Zarek stood there in silence, looking at the reaper that was easily half a kilometer from him. Whatever it was looked like it had stepped out from the depths of hell moments ago.
A scythe, a weapon that Zarek rarely saw used, curved like a crescent moon to its back. Covered in black robes that fluttered with countless holes, from time to time it would reveal the rotting grey flesh beneath.
By now, Zarek might have usually busted out a few jokes. But right now, he was just staring, the lance resting on his shoulder.
Then he blinked, and the figure was gone.
Zarek's eyes narrowed. He didn't feel any danger—the man was just gone.
By now, he was absolutely certain that it wasn't a Turned. Was there some odd Race here that looked like actual zombies? But Zarek couldn't remember having spotted something like that in the hall. Unless… it was a necromancer?
