Headed by a Snake

Stormbrand Cleric Occam swept back his raven-black hair. He adjusted the strap on his chest, emboldened by the familiar weight of his trusty warscythe, the Decapitator, on his back. He pounded his gloved fist into his opposite palm, cracking his knuckles.

"Time to shine, ladies," He grinned.

The Archer beside him took another shot, not bothering to change his focus, "Occam, we're supposed to be focusing on the Lake Eels."

"Psh." Occam scoffed, "You can do what you want. I'm better off attacking the enemy rather than sitting on my arse."

"⌈Ravager's STRIKE!!⌋" Tancred cleaved his greataxe into a Lake Eel, severing its lower jaw from its ghostly body.

He turned to Occam, "Tanamar said eels first, man."

The Cleric shrugged, "If I engage with the ghosts, they'll take that much longer to get to us."

"There's a lot of 'em," The Archer yawned, idly firing away. "⌈Triple Shot.⌋ You sure you can handle that much?"

Occam snorted, "Har. I ain't 'fraid of no ghost."

He rushed forward, the crunch of his metal-cleated boots against the ice reminding him of marching over skull and bone. Jumping up at the last moment, he drew his fist back and slammed it hard into a skeleton's skull, cracking it with a fist of holy righteousness.

"Deus vult, motherf*ckers!!" He cackled.

He grabbed onto the undead's ribs, pulling it closer, then with his main hand, tore its broken skull off its spine. He smashed the skull into the side of a zombie's head before throwing the half-broken thing at another frail-looking bone-man.

Rotating his body, he landed a solid uppercut against a charging ghost's chin. He drove his fingers into its ghostly eyes and knee'd it in the groin. It keeled over in agony, keenly felt, beyond the grave.

Occam straddled both of his legs over the ghost's head and grabbed its waist.

"SPINNING PILEDRIVER!!!" Picking the ghost up, he leapt back, spinning-- smashing his upside-down enemy into the hard ice.

Standing back up, Occam cracked his neck to the left and right. He was surrounded by enemies. Poor bastards. They had nowhere to escape.

He pounded a fist into his chest, "Flame-Taken ghosts, do you know who the f*ck I am?!"

Grabbing his warscythe, he spun around like the veritable badass of badassitude he was, "DECAPITAAAAAATE!!"

Two ghost-heads and three more skeleton skulls found their way to the icy floor.

"I am Occam the DECAPITATOR!! My hatred knows no bounds! Not for the living! NOT FOR THE DEAD!!"

...

Tycon sighed internally, witnessing an... anomaly. It came from where the Stormbrands were positioned, the orange-colored... nipple flag.

Cleric Occam had waded into a melee of ghosts, clearly going against orders. He appeared to be faring well... but when it came time for the ranged line to support him, he would be caught in the crossfire. More likely, though, they would be forced to shoot around him.

Logically, they would not be the only group that strayed from the plan. The faster Tycon could complete his objectives, the less time the various groups would have to commit errors.

Reaching the second seal, Tycon and Zenon found Karodin of Emberhold's group in the thick of combat. Three Lake Eels had been slain, but they were engaged with another five.

Zenon clanged together his tri-bladed claws, the fantastic spark of lightning a reassuring display of power, "Take the objective or clear the wave?"

"Thin the wave," Tycon said as he quickened his pace, "⌈Shadowfang Strike.⌋"

Leaving behind a blur, Tycon pierced his enchanted short sword into the belly of one of the ghostly eels, jerking it upward to exacerbate the wound. With his opening strike, three of Karodin's team fell upon the creature with spell and steel.

Tycon quickly swept his gaze over the battlefield, searching for a certain Legionnaire. With a flick of his wrist, his sword segmented into a whip, which he lashed forward to wrap around the eel Karodin was engaging. With a burst of mana and his Gold-Rank physique, Tycon yanked it downward, crashing the one-tonze eel onto the ice.

Karodin followed-up with a yell, striking the downed eel with the edge of his shield before driving his serrated sword into the center of its forehead.

"My thanks, Sir Tycon!" Karodin yelled. Glowing ectoplasm, the ghostly eels' blood, was glazed all over his Tyrion helmet and armor.

⟬ Karodin, Bronze-Rank Human Legionnaire. Guild Brazen Guard. ⟭

"Zenon!" Tycon yelled.

Karodin turned just in time, blocking the jaws of a Lake Eel with his tower shield.

Centurion Zenon thrust his hands forward, "⌈Wind Barrier!!⌋"

Spinning, tumultuous mana sheathed Karodin's form, turning his shield into a whirlwind of ice crystals that tore into the Lake Eel's maw. As the creature drew back, the Legionnaire lunged forward, piercing it underneath its belly. Pressing his vicious shield forward, the eel was slowly eviscerated, further slathering Karodin's armor in blood and guts.

Tycon was impressed by the gentleman's bravery. Karodin was far closer to Iron-Rank than not.

"Are you guys okay?" Karodin asked, "These things are really dangerous!"

Tycon rolled his eyes. The Legionnaire's personality tended towards clumsiness with a healthy dose of oblivion, "Focus on surviving, Mister Karodin. We shall see to the seal."

...

Dozens of ghosts, skeletons, and zombies lumbered out of the forest... a wave of dead civilians, adventurers, and even military-armored Tyrions from an age past. A horn resounded through the valley, signaling for the ranged line to switch from the Lake Eels to the surge of undead.

"Optio, don't look now. Here they come," Zenon warned.

Disregarding his Centurion's asinine suggestion, Tycon turned his head as they hurried to the third seal.

"Their numbers are still tolerable. The ranged line should be able to whittle them down."

"Y-yeah, you're probably right." Zenon responded, not at all winded by their running pace, "After all, Tyrion defeated the Nemayan hordes in the past."

Tycon decided not to respond. Nemaya, the Sleeping Country, would field hundreds of undead in rank and formation, similar to the Tyrions. A proper Nemayan attack force had archers, mages, anti-personnel siege weaponry, and also had elite undead squads incapable of pain and fear.

The Brazen Guard was not dealing with an organized military-trained line led by competent military-minded officers. These undead were instinct-driven savages, running out of the forest, one by one.

It was then that Tycon felt the briefest rumble of movement beneath his feet.