“Who am I fighting today, Colrode?”
“Less a ‘who’ than a ‘what’, my Lord.” Colrode pulled at the straps to tighten Thoran’s armor. “Lord Mackarth has provided a vaettr for you today, captured in his travels.”
“Never heard of it.”
“A kind of zombie, my Lord. The commoners call it a ‘wight’.”
Thoran sighed. “One grows tired of fighting these undead creatures, on account of the smell.”
“Indeed, my Lord.”
“One would prefer some great beast, the hide of which one might fashion into a greatcoat.”
“That sounds very stylish, my Lord.”
“Well, at it then, Colrode.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
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