The Smell of Undeath

As the undead crested the shore, and Grimm steeled himself for the long night ahead, something felt off. So off it distracted from even how odd an undead invasion by sea was. It took him a moment to place it before it came crashing into his mind all at once. It was the smell. Between the smell of rotting wood, ocean air, and decaying human flesh was something else. Something far more foul than anyone should have to smell. A smell so distinct that though he had never once experienced it in his life, he knew instantly where it was from. The bowls of the abyss. The lair under the Earth where demons roam. What had brought these men back was no mere mortal magic. This was a foulness from the hellscapes themselves. Grimm's knew without vision, without prayer, what was required of him now. Knowing what he knew, and knowing what his patron would say, he knew another task had befallen him.

The rift must be closed.