- - by Sigmar
Sweat beaded on Sigmar Vaughan's brow. He spun quickly, sending his massive obsidian blade in a wide arc and smashing another head from a walking corpse.
He glanced left and right. More undead advanced slowly, as if in some sort of grotesque, uneven march. He had no idea where his allies were: they had been seperated by the hordes of corpses.
Right now, Sigmar wished he was in any place but Stratholme.
He ducked the clumsy swing from an enemy and removed the offending claw, then reached out so his hand was a mere foot away from the target's head. The paladin muttered a word and holy energy leaped between the combatants, tearing the undead blasphemy apart in a blinding show of light.
But it was not enough, as more and more walking cadavers moved ever closer to his position. Sigmar was surrounded, and there was no clear way out.
Thus, Vaughan decided he would make an exit.
He closed his eyes, speaking holy words under his breath. The chant grew louder. Light played about Sigmar's hands, then his whole body. He opened his eyes and let out a mighty shout.
A wave of light spread outwards, and whatever it touched was consumed in yellow flame. Slowly, one by one, the corpses stopped their advance and fell to the ground, finally dead for the last time.
Sigmar heaved, exhausted, and nearly lost his balance. He was drained, but he did his best to ignore the feeling. He looked up, left, and right, and decided on a direction in which to look for his allies...