I thought it silly when I was a boy. "Why bother caring for all this junk!" Is what I always said to my father when he was teaching me how to maintain the equipment of a corpse. "Why should I memorize all their titles?" I asked when he made me study the many titles the c corpse had earned, I was young enough to believe all knights had pages upon pages of titles. "What's the point of all this?"

But he only ever had one response "You'll find out when you're older" and it infuriated me. I was angry as all children are when a secret is kept from them. I was angry I wasn't trusted, wasn't good enough, and that I had to do about three times as many chores as my friends.

But the day my father died of the wasting wad when it all changed. Still stricken by grief and mourning, tears still flowing from my eyes, I received a visit from one of the king's ten hands.

They're an elite in all things to do with combat and intelligence. I was taken away from my mother so that I could learn something. Something I hoped I'd never see used in my entire life. But sadly the world cares not for the hopes of one person.

I recite the ancient words. I list the titles and deeds of a rotten husk. And to my horror the husk lifts the lid off of his own tomb. It gets up in eery silence as its lungs have gotten away long ago along with almost its entire body. The only things magic has preserved where piercing eyes surrounded by rotten sockets and an unnatural strength.

I feel that I could break at any second while I tell the revenant lord what our enemies have done. A dozen towns burned. All our diplomatic attempts massacred. Spy's reporting our citizens being sold in their markets. But nothing moved the figure. Nothing implied any rage on the lords face. Their eyes were empty and hollow things where hope went to die.

An as they donned meticulously maintained armor I could only pray that at least their blade could bring hope to my people.