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Marcus sighed. Here he was... it was known only as The Coffin. Well, it was a coffin. Who knows how many adventurers had made this forsaken pit their final resting place? The wolf sat shirtless in front of his small bonfire, brooding into the tongues of fire licking the sticks he had stacked up. He fiddled with his forearm fur. It was semi-shaggy, prematurely grey in some places, and concealed corded, wired muscles. He really should get going.

Marcus fished around in his tent, looking for "the essentials." His hooded overcoat, made of tough black leather weathered dirty grey, its edges frayed and stained with dirt, with chainmail sewn into the lining. Bracers and greaves backed by softer fabric. Thick soled boots and iron reinforced gloves, with no fingers so he could use his filed claws.

And of course, his sweethearts... There was Nimbus, that wonderful monstrous sword, a six foot arc of steel: single-edged, subtly curved, wonderfully balanced and masterfully forged. Then his bow, Lilliam, painted black and curved back to accommodate his toned arms. And of course there was Priscilla. His slick, slender dagger colored white as chalk, razor sharp and slightly hooked. A slender, wiry hand guard protected his paws as he held it. Marcus sighed again, sliding Priscy into her sheath on his right upper arm, twitching the blade so she would stay locked in her place. With companions like these, who needed friends?

Marcus examined his clifftop campsite, his fire starting to die already without him stoking it. His ancient tent was standing firm in the rushing wind. It was empty save for his bedroll and a few miscellaneous potions in tiny vials. Healing salves... should he bring those? Did he really need them? He supposed it was best to take them. He picked up Nimbus, sliding a finger across the edge, feeling it almost cut him the whole way up the blade. A deep emerald green flashed on the side of the steel.

Marcus examined himself in his sword through piercing green eyes. A gaunt, prematurely lined face stared back at him. He didn't look thirty. He looked liked he was at least fifty. He felt even older than that, if it weren't for the strength that remained in his body even after years of minimal use. Black nose, grey-white inner fur that started at the bottom of his muzzle and ran all the way down to the insides of his legs, black outer fur kept slightly shaggy, and a pointed muzzle filled with jagged white teeth. After a minute he snorted, slinging Nimbus onto his back.

The wolf lifted his black lips, baring his sharp canine teeth as he gave a tiny growl, rolling his shoulders to get used to the weight of the chainmail on his body, hidden away by his black coat. The normally telltale chink of metal was tampered by the cloth and leather. All that was heard was a rustle of belts as he adjusted bandoleers and harnesses. He looked up at the gaping maw of the cave mouth, the black jaws of darkness that was the entrance to the Coffin. Marcus boldly crossed the threshold. He'd either come back a legend or not at all.

The Coffin was dark, empty, and silent as... well as the grave. The wide mouth of the dungeon let in ample light, but it didn't seem to penetrate beyond, at the very most, a hundred feet. Marcus' eyes adjusted to dimness as he took cautious steps forward. Marcus was unsure about whether to light a torch or not. He didn't want to light up an enormous beacon saying "here I am," but low light vision did not mean no light vision: he needed some light to see.

The black and grey wolf took careful, measured steps forward, deeper into the gaping maw of the cave. To his chagrin each step made soft crackling noises, but whether it was from bone or shards of stone on the ground, Marcus was unsure. Was it just him or was there a second set of crackles as he stepped forward. The wolf set one paw forward, then the other in a distinct, even pace. One step, two steps, three steps, four steps... on the fifth step Marcus didn't let his paw hit the ground. Crack.

The wolf cursed under his breath. Something was matching his steps, but he couldn't see it! Crouching behind a large rock, Marcus dug a torch out of his bag and lit it with a tindertwig. It took but a single strike against the stone to light the twig, and then light the resinous torch. He couldn't hold Lily with the torch, so he drew Nimbus. The giant sword couldn't effectively fit in a sheath, so Marcus attached a thick leather and steel harness to the back of his black coat. It was sturdy but could be undone with a flick of a finger so he could draw the massive blade with ease.

Holding Nimbus in one hand, the torch in the other, the wolf stood up from behind the rock, scanning the shadows for movement. The crack of pebbles on feet became more audible, moving faster, more frequent, and with less rhythm as the apparent group began moving out of synch. It took only a few seconds before Marcus saw the first of a group of ragtag undead. Skeletons, white with curved swords and light shields, as well as zombies, rotted corpses with viciously spiked clubs.

The hoard had some distance to cover, so Marcus threw the torch between himself and the monsters, holding Nimbus in two hands. The undead were moving slowly, giving the wolf time to muse at their equipment. It seemed odd that their equipment was so uniform. Surely these undead creatures were made from the body of dead adventurers. Did all adventurers raised as monsters use only these weapons? Or was it some trait of being a weak undead that only permuted the use of scimitars or clubs? The wolf let out a derisive snort as the first of the skeletons started to charge.

Marcus placed Nimbus between himself and the skeleton. There was a clang of metal on metal as their blades clashed. Marcus had modified Nimbus with a number of pointed notches on the lowest portion of the blade, designed to catch weapons as he blocked blows. The notches served their purpose against the slender blade of the bone walker, and Marcus kicked from beneath his sword, knocking the monster away from him. Rolling both of his arms to lift Nimbus up and over his dark ears, he swung the great blade in a diagonal arc, breaking the skeleton into pieces. Metal and wood clattered to the ground as the monster dropped its equipment.

Four skeletons were now upon the wolf, swinging blindly with their blades. Marcus swiftly raised his sword to knock one of the scimitars away, back stepping lightly to avoid the other three. The skeletons seemed to have put too much power in their swings, and they were wide open after their attacks. Taking another backstep, Marcus then rushed forward, swinging Nimbus one handed in a wide arc, separating four top halves from their bottom halves.

The corpses were next, so shambling and slow that they hadn't gotten close to the wolf by the time he finished dispatching them. Latching Nimbus back into his harness, Marcus flicked his wrists, coaxing three throwing knives into his hands, one in his left, two in his right. The wolf pivoted on his paw three times, slinging each knife in rapid succession with each spin of his body and a flick of his wrist. The blades flew through the air, spinning horizontally so as to better lacerate the flesh of the corpses. Throwing in such a style was inaccurate at best, but Marcus knew he needed the slashing action to do any sort of damage to the zombies. Hitting such slow targets was child's play, anyway. His knives tore at the muscles of the zombies, not doing much damage but still lodging themselves in their rotted bodies. The cuts would weaken their swings, which would make fighting them easier.

The zombies were upon him now, recklessly swinging with assorted blunt instruments. The clubs were not equal to his reinforced coat, and the five strikes only raised only minor bruises. Marcus swung Nimbus again, another one handed swipe, but a backhand swing this time. Two of the corpses fell to the ground, bisected at the waist. Using the momentum of the swing to return Nimbus to its harness, Marcus snatched his knives from the bodies of the two standing zombies only to forcibly return them, one in the eye, one under the chin, and another in the neck. Two more fell to the ground.

The final zombie swung again, this one using a club that had numerous nails driven into it. The wolf ducked, releasing Priscilla from her sheath and slashing, removing the zombie's head from its neck. Panting, Marcus bent down to retrieve his throwing knives. They were undamaged but tarnished with coagulated blood. As the wolf straitened up he felt a sharp pain in the small of his back. It was a light cut, but it stung, and he also felt something else creeping into his body from the wound. He whirled around to find all five of the skeletons upright and moving again.

Marcus swore. Of course, he needed to shatter the bones to stop skeletons from reassembling. Amateur mistakes. He patted his belt, realizing that he forgot a mace. He had planned to dive into a dungeon full of undead and he forgot to bring a weapon to crush bones! Again, amateur! He growled, kicking at the bone walker that had slashed him to buy some breathing room. What could he do? What could he do? Out of habit he drew Nimbus. He could at least defend himself by keeping the mass of steel between him and the poisoned blades.

Wait! Mass of steel! Marcus flipped the blade ninety degrees and swung the single-edged sword like a giant, flat club. The weapon collided with the spine of the monster, shattering numerous vertebrate. The red light inside the eyes of the skeleton went out as it fell into pieces. He flipped the edge of the sword again so that the sharp part was between him and the bones in order to use the notches to catch their blades. He ran a paw up the back of the blade in order to stabilize it for the imminent impacts.

The indents in the blade did their job, catching the swords of the skeletons mid-slash. He pushed the blades away before shifting Nimbus again. Using the flat of the blade was difficult for Marcus. It made the sword a lot less aerodynamic, and he had to use more strength with each swing only to do less damage. Still, the skeletons were no match for the mass of steel he was swinging about, and the wolf was soon standing among a pile of shattered bones.

Grunting, he reached a paw back to the slash he suffered. It seemed like he had fought off whatever toxin was in the blade. Time must have weakened the poison. The cut was light, and nothing vital was damaged. Walking back to his torch, Marcus kept Nimbus in his hand, placing the large blade in front of him as he raised an arm to let the torch pierce the darkness. The wide stone opening was narrowing, transitioning from rough rock to ancient masonry. So it seems someone civilized had lived here. Tentatively, the wolf took careful steps further, ears perked for any noise.

The hallway seemed to last forever, and Marcus was able to keep going without confrontation. That worried him. Why was the only thing guarding the entrance to this infamous dungeon a group of walking bodies? Surely there was something more. As Marcus stepped forward, his foot sunk two inches into the ground. There was a series of twangs that echoed through the darkness. Without thinking, Marcus dropped to the ground, flattening his chest to the ground. A series of arrows whizzed above his head. The wolf growled. Well, that's why this hall was empty, now wasn't it? There was no way around it. He'd just have to be extra careful.

Marcus stayed close to the ground, unmoving for a few more seconds, just in case there was a delayed trap. His eyes scanned the tiled floor for irregularities. Nothing so far except... yes... one, two, three, seven tiles were slightly raised above the others. He tossed his torch on one of the tiles, hearing a telltale twang, again, deeper this time, but-

The wolf log rolled on the ground as fast as he could as a thick javelin went soaring his way. He felt the spear rip at his coat as he barely got out of the way. He couldn't resist laughing. Someone had set up a damn _ballista_trap. Figures. The traps would only get bigger from here, if the ballista was anything to judge by. Reaching delicately for his torch, Marcus whacked it against the offending tile again, listening intently. No sound. He tried again with the plate that activated the arrow trap. So it seems the traps needed to be reset manually.

The torch trick worked again on a hail of poisoned needles, a pendulum axe, a wall scythe, and a set of razor blades. Only for the last one... tossing his torch delicately onto the final pressure plate, Marcus' sharp eyes caught a bright red bead flying slowly through the air. His eyes followed it for just a moment before his instincts kicked in. The wolf dived for cover, sprinting down the hallway before flattening himself to the ground again. There was a bright light, a rushing sound, and the smell of singed fur as an explosion rocked the hall. With ringing ears, Marcus slowly looked around. Dammit! There was more than one set of scorch marks on the wall. Amateur mistakes!

The wolf retrieved his torch, raising it high again, letting his sharp eyes penetrate the darkness. It seemed like the hallway was turning further down. There were no more telltale signs of traps: no arrow slits, holes for needles... the ballista was sitting in shadow, unloaded. No more pressure plates either. Keeping low, Marcus broke for the turn in the passageway. No traps or monsters delayed him. His ears perked as he heard a sound in the distance, although, what it was, he couldn't say.

The new hallway was shorter as well as rougher. It seemed the masonry of the black rock had worn back down to rough stone. There was a threshold ahead, the hallway widening into a large cavern. The rushing sound proved to be an underground cataract, its water white and frantic. There was a whiz of wood and feathers through air, and Marcus ducked as an arrow missed him by inches. More skeletons, archers this time, their glowing red eyes visible through the darkness. He couldn't drop his torch this time: he had no clue what the landscape of this cavern was. One false step and he could find himself in a pit, or worse. He'd have to use Nimbus one handed.

Arrows were flying through the air. There had to be at least four archers. Worse yet there seemed to be a shuffle of dead feet from just beyond his vision.The only thing he could do was keep moving. Marcus rushed forward, finding the group of corpses. The wolf jumped forward, whipping Nimbus through the air to shred the zombie into pieces. The swing left him open to the corpses but at the same time those zombies now gave him partial cover from the archers. Pulling Nimbus back to his side, he thrust his torch into a gaping mouth of a zombie, lighting the rotted flesh on fire. Excellent. Now he had a separate light source and an incapacitated foe.

More swings of rotted clubs, more minor bruises. One of the archers actually penetrated the back of the skull of one of the zombies, conveniently dropping the foe. Two down, one to go. The torch trick worked again, lighting up the ribcage of the final corpse. Marcus moved on, finding a narrow stone bridge that would let him cross the rapids. In the flickering light he counted only two of the archers.

More arrows, more misses, but he was still on open ground. They'd have an easy time once he moved on the bridge. He'd have to rush it. The wolf felt a sharp sting as an arrow clipped a pointed black ear, the sharp bite of a venom of some sort wracking his head. It seemed weak, like the poisoned blade of the other skeletons.

Marcus lifted Nimbus, raising the flat of the blade vertically so that it covered as much of his body as possible. With nothing but a single, steadying breath, the wolf crouched low and rushed the stone bridge, Nimbus shielding him from some of the arrows. He was three quarters of the way across when he felt an arrow penetrate his shin. His step faltered, and the wolf slipped on the stone bridge, wet with the spray of the cataract beneath. He landed hard on the small of his back before falling into the white water, his dear Nimbus falling into the rapids with him. No... not yet. How could he have failed so early? He hadn't intended for this to happen at the very beginning! All thought was wiped from his head as his right side slammed heavily into a sharp rock, his temple hitting the stalacmite. The only thing Marcus felt before he succumbed to unconsciousness was the sensation of falling... falling... falling... and then only darkness.