joined up with those who'd taken their places close to the shoreline. That way, I figured, I'd be able to see just what the Wildlings were going to do. If they planned on a full-frontal assault, then I'd make sure that none of them would ever have the chance to leave the water; a single, light tap from [Chill Touch] would be more than enough to incapacitate any of them. And, to make sure I don't become a walking war crime simulator, I'd only target their legs, which would still probably be incredibly painful for anyone I used [Chill Touch] on, but at least they'd get to live or, most likely, someone else would kill them and I get to wash my hands of the fact.
There around fifteen villagers in the coastline, each of them armed with a variety of polearms – just about all of them carried proper bows and arrows, half had backup weapons in form of spears, which they kept on the ground by their feet, and about ten of them had actual armor. Though, being archers, they didn't exactly need armor. A few of them sent glances and narrowed gazes my way, but they quickly averted their eyes once they saw my clothes and I was probably as far away from a Wildling as one possibly could be. If anything, I could probably claim to be a Maester, but with black robes instead of gray. Whatever the case, I didn't look or smell like a Wildling and so no one asked or bothered; I was here to fight by their side and, at this point, what sort of idiot would deny the fact that they did need help?
No words were exchanged. I simply walked up to them and they simply made space for me to stand on.
Dark gray waves crashed into the shore again and again, whilst sharp black jagged rocks jutted out of the water and pointed skywards. The spot they'd chosen with which to rain death upon the Wildlings was a tall outcrop that overlooked much of the beach and the surrounding waters, allowing us a great vantage point. The villagers had also established a series of low wooden walls as well, made of wooden planks, which they simply tied together. The point of it, I figured, was that it would make it about a thousand times more difficult to return volley from a lower position with the walls in the way of projectiles. That was oddly crafty of them; I hadn't even considered such a thing.
It also meant that, while I was stuck using [Chill Touch], no one was going to send an arrow through my forehead, which was nice.
And then, one of the villagers approached me. "Stranger, you've a bow?"
I shook my head and smiled, though I honestly wasn't quite sure how I was going to answer them, before my mouth just sort of did it for me. When I turned, standing there was a teenager, maybe six or seven years younger than I was, holding a spare bow and a quiver with about fifteen or so arrows in it. "Don't worry, I've got my own weapon."
I pointed at the [Great Boner]. The young man simply shrugged and placed the bow right next to a tanning rack of some kind. "Alright, then; suit yourself, stranger. But don't blame me if you get killed. Though, should you ever decide to use it, then the weapon is yours – at least until you die or the battle ends."
"Huh, well that's a grim way of talking about things." I said. And the teenager merely huffed and chuckled, before he turned and walked back to his position. I stood at the leftmost flank, not wanting to be in the middle of it all when they started launching their arrows. That said, there was, for now, nothing to do as we waited for the Wildling fleet to make landfall or... well, do anything really. But, we didn't have to wait for long. Barely ten minutes passed before a few of the Wildling ships broke off from the main fleet, turning left, which would lead them further down the beach, I figured. Were they planning a flanking maneuver, perhaps? Or was it something else?
No time to dwell on it, I suppose, as their ships got within the maximum range of the archers and an old, bald man roared and raised his hand, "Nock!"
Was he a former soldier? It certainly seemed like it.
The gathered archers responded by drawing arrows from their quivers and placing them upon the frames of their bows, but they didn't pull the string just yet, no. At this range, the arrows would likely reach the Wildlings, but the chances of them actually hitting anything, especially given their low numbers, was more or less as close to zero as possible. So, their leader guy did the smart thing and waited.
I, of course, also waited, because I couldn't really do much until the Wildlings actually got within range of [Chill Touch], which was a hundred and thirty feet at maximum, which really wasn't a lot. My plan was to fuck up their boats so that a bunch of them would fall into the water, which might just thin out some of them, given the sea's crushing waves and its icy temperatures. And a few of them probably didn't know how to swim too, living around frozen lakes and rivers their whole lives and all that.
Thirty seconds passed before the bald dude issued another command. "Draw!"
Without another word, the archers pulled their bowstrings and took aim at the approaching ships. By then, the Wildlings were close enough for me to make out the individuals on the ships and... while there were a lot of them, they looked, each and every one of them, like they'd been through the worst possible hell imaginable. Still, more than a few of them had draw their own bows. A skirmish was about to begin, I figured, the initial phase of any battle, where two armies poked and prodded each other. Another second or so passed before their leader gave the final command. "Loose!"
Their arrows flew and, almost immediately, I heard the Wildlings scream in panic as a few of them dropped, pierced by an arrow or two, though I could also feel, weirdly enough, that none of them had died. At best, a few were suddenly injured and unable to fight, but there were still a lot of them. I gritted my teeth. A few more seconds I'd be able to poke holes onto the hulls of their ships. The Wildlings responded by sending a volley of their own, though they had around the same number of archers, despite most of them being warriors – if my knowledge of the books was remotely accurate, then just about every single Wildling was, to an extent, a fighter.
Their volley was for naught, however, as the village archers simply ducked behind the wooden plank wall and waited, the defenses shaking with every arrow that pierced into the wood. Despite that, it held quite firmly. I joined them, of course. And then, when the volley finally ended, with nobody on our side even remotely hurt, we stood back up and it was then that I realized that the first of their ships was now firmly within range of [Chill Touch].
I breathed in and firmly held my staff with my right hand, steady against the ground, as I reached out with my left hand and aimed right at the approaching ship. One of the archers turned to me, I noted, though I didn't quite catch their expression as I cast the spell. I felt the hand materialize just above the surface of the water, right beside their ship. And then, I held reached for the wooden hull and, unsurprisingly, met absolutely zero resistance as everything I touched with [Chill Touch] rotted away immediately, almost turning into dust from the amount of Necrotic Damage I was inflicting. Water floods into the lower deck of their vessel and, almost immediately, it begins to sink. The screams of the Wildlings, confused and afraid, fill the air as their ship slows down. With it being my only available target, I use [Chill Touch] punch even more holes into its hull, making it sink even quicker.
Soon enough, every single Wildling began jumping off. A few of them struggled dearly, but were able to swim, and a few panicked and screamed, unable to swim as they were overwhelmed by the strong currents and the icy cold. And, all the while, the villagers hadn't stopped loosing arrows at them, painting the crashing waves red. I felt many of them die in the water, their bodies floating limply. I swallowed the lump in my throat, however, and focused. The battle wasn't over yet. That was just one ship and a few of those who'd jumped and were able to swim were now headed straight for the shore, though I wasn't worried about them as they'd likely just meet a bunch of arrows the moment they met dry land.
Someone beside me yelled something at me. And I knew that the archers were now backing away from me. But I ignored them. As long as they didn't start turning their weapons at me, then all was well. Magic was never going to be an acceptable thing in Westeros and this wasn't surprising. I'll deal with the consequences later, when the Wildling threat was dealt with.
Another ship came forward, but I could see its crew members desperately trying to steer it away from the shore, likely on the wrong conclusion that there were very sharp rocks underneath, which were responsible for the sinking of the first ship. Oh well, a little too late to turn back, unfortunately, as they drifted into the range of [Chill Touch]. Briefly, I considered just... not sinking their ship at all, because they really seemed like they wanted to be anywhere else but here at the moment. Unfortunately, I knew for a fact that they'd simply find other victims to torment, maybe even make landfall on some other part of the beach and attack the village from a different angle. I couldn't take that chance. And, besides, the villagers had already decided to attack them when they sent another volley of arrows.
Breathing in, I activated [Chill Touch] once more and, as I'd done before, punched open a bunch of holes in the ship, forcing it into the water. The crewmen of this ship, however, unlike the first one, all seemed to know how to swim, which was a surprise; though a few of them panicked as they jumped out into the frigid sea, nearly all of them began swimming to shore, their spears and clubs and axes still in hand, which – honestly – was quite the accomplishment.
"Sorcerer!" One of the Wildlings cried out, a women with bright red hair, in a voice that was loud enough to pierce through the crashing of the waves for the other Wildlings to hear, even as she was gurgling saltwater. "The fucking kneelers are fucking using fucking magic!"
Wow, she really had the time and energy to throw f-bombs in there, huh?
As their ship sank into the icy waters, it got caught up one of the jutting rocks and just sort of froze there, creating a wall of jagged wooden planks for the next ship to just slam into, creating a cascade of destruction as the fleet just... blundered into each other, their hulls breaking apart upon impact and their decks immediately filling with water. More and more of them begin jumping out of their boats and just swimming towards the village, like a bunch of maniacs. A few of them drown and a few more die to the arrows, but a lot of them were going to make it to the beach, I figured, though I wasn't overly worried about that. If hypothermia didn't get to them first, then my [Chill Touch] definitely would and all I needed to do was to top their ankles one at a time until their little raiding party turned into a cripple party.
Actually, I had to wonder just what these lunatics were planning now that most of their ships were broken? Were they just going to swim all the way back to the snowy wonderland beyond the wall?
"Sorcerer!" I blinked, realizing that the voice came from right beside me. And, when I turned, I found a spear pointed right at my face.
Great.
Sorcerer!"
Interesting.
"Cease your devilry, demon!" Another roar from the same person, a voice filled with fear. "I'm warning you!"
My eyes narrowed. And the cold intensified around us, droplets and flickers of snow falling like raindrops.
That was definitely a spear, aimed right at my face. It was the same young man who'd offered me the bow, his face twisted in disgust, fear, and loathing. And I saw the hatred there, the malice. He hated me. Why?
I breathed in and my blood went still and cold. Something awoke inside me right then and there. I wasn't entirely sure why, but it was a sensation, a feeling, that I was wholly unfamiliar with. No, that wasn't quite right either, was it? I was familiar with it. And it was precisely because of that familiarity that I knew where it came from, this darkness, the indignity and inhumanity of paying some sort of consequence just because I wanted to help people.
Ah yes, to be accused of sexual assault when all I did was offer bed and lodging to a friend who needed it. Went to prison, got proven innocent, but things were never quite the same after that, were they? Wasn't that the whole reason why I even bothered going to law school? So that no other man has to suffer through the same thing I did?
Oh yeah... there had been a time in my life, where I considered death, a time when I couldn't stand the unfair judgement wrought upon me. Despite being proven innocent, the stain of the accusation never quite washed off, never quite left me. It was all over the news and all over the internet and, still, I got cold and disdainful glares sent my way, eyes that judged and hated me for something that I did not do, silently accusing me for what I was not. And I hated it. In that time, I wanted to watch the world burn around me, I wanted to see the end and the death of everything, including myself. My father helped me pick up the shattered pieces of the man I used to be by taking me back to the outdoors, into the wilds, where the beasts and the plants and the trees did not judge me.
It took a while, I suppose, but I healed eventually, and I swore to myself that I wouldn't let such a thing define me, that I would rise above it, and that I would help others, like myself, who were accused of something they were innocent of. I thought I'd gotten over that loathing, that darkness, but it seemed that I was wrong.
Because I wanted to rip the life out of the young man, just because he was glaring at me.
I knew that it would be wrong. The circumstances weren't the same. He was judging me on something that I technically did do; after all, everything I'd done just now was essentially magic. But his eyes... oh how I hated his eyes, how I wanted to pluck them out of his eye sockets. It'd be easy too. I had the power now, after all. I had all the power in the world. I could reduce this boy into a pile of necrotic sludge with but a single thought and there was nothing he could do about it; there was nothing anyone could do about it. It was wrong. I knew that the very thought should've made me flinch and rebel, but I was done. I was so done with being accused of something I was not, blamed for something I did not do.
Before I could do anything monumentally stupid, however, someone came over and bonked the teenager on the head. My eyes widened. And I blinked. It was the old man from earlier, the one who commanded the troop of archers. The boy yelped and looked as though he'd throw a punch at the old man. And he did, but the elderly warrior simply kicked his legs from under him and sent him sprawling to the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I noted the rushing horde of Wildlings was thinning. A lot of them were dying right here and now, before they ever reached the beach. If things went well, then none of them would get to the village at all. "Don't be daft, boy! This sorcerer is helping us; it's thanks to his magic that we're not knee-deep in barbarians! Now aim your weapon elsewhere or I will throw you into the bay!"
I looked down at the teenager and... realized that he wasn't worth my time and that young people were just stupid, but I was about to do something even stupider by melting his face away. I breathed in and shook my head and turned away as the teenager scurried away and the old man took a step towards me. "Forgive him. He was just being stupid."
I nodded and turned to the bay, and wondered if I should use [Chill Touch] to take out several more Wildlings, but ultimately decided against it; the water and the cold would kill them – not me. Oh, of course, it was still technically my fault that they'd die, but knowing I didn't directly kill them meant I'd be able to sleep just a tad bit better at night. Besides, there were only a few of them left. If this was a raiding party, then they failed quite miserably. The other ships crashed into each other and broke apart, water flooding their insides; I didn't even have to do anything. The sharp rocks and the ruined ships were doing everything for me. So, I turned back to look at the old man. "There is nothing to forgive. He was afraid of something he did not understand. It was only natural."
And yet, I came this close to killing someone for something even I would've been afraid of, an act that even I would've persecuted.
Hah, but I'd also be the first to admit the fact that I was probably the world's biggest hypocrite. So, fuck it.
"Is this all of it?" I asked the old man as I turned my attention back to the Wildlings, many of whom had drowned or bled out in the water, while those that still lived were getting riddled with arrows or had grown stiff from the cold. There was nothing for them there; swimming unto land meant they'd face a volley and it wasn't as though they could make their way back out into the sea. Even with the few ships that went further along the coast in an attempt to make landfall somewhere else, it was done. Their little raid was stopped in its tracks and it was stopped because of my help. That felt good, I supposed. But, despite that, I couldn't quite shake off the feeling that it was a little too convenient and that the Wildlings that I knew from the books would've tried a little harder; they might've been barbarians, but they weren't dumb by any means.
"No," The old man shook his head and sighed, before nocking and loosing an arrow into the crowd of swimming Wildlings. Honestly, their screams made me feel pity. They didn't stand even a sporting chance. It was like beating up a three year old and then stealing their candy. It wasn't a fight; it was a one-sided beat down, which – all things considered – was a pretty good outcome, I suppose. In reality, fair fights almost never happened; in every battle, one side always had overwhelming power or held overwhelming odds in their favor.
"This isn't the first raid we've repelled, though it is the first we've repelled so easily. There is always more of them out there, waiting to strike, to steal our women and our livestock. They are animals, but they are cunning. I would not be surprised to be roused to the sound of battle in the morn." The old man continued.
"A few of their ships broke off from the main fleet." I pointed out. By my count, which probably wasn't accurate to say the least, there were about five or six ships that branched off, which meant there would soon be about forty to fifty Wildlings screwing about in the nearby woods. I didn't like the sound of that. But, I figured, once the local lord got here, then it probably wouldn't be too much of a problem. Probably. "Should we just wait for them to attack?"
Ideally, a skirmishing force could be sent after them, but doing so – I figured, with my very limited and narrow knowledge on medieval warfare and tactics – would mean venturing out and away from the relative advantage that was offered by the village. Whereas the Wildlings definitely had greater experience with woodland battles, these villagers, save for a very few, likely didn't even have any. And, besides, any skirmishing force they'd be able to send out would be too few to annihilate the Wildlings. If anything, the barbarians from beyond the wall could ambush them, instead, which would pave the way for some kind of counterattack, prolonging the conflict.
"We'll send out-"
A bell suddenly rang, loud and incessant, its booming clangs reverberating across the entire village. The archers stopped and turned, their eyes wide with fear. The old man before me paused as well, his gaze turning northward. By then, the Wildling force from the sea was well and truly neutralized. What few of them that remained wouldn't be a threat anymore, seeing as they'd have to beat hypothermia first and foremost, before they could even dream of attacking the village. Yeah, they were beaten. Each wave that crashed onto shore carried with it dozens of bodies – some dead and a lot of dying.
I wouldn't count on there being survivors. But, despite the threat they posed, a part of me did kind of hope that a few of them would make it.
"What's going on?"
A frantic aura seemed to envelop the archers and I realized then that the bell must've signaled bad news.
"More of them are coming from the north!" The old man did not quite respond to me, directly; instead, he roared, addressing everyone, including me. A cold wind blew over us, carrying with it the scent of blood, death, and the briny smell of the sea. The carved wooden ships of the Wildlings groaned as the crashing waves carried them forward, their splintered and damaged hulls cracking apart. Soon enough, I figured, these ships would fully sink, forming a graveyard beneath the surface of the water. It was either that or the sharp rocks would tear them apart.
The corpses would make excellent food for the fishes.
The bell tolled and I knew then that the battle was far from over. Of course not, this was the world of ice and fire, shit never goes well for anyone, ever, unless you were a villain, then shit goes well for a little while, before it blows up.
We barely had time to discuss or plan anything as screams and roars echoed out from across the village. My eyes widened. Just how many Wildlings were there? Did they have another... oh... they did. The fucking Wildlings had another fleet, one that made landfall without anyone ever knowing it even existed. How that happened, I couldn't explain, though I had a few guesses and none of them were good. Well... shit. The archers abandoned their position on the beach quickly enough. I followed after them, jogging at the rear, where I figured I'd be safer.
We rushed right back into the center of the village and then, I saw them, a horde of Wildlings, marching in as though they owned the place; many of them looked happy and excited to be here, the prospect of looting, killing, and raping appealing to many of them, it seemed. There were easily hundreds of them, a large-enough horde that a tiny village would not have been able to stand its ground. The villagers fought back, forming a line of spears. Apparently, in the brief time that I wasn't present, they'd boarded and walled up several sections that led up to the village center, making it so that the invaders would have no choice but to climb over or funnel themselves into a narrow corridor and right into said wall of spears.
The only problem was that it really wouldn't take much work to take down the flimsy walls.
I held out my left hand and unleashed several [Sapping Sting] spells at once, necrotizing the ankles of several Wildlings who'd charged us out of the blue. They fell to the ground, screaming and cursing, some having soiled themselves – or they just smelled like, not sure. The archers followed up by unleashing a volley of arrows at the downed Wildlings, killing them as they lay on the ground.
"We have to rejoin the others!" The old soldier roared, having abandoned his bow in favor of a bearded axe that had clearly served him in the past.
One of the Wildlings emerged from a thatched hut, a shaggy-haired woman with a crazed look on her face. She raised a stone-headed spear and aimed it right at me, rushing towards me like an absolute maniac. My eyes widened as I took a step back, my HEMA instincts activating just enough for me to bat her spear to the side with my own polearm, the [Great Boner]. I then followed up with a thrust right into her face, the tip of my staff hitting her full-force between the eyes. I felt her forehead crack, her body going limp as she fell.
The woman convulsed and writhed immediately as she hit the ground, necrotic energies subsuming her body from within. Her eyes flashed a baleful emerald green.
Oh....
Oh boy.
Around me, several Wildlings had stopped in their tracks, frozen in fear, even as the battle raged on around us, their eyes wide and fixed upon their own, who'd now ceased struggling, becoming another extension of myself. The undead woman arose from the ground, still clutching her spear, animated, but very much dead.
"Wight!"
"It's one of the Cold Gods!"
Oh well, the cat's out of the damn bag now and I might as well go all out. And so, like moving a limb I'd kept stationary for hours and hours, I called forth the Undead Bear from the forest.
Well, this wasn't anything I knew how to deal with, I thought as I looked at the cowed Wildlings, who eyed me with fearful, but fervent gazes. Their fear froze them and the villagers very easily killed those who spent too much time gawking at the reanimated Wildling woman who was now a part of me, a part of the whole; they were speared or beaten to death easily enough. The rest struggled, but the shock of seeing one of their own rising from the dead as my puppet must've been greater than I thought, because it was honestly almost comical how some of them just stood there and died.
A few managed to regain their wits about them and ran away, screaming about a Cold God or an Other, two things I was intimately familiar with. Being a fan of the books, the literal first scene of the Game of Thrones novel featured one of the Others, an ethereal and otherworldly being that wielded the powers of ice and snow, and commanded the dead to do its bidding. Skin as white as snow and ghostly pale hair. Nah, that wasn't me. My skin tone was several shades darker than pure white and I also had no interest in starting another Long Night or whatever it was the Others wanted to do.
Me being here also made me realize that I'd never to read Winds of Winter, if it ever came out, at least.
Eh, whatever. I'll make my own story. Wasn't that the point?
I wasn't too sure how to feel about being called an Other, I suppose, and neither did the villagers, who'd simply ran the fuck away from me as soon as they noticed the shambling, blue-eyed corpse under my command. Fair enough. I'd run away too if I was in their position. Because even I was creeped out by how she looked, even though I knew, for a fact, that she was as much a part of me as my own beating heart.
I turned my attention to the remaining Wildlings who were rampaging about. I'd deal with the repercussions of revealing my magic once this whole shit was dealt with. For now, I was going to... unleash the beast.
Ugh, just thinking that made me cringe.
A group of five Wildlings rushed at me from the corner, a good fifteen meters between us. My eyes narrowed as my latest undead minion rushed at them like an absolutely madwoman. Seeing the reanimated state of their compatriot must've jolted their fears, blunting their charge as my zombie crashed right into them and started biting and tearing at whatever it could get its hands and teeth on. That momentary lapse in concentration was enough time for me to raise my hand and unleash [Chill Touch] about five times in rapid succession, touching each of them briefly on their knees or shins, the sudden and extreme necrosis sending them sprawling and screaming on the ground.
Briefly, I wondered if I had the guts to finish them off, before ultimately deciding that, on a personal level, I wasn't quite there just yet. Seeing them suffer was one thing, strangely enough, just as seeing someone else kill them was of a similar vein. But, the idea of consciously going their and putting each of them out of their misery made me queasy, which – I realize – was a terrible thing, since having only one leg in this particular world meant they were about as good as dead anyway and I was fairly certain that these guys were probably either going to bleed to death or die of an infection at some point without proper medical assistance – or just shock. But, to be entirely fair as well, the villagers weren't going to let these guys live for very long.
So, hurray, they weren't going to suffer. Now, to deal with the rest.
Screams echoed from the northern side of the village, where I'd set my Undead Bear loose, attacking anything that was alive, which meant it was probably thrashing blindly at the moment as we couldn't exactly share our senses. I knew, however, that Wildlings were currently attacking the shit out of it, which was honestly impressive since you'd think that they were just going to run away from an angry reanimated bear that just wasn't going to die no matter what they did. And the best part was that, unlike the local Wights and their White Walker masters, my undead units weren't going to just crumple into shards of ice the moment they made contact with Dragonglass or Fire. No, my undead were going to be tough sons of bitches, only dying for real when they literally couldn't move anymore.
Let's see the Wildlings deal with that!
But, for the sake of safety, I'd rather be standing close to my cute little undead bear; it'd also increase its combat potential, since it was literally attacking blindly at the moment and the only reason it hadn't killed any of the villagers in its rampage was because the only people there were Wildlings. The villagers themselves had gathered in the center, where they'd barricaded themselves with makeshift walls of wooden planks and sharpened stakes, good enough to repel just about any charge or, at the very least, enough to make frontal attacks incredibly difficult and, most importantly, very costly for the Wildlings.
So, my cute little undead bear could rampage as much as necessary and I wouldn't have to feel bad about it, even if it technically meant I'd killed people by essentially thrashing around in the dark with a blade in my hand. At the very least, this was a somewhat justifiable self-defense and defense of another, which was covered by most Good Samaritan Laws, which didn't exist in Planetos, but the point still stood; it made sense in my head and, therefore, I wasn't about to feel bad about it. Though, I suppose, in this case, one could argue that I was responding with excessive force and they'd be right; I would argue back that, in this case, excessive force was necessary as I was technically defending myself from people who'd love to see my head on a spike.
Murder, in this case, was totally justified.
I rushed ahead and caught up with the archers, though I could tell immediately that they were now very afraid of me, especially that kid who threatened me earlier. It was in all of their eyes, weary and frightened as they were, including the old man who acted as their commander; ironically, out of all of them, he looked the most fearful. Still, they weren't going to start shit and, therefore, weren't my enemies. I also figured that a good chunk about why they were afraid was the Wildling wight that ran at my side, a woman who'd been dead a few minutes ago and was then reanimated by the dark powers of the [Mighty Boner].
If this was how they reacted to me now, I can't wait to see people's faces when I started using the high level stuff. As it was, all I'd used were Cantrips and the built-in enchantment of the [Mighty Boner]. There were stuff in my spell repertoire that could, if used properly, bring dragons down from the sky. And that wasn't even taking into account the fact that I had a freaking dragon egg in my [Bag of Holding]. Not sure when it's going to hatch though. I hope it looks cool. It's every boy's dream to ride a damn dragon, after all.
A Wildling jumped out of the nearby hut and rushed at me. My eyes widened and I almost froze. Luckily, I had enough of my wits about me as I turned aside and narrowly avoided a club that would've screwed my face to shit if actually hit me. I countered with a thrust right into his neck. And I was more confident with it this time. The impact alone told me that I'd actually done a lot of damage if the spurt of blood from his mouth hadn't been there. The Wildling man clutched at his neck. And I followed up my initial attack by sending my girl Wight right at him, who them proceeded to bite his face off. Quite a grizzly sight.
It was also right then that I noticed something... odd about myself.
My senses were sharper than they had any right being and, most importantly, my perception was pretty high, considering I never would've been able to actually avoid that attack if I'd been my old self and that meant... my physical stats carried over. Being an Archmage Necromancer, my physique would not have been the best by any means, but compared to a normal person? Then I'd be pretty damn strong and athletic. Huh, actually, looking back, I should've noticed this sooner, but I guess I was too preoccupied with magic to notice.
As the man lay dying on the ground, I commanded my Wight to stop as I handed it the [Great Boner]. And then, I looked down at the Wildling. "This will be quick, I swear."
And so, I made my Wight kill him in my place.
As it turns out, anything that required finesse on my part was extremely difficult. The undead, after all, represented a limb that I very recently just received, which meant my control over it was dismal at best. All of that meant that my little undead chick ended up bashing the man's brains out by bludgeoning him to death, instead of a single swift thrust into the skull as I'd envisioned and wanted. But, on the bright side, I did not puke my guts out and the man probably died a relatively quick death. And now, a more or less headless corpse arose, becoming another one of my minions, which left me a grand total of three wights as extensions of myself. Not a bad number, I suppose.
With two Wights by my side, I felt a lot more secure about walking around by my lonesome, because the village archers definitely didn't want anything to do with me and constantly running after them was hurting my dignity. No, I was gonna have to stand my ground and fight on my own. So, I slowed my pace and held the [Great Boner] close to my chest. In case of archers, I had literal meat shields to stand between me and any arrow. In case of a surprise attack, I still had my meat shields. So, I was confident.
And, ultimately, my goal was to save the village, but if push came to shove, then I was going to say toodles and fuck off. Aint no way I was risking my ass for a bunch of strangers, who didn't know or care to know who I was. I didn't know any of these people. And, most importantly, I wasn't a hero; in Planetos, heroes had a terrible tendency of dying first. So, fuck no. When it came down to it, my life was the most important.
That said, I was going to do as much as I can.
"Where the hell is the local lord, anyway?" I cursed. "Isn't he the one who's supposed to take care of this shit?"
Another group of Wildlings arrived. Three of them this time – easily taken care of, given the distance between ourselves and their choice of weapons. One of them raised a hand and pointed at me, eyes filling with fear. Ah, I recognized that one; it was the dude who ran away and escaped the first time I raised a person. "That's him! That's the Other! He's already raised two of our own!"
"They've ventured south of the bloody wall?!" A gaunt, bearded man yelled. And then, frantically, he began searching himself for something. "Dragonglass!"
Ah, haha, funny misunderstanding there. None of them had any time to ponder my existence any further as my Undead Bear burst out of a ruined hut, now covered in cuts and arrows, a spear lodged through its side, and clamped its massive skeletal jaws down on the Wildling at the center, tearing his chest apart in a shower of blood and gore, his organs spilling out all over. The two on both flanks screamed and panicked and fell to the ground. My undead bear stepped forward, silent as the grave, and stomped down on the rightward man's left leg, crushing bone and ripping muscle, before then turning to the left and biting and crunching the leftward man's head into pulp. Still screaming in terror and agony, the sole surviving Wildling thrashed as my cute little minion turned and silenced him forever with a single swipe of its massive paw, breaking and tearing the man's head right off.
Haha, see, the funny thing was... I didn't tell it to do any of that.