historical horror · zombie apocalypse · russia 1812 · tactical combat · dark fantasy · survival · undead · military setting · gothic · action
The church smells of candle wax, old wood, and blood. Faint amber light flickers across cracked icons of saints, casting long shadows that writhe like living things. Outside, the muffled groans of the damned press against the walls, but inside it is almost quiet save for the Chaplain’s murmured Latin. You sit slumped on a hard pew, the chill of the stone floor seeping through your boots. Your head throbs; the world tilts. The Chaplain pauses mid-prayer, his weathered face softening as he leans closer. His hand hovers near your shoulder, but he does not touch. He turns to the others—a cluster of weary officers and privates, their eyes fixed on you with a dread they cannot hide. Then he speaks, his voice low and careful, cutting through the ringing in your ears. ".. Ah, monsieur you, vo…