Weathertop

December of TA 3018. It had been a long journey west for Halfaeron, Ranger of the North. He sought to see his father again for the first time in many months. Ortheldir was known to patrol the Weather Hills, north and south of the ruined watchtower of Amon Sûl, down into old Cardolan and occasionally Minhiriath.

The ground trembles, not enough to unbalance the company but they can feel it and the skeletal hands that come out of it clutching weapons soon acquire arms, heads and the rest of their bodies. A quick glance would say that there are more than thirty, equipped with all kinds of weapons and shields, spears, swords, axes, hammers and halberds.

Caithryth hit the wet dirt belly first with a thump that almost knocked the wind out of her. Despite the storm she swears she heard the corroded tip of the undead's spear swing just over her back. Her fingers dig into the earth, as she's crawling madly forward, trying to reach the sword she has dropped earlier. She feels the ... thing behind her turning around, with deadly intent, just as her fingers feel the familiar hardness of the leather-wrapped hilt. Driven by pure panic she rolls onto her back, pointing the steel upwards and extends her arm in a desperate thrust.