At the edge of town, a small group of commoners gather as the sun begins to set beyond the trees. The heat of the day has just started to subside and the nightlife begins to stretch and stir, preparing for the night ahead.
One of the gathered citizens, a farmer from the looks of his mud-sodden clothing, stands upon an overturned crate, the rest of the group arranged in a mass before him.
"It just ain't nat'ral, thems things comin' up from the underworld an' lopin' 'round like theys s'pposed to be here. They ain't! Theys dead! Theys aught to stay thataway. If'n thems royals ain't gonna kick theys bony rotted mindless nasty stinkin' shamblin' arses back to the abyss where theys belong, well, it's up to us to protect our homes, our families, our livelihoods."
The farmer's words are met with cheers from the onlookers as torches are passed around, each individual taking a torch and lighting that of their neighbor. As the last torch is claimed, the gathered people retrieve shovels, axes, pitchforks, and other sundry agricultural tools and begin marching with purpose toward the gates of the Cemetery of lost Souls.
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