197
The wretch lies dead at your feet. Hugi taps you on the shoulder and points down the street. A swarm of howling wretches is charging towards you. There are hundreds of them: a ragged, tattered army of madmen, besmirched with grime and dust. The curse of the city of the dead is upon them. It is the curse of a life spent amongst mouldering ruins and decay, of an existence that has endured against the utter desolation of ‘the dead lands’.
Immediately, you turn and run, as do Hugi and Urik. The wailing pack are close behind.
