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The Dead Rise Here

[Originally uploaded to Stronghold Heaven in 2020]


From the journal of Lord Adinet, regarding the incident of the undead encountered at the Ebonmond Marshland.



January, 1070


Lord Fulcher, my uncle, has gone missing.

For six months, we have heard no word from the trading post established in the Ebonmond Marshland, where Fulcher was stationed. More ominous still, no runner sent to Ebonmond has returned home. The worst is feared. The King--my father, and Fulcher’s brother--has requested that I investigate the marshland and search for our Lord’s whereabouts. Additionally, we are to secure the trading post and remove any trespassers present therein.

To speak true, I care little for the land itself. I pray simply we find my uncle alive.


February, 1070


My retinue has been gathered, and our supplies are stored. We set off to Ebonmond on the morrow. My son, Terricus, has insisted on joining me. Though a loyal knight and skilled warrior, Terricus is still but a young man, with a young man’s foolish thirst for adventure. Would I be so lucky to witness him transform into a wiser figure! I will have to watch over him carefully in our search for Fulcher. The rest of the men are steadfast warriors of the King’s Guard, veterans all. I do not foresee any trouble in overcoming whatever obstacle lies before us.

A curious (but not wholly unwelcome) addition to our caravan is Brother Anfroi, a monk of the church. I do not know much about this man--far less than I am comfortable to admit--but he is vouched for by my father, the King. Anfroi says that he is to provide knowledge of the countryside should the need arise.

I suspect his presence here is related more to the matter of funeral rites, but I dare not confirm these suspicions. I must believe Fulcher is out there, somewhere.


March, 1070


Our departure from the King’s lands was met with little fanfare. I can only assume that our quest is a secret one. Terricus is a marvel of camaraderie. It’s taken no time for the rest of the King’s Guard to gel around his character. As such, the men’s spirits are high.

Anfroi remains cloistered in his wagon. I know not what he does. Only, these strange stick contraptions have appeared hanging from his transport. Every morning, a new stick figure. I do not like looking at them.


April, 1070


We’ve arrived at last to the Ebonmond Marshland by way of the Sinking Road. Whatever earthworks were built up in the last generation have fallen into disrepair, if not outright ruin. The going is slow. Our wagons continually get stuck in great patches of mud. To make matters worse, our horses have grown anxious, though the source of their anxiety seems hidden to the eyes of men. The lone exception is Anfroi’s horse. Perhaps those stick figures really do possess some magical quality?


April, 1070


It has only been a few days since my last entry, but I feel compelled to write on a recent development. We have noticed ruins out in the mist, ones that were heretofore unknown to our scholars. Anfroi speaks at last. He says that these lands were once ruled by a forgotten people who vanished without a trace. When I asked if the appearance of these ruins could be connected to the disappearance of my uncle, he did not answer.

This land is quiet, yet our sleep grows uneasy the closer we get to the Ebonmond trading post. Nightmares rob us of rest. Let us hope that they remain in our dreams.


May, 1070


We have arrived at the trading post.

No one is here.

The central hall is abandoned, the walls eroded. The marsh itself seems hellbent on overtaking us at every step. There is evidence of battle, but there are no bodies. Blood stains the walls of my uncle’s estate. Terricus remains hopeful. The foolish naivety of youth!

Lord Fulcher, where are you?


May, 1070


I am beginning to question my sanity. After what we have witnessed this day, I have not the words to describe my horror. In the event that we perish here, however, I must at least make the attempt.

One of the men heard scratching sounds coming from the granary. Upon unlatching the door, we were faced with the object of our quest.

Lord Fulcher himself. Only, it wasn’t my uncle. It couldn’t have been my uncle. He lunged at the nearest man and tore a hole in his neck. With grace and speed befitting a knight of our King, Terricus severed the head of this fiend. I am ashamed to say that I was paralyzed in my shock. I was supposed to watch over Terricus, not the other way around.

Anfroi rushed in behind us, bellowing that he must tend to the dying man. Instead of healing him, however, the monk stuffed a wooden cross down his throat.

I’m tired. I will write more later.


May, 1070


After some rest, I’ve come to accept Anfroi’s advice.

We must stay here, even though it almost assuredly means our death. The King was aware of the malicious presence in Ebonmond, and sent Anfroi to cleanse the land. However, one monk alone is not enough. It will take the involvement of the diocese to properly secure this cursed marshland, which means a payment of gold and stone. In the meantime, we must fend off whatever monstrous apparitions attempt to stop the cleansing ritual.

We have a lot of work to do.