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Richard stood stunned... That wall, that glowing word... they had somehow imparted... something... He had no idea what it was, but he knew that it was a word... Fus... What it signified he likewise had no idea. It was a singular feeling, he'd never had the like before.

It was almost like some tale of revelations mystic or divine... yet it was incomplete. It had no context. Other words came unbidden into his thoughts... they formed almost some sort of metric, like a poem, yet like no poem he had ever heard before, nor in any language he knew of...

So deep in his confusion he didn't feel the frantic jangling of his amulet. His reverie was only shattered by the sound of grating stone and the boom of a heavy lid hitting the ground.

Richard whirled, drawing Witcher silver from its scabbard in belated realization of the threat.

From its crypt, a Draugr sat up, moved its spindly desiccated legs over the lip of its coffin. It hopped down from it, almost nimbly and dragged one of those ancient Nordic axes with it.

It was saying something... the same language he had just heard inside his head... How was that possible? What was happening?

The chest of the Draugr swelled as if it was taking a deep breath, "RO DAH!" it shouted. Richard felt the blast of force shove him back and almost off his feet. His ears rang with the reverberations. He felt as if someone had methodically beaten him with a shovel.

Those malevolent blue eyes turned on him, fixed him with murderous intent. It stepped forward from its coffin.

Richard made the sign of Aard and loosed it on the undead thing. It staggered back three feet and shook its helmeted head as if clearing cobwebs away from its mind. But Richard was upon it then it checked his first cut and then he parried its counter. He dodged back and away from its next chop, a great overhand blow that would have split him like a hog on a butchers block. He tried Igni on him. The Draugr recoiled, smouldered and Richard advanced again, a cut was blunted by the mail on its belly, but the silver blade opened it up, a wound that would have spilled the guts of a living man on the ground in front of him.

The Draugr roared its displeasure. Apparently they could still feel pain even if it did not disable them, or perhaps they felt a remembrance of pain. Blows made, parried, twice, thrice. Then for a brief moment they were locked, corp a corp it would be called between swordsmen.

Richard looked into blank blue eyes, the Draugr looked into the slit pupiled Witcher's eyes. The instant passed, Richard threw the thing back a foot and executed a spinning attack that looked to be aimed at the head but was actually a feint to put the blade into its pelvis or leg.  

The Draugr moved the haft of its axe to intercept the blow, drawing breath apparently to shout once more.

Silver sheared deep into its hip. The dead things eyes widened in surprise. Somehow Richard was heartened that something dead since before the Empire ever rose could feel surprise.  Bereft of support the Draugr began to topple and Richard finished it with a deadly cut to the back of its neck just below the helm.

The Draugr hit he ground with a peculiar sound like a bag of sticks and chunks of iron landing on the floor.

There was something Farengar wanted, and it took him a few moments to discover it at the head of the coffin. A flat piece of black stone, large as an opened book, that dragon motif repeated on part of it. The rest was apparently meaningless scratchings and incisesings. Though on the back were more of those odd glyphs.

Now it was time to return.