Multiple figures then rounded a corner, their former silhouettes being cast into visibility by the torches that they held.
I felt the pinprick sensation of the sword tip on the nape of my neck, it was the undead's. A shocking twang covered the room in sound as sparks flew, in front of me stood a knightly figure, glistening plated armour, with leather straps dangling off each of his large shoulder plates.
He turns and shouts something at me, the tone is of concern, rather than out of anger. "Tuarl Thagos aroa Marden?" He speaks. Though my ears cannot understand a word of what he is saying, instead I opt to hold my head in pretend pain, though my entire body aches horribly, and I just begin to feign understanding of his language, it's a dangerous game I'm playing.
If I become this party's enemy, I'll be killed with little effort. My eyes re-direct towards the other 3 members of the group. The sight of them is only momentary, and within that timeframe I manage to observe all of them, the one closest to me begins to whisper under their breath. She was a smaller woman, with dark brown hair and a matching brown cloak, though it had embroidered into it strange yellow stitching that ran down both sides of it.
Finally, before the ensuing events that would break my sight of them, I decide to glance at the last two. This was the most interesting from a first hand perspective, one was... Sitting in a chair?
Her hair was a brilliant white, mixed in with under lights of deep orange, though her facial expression was far from brilliant, she wore a proud scowl on her scrunched face as she looked at me in seeming disgust, then onto the fight ahead without paying me any more attention, an obvious attempt at looking down on those she deemed lower. I blink at the large man next to her chair before my attention is indeed refocused on the fight now occuring.
A large roar of metal makes me twist my neck to witness how the 'Knight' was doing. My eyes greet an absolutely fascinating battle. All that's appropriate to describe it is a conflict of myth.
There was no doubt the swiftness that the swordsman moved with could near reach the agility of any elite guardsman of the Shepherd. I have blinked very many times at the sheer multitude of extraordinary events occurring today, and so I must again, the 'Knight' swings, no, flourishes his blade around as if it was a brush against canvas. He makes great arcs and downwards swings, moves that would normally be inefficient in regular medieval swordfights, but his strength and agility make them ferocious.
I work under a martial artists brain for moment, and analyse as I bear sight to the glitters of the metal surface of his blade as it feints, thrusts, twists, attempting to open up the opponent's weak spots like a jar of pickles.
The skeleton does not fall as easily as I'd hoped, and I'm sure the same holds true for the feelings of the party as the man's incredible manoeuvres with the sword are met with the sparking of the undead's blocking blade, the friction created from each deflected strike floods the room with brightness even greater then that created by the torch behind us.
I gasp at the impossibility of the skeleton's momentum, it shouldn't even be able to move, at the obvious fact it was just bone, no muscle, no skin, no cells. Yet it countered the warrior in front of it almost perfectly.
My head swings over to the others, the brown cloaked woman was still silently whispering, her eyes closed shut this time. A groan forces me to peer back to the ensuing battle, the skeleton and knight have clashed swords for seemingly the final time, they both don't withdraw as they push their swords further forwards to decide which one would overwhelm the other.
I saw as the arms of the warrior began to shake, inch by inch he began to be pushed back which was a tell tale sign of his increasing weariness, it wasn't going to end well for him.
It was at this point he did something surprising, utilising that shocking agility of his he switches up his stance and leans incredibly low, bringing his armoured right foot up high, forcing a great kick to the skeleton's ribs as it is blown back multiple feet.
The swordsman seems to create even more distance by backpedalling towards the rest of his party. I would weigh up whether it was worth it to shimmy off to the side as well, out of harm's way, though I feared my presence would be noted once again by the undead if I moved.
Though it looks as if the party is not out of options yet, my ears hone in on an authoritative voice that pierces and resounds through the hallway.
"Uern saler ackaran." Her voice demands of the Knight, who quickly follows, backing up even further.
She lifts herself from her chair, and I am finally able to fully see the man beside her, a burly 7 foot titan, almost the size of the Shepherd's guard. As she walks forward, the man, who seems to hold a strangely calm smile, then cleans the seat for dust, after she leaves it, like how a servant would.
My eyes follow the woman's calm steps, her face seems to be the picture of serenity as she approaches the undead. Before she makes it though, she detours to pat the Knight on the shoulder, before then switching her tone and scolding him, from what I could tell. The tone she used was enough to indicate her frustration.
The skeleton leaped towards them before they were able to finish the conversation. It's mouth strangely agape as if it was going to eat them. The sword it had at the ready was prepared to behead whatever found itself on the receiving end.
Her next actions were of great perplexity, she simply raised her clenched fist out in front of her. The punch from her sent the Skeleton hurtling backwards, causing an impact in a stone wall 15 feet away, rocking the entire corridor. Stray bricks fell from the ceiling, I had to swerve to avoid one that almost hit me square on the head.
It was only mere moments before the undead recovered, a sickening clicking once again ensuing after it got to it's feet with seemingly minimal damage.
The woman was unfazed by this, instead just deciding to approach the undead being once more without a word, as she got closer, the skeleton became aggressive again, charging without a sword, as it was thrown out of it's hands during the impact with the wall.
What I watched occur topped all of the events off. The digits in her hand flicked upwards, she'd pull her arm along with her palm up to her mouth, her mouth opening in order to bite down on the corner of her thumb hard. The moment I knew how forceful a wound she made on herself was when deep crimson poured from it. Blood gushed out of her hand and her face crinkled up in pain.
She made a singular swiping motion with her hand horizontally, and the blood was catapulted everywhere. My eyes narrowed as the red slowly transitioned, shifting to an orange before rising in brightness. The former dark red turned a dazzling neon orange as an inferno blazed from her palm and flowed down onto her arm, sort of like how you'd imagine gasoline being lit on fire.
This included the blood flicked away from her arm, it ignited in the air in front of her, sparking a large fire that consumed the monster wholly. It burned with rigour and fury.
She delved within the blaze, unobstructed. Her shadow vanished in the flame instantly, I almost thought she had killed herself, before the sound of several blows could be heard from within. Moments after she emerged, the blackened, cracked and separated skull of the undead appeared in her hand.
That was magic. She was magical. How the fuck? An ability that defies all scientific logic. Could blood cause an exothermic reaction of that level? The only explanation was the supernatural proof from what I've just witnessed with my own two eyes.
Fatigue is beginning to get the better of me, so much so that it distracts me from my existential crisis for the moment, and causes me to focus on the present. I dust myself off from various debris when part of the ceiling had almost caved in on me.
I approach the group calmly and steadily, whilst also holding my head to feign a trauma-injury, that would explain then why I couldn't communicate properly.
My next goal would obviously be to translate the strange language that they use to communicate, I would be able to figure a great deal from speaking and understanding them obviously. Though I've already began, running patterns and memories from their language use in my brain over and over. My poor mind, I have most definitely overworked it.
Like how a baby first picks up their language from listening to their parents speak it, I begin to recall words and how they're used, including their tones and inflections from the group, my enhanced brain is easily able to tell what meanings and representations they are trying to create, though it is limited.
After all, I have only heard a very slight amount of words, so I'd either have to pick up one of their books, or hear them speak a great deal more in order to become fluent. But with this current language model I came up with, that linked to standard English could probably understand and translate between the lines with the fundamentals.
I snap out of my knowledge fuelled trance, noticing that the entire group is now staring at me inquisitively, though the red and white haired woman is of course looking with contempt.
"You are Thagos aret Marden?" The swordsman addresses me in his language, I begin to understand it, I also translate mid-sentence in my head what I believe 'aret' means, based on his inflection, it must link to the English comparative 'or'. He's asking me an either or question?
This is a tough ask. Is this based on allegiances? I am assuming they want to know if I am friend or foe. I have to answer incredibly carefully, I re-run what he said in my mind, noticing the clear pause between the start of Thagos and then the way he said Marden quicker. I have to assume that the reason he said Thagos slower is because he is of their allegiance.
I swallow a mixture of phlegm and blood as I risk it all.
"Thagos." I'd nod, smiling for approval nervously.
The group melted into smiles of familiarity, this caused me to sigh with relief, I was so thankful for the right pick, even though it was a half and half chance anyway.
"Let's go, sarel narza aert here." My chopped up translation method pieces some of what is spat by the vicious white-haired woman, as she gets on her chair, I'm speechless, the burly 7 foot man proceeds to lift up the chair onto his shoulder with her on it. How peculiar, I think even the ego of Markus himself would think it ridiculous.
They hadn't even told me their names or anything, these mysterious users of magic, one clad in armour like knights of our old Earth, another dressed like some wise wizard, and the final two being insane anomalies in their own right. I had to shake off the continuous feelings of this being a dream as my dazed self attempted to follow behind them.
We eventually reached the room where I had slain the goblins, it seemed they had not come here, as they were surprised to see the corpses littered around the floor, I also see the torn open bag and my two fingers on the floor, with a bloodied sword beside them.
The group points to it all and the woman upon the seat finally speaks.
"Reakt kill them alarkan?" The translation works quite efficiently this time, apart from two words which escape me.
I nod, still not confident enough to speak any of their language, dialect and pronunciation would give me away too easily.
"Tare alae strong." The Swordsman would state with an impressed tone.
I believe I hear another of the group begin to speak up, however my vision begins to fade, and for good this time. My world turns to a fuzzy blur as I collapse onto the cold stone floor, my fatigue finally slashing at me properly this time.
I do not know what I will wake into.