Sweat beaded on Sigmar Vaughan's brow. He spun quickly, sending his massive obsidian blade in a wide arc and smashing another head from a walking corpse. He glanced left and right. More undead advanced slowly, as if in some sort of grotesque, uneven march. He had no idea where his allies were: they had been seperated by the hordes of corpses. Right now, Sigmar wished he was in any place but Stratholme. But it was not enough, as more and more walking cadavers moved ever closer to his position. Sigmar was surrounded, and there was no clear way out. Thus, Vaughan decided he would make an exit.