T.H. Lain - The Living Dead

Mialee leaned back in her chair and stretched, yawning and considering. The music, and Ehlonna herself, had kept the mountain in check. Morsilath stewed, rumbling now and then, but had not covered the land with lava.

"Of all the damn-fool luck," Devis had said when they'd dropped with a thud amid the zombie carnage.

Silatham's survival was miraculous, but the cost to its population had been dear. Thousands now lay rotting outside, gray meat-things covered with flies. They'd cleared this house-Pell and Delia's-of the foul things, but the village needed time to rest. A long cleanup job lay ahead for the last ranger of Silatham. Favrid and Zalyn were gone, but Soveliss had sworn on the Mor-Hakar he would see the place filled again with life within his years.

"And who knows, I might reach two-thousand yet," the elf said after taking his oath.

"Check this out," Devis said, scooting into the chair next to Mialee's at the table. "Pell had a bottle of very, very old dwarf whiskey. I saw a man get killed over a bottle of this stuff in Dogmar. It's incredible."

He smacked the bottle on the table in front of her and placed a pair of shot glasses on either side. "I have milk."

"Mialee, we just saved the world. Have a drink with me." Mialee pushed her milk aside and grinned at the bard. "One drink?" he asked. "One drink," she said.