearts of the demons. They knew he would come, as he always had, as he always will, to feast on the blood of the wicked. For he alone could draw strength from his fallen foes, and ever his power grew, swift and unrelenting."
We reached the city of Mahudu, but something was wrong. The smell of blood was rancid on the air, and no men guarded the bridge to the city. Thoughts of an apocalypse or some strange danger spurred us on towards the city. When we arrived, however, a terrible sight met our eyes. The city in flames, many wounded and perished; such sights hastened our movement towards the large warehouse where the wounded were being cared for. No sooner then we had met Oakenstaff's friend in the Mahudu Garrison, however, did the dead rise. Endless hordes of zombies attacked us, and as the citizens ran for cover, it was left to my companions and I to dispatch the horde. Did we fight for hours or minutes, none could say afterwards, but eventually we dispatched the endless zombie horde. Whether we triumphed or not, none can say until we examine the wounds of my companions and the overall damage to the city's infrastructure. Until then, my sleep (or lack thereof) is of a contented nature, knowing that this day I have done a great good.