Walking Damned ECL 4, Kona, Shield Elf, Battle Dancer 3/Fighter 1: Entry 7

Burn them.

Kona sat in one of the carts near the far tunnel entrance, holding his elven court blad in front of him. It was heavy as hell and would certainly take both hands to wield, but the balance was perfect. If he kept practicing, he could probably even adapt some of his battle dancer moves to his stances when he used it. This...

This is a warrior's weapon. And he - he was a warrior.

And he would use it.

He furrowed his brow, considering: should he be in armor, too? Like a full warrior?  Nah! Not ... not yet, anyway. The idea of being encased in metal was a little too similar to slave chains in his mind. He was more comfortable being able to move and dodge as needed.

A groan distracted him and he turned to see  the rest of his party as they paused to collect their wits after the last battle. Another one of those hordes of zombies that moved and writhed as one beast. (like anything could be creepier than dead creatures walking around - but somehow, many dead things oozing and surging and figting as one  - yeah, that was much creepier). Kona had shouted repeatedly: Burn them! No one disputed how effective it would be. But no one else wanted the smoke it would make to alert the army just outside the makeshift barricade.

Now however, Kona was thinking something else. He looked at the holy man - the most vocal critic of the "fire" plan. He was nursing a savagely sliced up leg: sliced by a giant gleaming snapping trap set by somebody outside. A trap set for the living. A trap set against survivors of this plague, not the infected. What kind of town would try to kill its own people? kill its own survivors? What do you do against minds so fever sick they fight against the very ones they should be trying to protect?

Kona's lip curled into a snarl and he hefted the sword once more.

You burn them.

You burn it all.