You segregate a hundred of your walking corpses into appropriately distressing formations and send them off to assault the fortified walls of Port Charles. The fortified, well-defended, walls of Port Charles, it turns out, as not one of them makes it back. Rumours do filter back, however, of a quite pleasing number of casualties on the side of the opposition, especially amongst the holy warriors of the Old Man of the Sea sent along by Quartermaster Morty O'flaherty.

---

A hundred undead march on Port Charles in loose groups of twenty apiece, one all male, one all female, one made up entirely of the corpses of children, one consisting of those burnt into unrecognisable messes and the last consisting of those whose flesh looked like it had already been hacked from the bones in a desperate attempt to lay their loved one to rest once again.

Those that are cut down merely sink into the ground to rise again elsewhere; meanwhile, Port Charles’ defenders are falling, each one adding to the ranks arrayed against them. The fortified walls hold the carnage back, but the city is hopelessly besieged, and each impatient defender who tries their luck - a common affliction amongst the holy warriors of the Old Man of the Sea, who are out in force - is another footsoldier for the enemy horde.

The last message that you hear is that Port Charles still holds, its walls unbreached - but the future looks bleak indeed.

---

It was a simple, straightforward operation: Stay on the walls. Stay out of reach of their grasping hands, their deadly bite; maybe not deadly straight away, but certainly as soon as your compatriots got their hands on you, scared of you turning.

There were over a hundred and fifty well-trained Malathian... wait, start again. About eighty well-trained Malathian troops, from Mattias Sinclair, Alfred Sunstar, Paul Tannoch, Harvey Fitzwarren and Tallia; maybe twenty well trained Free Islanders, Lyzars and Freibodeners, from Alfred Sunstar and Paul Tannoch; and over fifty mostly Malathian rabble scraped up off the streets, courtesy of Harvey Fitzwarren and Quartermaster Morty O'flaherty.

No shortage of firepower - pistols and longbows and even a trebuchet - to turn on the shambling horde when they finally made an appearance.

The undead marched in loose groups of twenty apiece, one all male, one all female, one made up entirely of the corpses of children, one consisting of those burnt into unrecognisable messes and the last consisting of those whose flesh looked like it had already been hacked from the bones in a desperate attempt to lay their loved one to rest once again.

Silent, except for the occasional low moan; implacable, their empty eyes looking pleadingly up at the assembled soldiers, begging for sweet release even as they trampled the rapidly disintegrating bodies of those that shot and arrow had managed to fell. Slowly, dumbly, they reached the walls; undaunted, clumsily, they began to climb.

It was too much for the holy warriors that Quartermaster Morty O'flaherty had sent. Armed with neither pistol or bow - in fact, mostly with crude cudgels or whatever they could scavenge - Squiddy Boyz, Salted Glory, Lads of Old, New Boy's, Glory Boys and T' Old Boys looked at one another, looked at the macabre chains forming below, climbing the walls like some kind of obscene undead vine - and began to jump.

Falling like a rain of angry death on the undead monstrosities, and followed by some of the more impressionable marines - especially the 23rd Port Charles Marines - suddenly a calm, collected operation was turned into a savage bloodbath. Not to be outdone, and finding it impossible to fire into the melee from the safety of the wall, the boldest of the other troops began to descend the towers and sally forth.

One of Paul Tannoch’s men is cut down while attempting to reload his crossbow. Tallia’s Boys attempt a daring flanking manoeuvre, but find themselves cut off, and only the daring charge of the heavily armoured Grouse Archers mokosh, supported by 1st Battalion, 2nd Grouse Marine Regiment - The Right Hand of the Archon and 2nd Battalion, 1st Grouse Marine Regiment gets a few of them out unharmed.

Even with the vicious ground assault, one determined strand of the undead makes it up the walls and falls upon the 2nd Colonial Siege Corps, bravely attempting to reload their trebuchet. Those left on the walls made short work of the creatures, but not before two unarmoured and unarmed Siege Corps members had suffered grievous wounds.

It is hard, for a moment, to tell the dead from the living, save that many of the living are glowing softly from the strange power that lets these undead hunt their prey. But gradually the glow fades, and all that is left is to count the bodies - and check for bite marks.

Three of the Sea Eagles, the last of Angus' Avengers, 5th Malathian Colonials, and one of McKinley's Marauders, 3rd Malathian Light Infantry are badly mauled; as the last of the walking corpses sinks softly into the blood-dampened ground at the base of the wall, they too bleed their last into the unhealthy soil.

The bodies are recovered. Five Squiddy Boyz, five of Salted Glory, six Lads of Old, six New Boy’s, four Glory Boys, five of T’ Old Boys; two Freibodeners of 1st Battalion, 2nd Grouse Marine Regiment - The Right Hand of the Archon, one bowman of 2nd Battalion, 1st Grouse Marine Regiment, Paul Tannoch’s crossbowman who fancied himself a navigator, two Grouse Archers, nine of the 23rd Port Charles Marines - including their token Free Islander; eight of Tallia’s Boys 05 and all but one of Tallia’s Boys 06. It is unclear what to do with them; burning obviously doesn’t help, from the evidence of The Burnt Ones, the twenty unrecognisable walking corpses that they faced today.

Eventually the soldiers decide to keep them all in a visible cairn, and guard it carefully; but there is no sign of any of the bodies stirring, and eventually the public distress of the citizenry compels the troops to give them a proper burial.

---

The undead marched in loose groups of twenty apiece, one all male, one all female, one made up entirely of the corpses of children, one consisting of those burnt into unrecognisable messes and the last consisting of those whose flesh looked like it had already been hacked from the bones in a desperate attempt to lay their loved one to rest once again.

Silent, except for the occasional low moan; implacable, their empty eyes looking pleadingly up at the assembled soldiers, begging for sweet release even as they trampled the rapidly disintegrating bodies of those that shot and arrow had managed to fell. Slowly, dumbly, they reached the walls of Port Charles; undaunted, clumsily, they began to climb.

Then the holy warriors of the Old Man of the Sea fell upon them with cudgels and the raw conviction of their faith. Not a single undead monstrosity made it within the walls of Port Charles, although the Port Charles Patrol paid dearly for their victory; seventy bodies are cautiously guarded until they are clearly not about to start walking, but residual paranoia - after all, those burnt walking corpses show that even fire doesn’t do the job - means it takes a public outcry to get them appropriately buried.