Ludwig's boots scraped against the rough stone as he kicked himself backward, every undead muscle reacting before thought could form. The claws of what looked like Celine hissed through the air he'd just occupied, black tips slicing the dark like ink in water. He landed in a crouch, Oathcarver's weight shifting against his back, and felt the familiar chill of the dungeon's air sliding against the sweatless skin of his face. The faint reek of fungus and old rot clung to the back of his throat.
"Get her!" Ludwig's voice cut the silence, calm yet edged like drawn steel.
At once, the fourteen skeletal figures lunged forward with an obedience that was almost eerie in its unity. Rusted swords came free from the scabbards of forgotten ages, jagged blades gleaming faintly under the dim fungal light. Daggers flashed between bone fingers, and worn staffs lifted in a rattling chorus as they advanced.
