Fantasy you say?

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Senseless fingers,
Clawed up and out,
Of damp soil,
Split skin and sinew,
Momentarily groping open air,
Before heaving the rest,
Of the corpse,
From its long resting place.
.
Reaching, back down into its grave,
The unliving figure drew forth an ancient sword,
Grasping it firmly,
It stood upright,
And shook dirt from its head and body.
.
Mocking true vision,
Its head swung to and fro,
Examining its surrounds.
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Lord Crowshaw prepared himself for another fray,
Six violated graves needed vengeance,
The plunderers must receive justice,
.
Planning his attack came easy to one of the old warriors,
When alive nothing could stand before his might,
And dead he had certain advantages.
.
The priest would have to be first to die,
Or at least badly wounded to prevent his magics,
Then the mage for similar reasons,
Then the two warriors, and finally the thief.
Yes, five to one, poor odds for the five…
.
Practising a few kata,
He awaited the coming night,
And the thieves arrival...

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