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Crypt Chosen
The ancient dead never stay truly down. Long life limbs moldering and rotting. Sharpened skeleton hands scythe through the air. Calcium digits click and clack upon the ancient stone floors. Rusted, ancient dust covered weapons swing down upon the living. Eons old armour more stone than metal holds on by threads, the last holding on for dear hope.
Empty eye sockets glow a with twin alabaster pin pricks. With jerky motions they stride from standing sarcophagi. Spider webs and powder their blood. A monstrous jealousy and hatred of the living their bread and wine.
The cacophony of cartilage swarms the adventurers. An undead, inhuman frothing fury like a suicidal wave. As each is struck down the trapped soul erupts in a violent all consuming explosion. A last ditch effort to regain some small glimmer of honour.
The hooded figure leans over his desk, twists his hands and curls his fingers. Staring deep into the orb he plucks at the souls of the trapped warriors. Skeletons puppets to his bidding.
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