Hesitation breeds defeat.

Althea paused at the edge of the pit, still mulling over her options. She lazily bobbed the glowing end of the broomstick, peering into the darkness. Still nothing. "Hello? Are you injured?" she called again in **** futility and looked back toward the storehouse, silently lamenting her fallen companions. But then just as she was about to retract the wooden rod, Althea felt something snatch the broom. Whipping her head around, she gasped at the sight of rotten fingers gnarled around the stick, muffled light peeping between its clutches. A raspy growl was followed by a swift jerk, and Althea felt gravity betray her. "No-no-no--" she cried out, flailing her arms before tumbling down into the darkness.

SPLAT! Althea's chest and face impacted the putrid muck at the bottom of the swampy pit, but thankfully it was soft enough to spare her any broken bones. She all but peeled herself up off the sticky floor. It smelled like rotten fruit and really, really bad eggs. The battered priestess reached out for her staff, but a heavy foot pinned the stick to the floor. She scrunched her eyes hard and opened them wide, drinking in the dim light. And that's when her heart sank. Before her loomed the stooped figure of a man, but the buzzing flies and bloody clothes betrayed the truth. This was no longer a man. Its raspy groan rolled out of its throat, and as it stepped closer, the pale light washed across its face. This undead lacked a nose, and much of the tissue on the left side of its face had been gnawed away. It was missing its left arm, but something small wriggled around the stump at its elbow. They were worms. Another wretched moan rose in the creature's throat, and it shambled one step closer, raising its intact arm toward the prone priestess.

No! She would not die here. Althea tried to stand, but immediately slipped back into the muck. That's when a second groan rose behind her. Another one?! Althea reached for her holy symbol, but a fat hand covered in blisters seized her wrist. She yelped when its grip tightened, dropping the symbol into the mud. Althea gazed up at the bloated behemoth behind her. Was this... an orc? It may have been once, but now its sickly, yellow eyes belied the pale hand of plague. It seemed that her eyes began adjusting to her dim surroundings, for now she saw the patches of weeping pustules that lined the undead orc's bear chest. This one showed far less rot, but Althea feared whatever insidious blight it carried in its glistening ulcers. Adding to this sense of bloated sickness, the orc's belly protruded outwards, likely filled with the noxious gases of decay.

"Helestria, protect me! I do not wish to die here! I have so much more to offer you!" she pleaded, head bowed in prayer, her wrist still in the orc's slimy grip.