"Shamble and struggle, open the crypts, through me you live. Through me you shall...Rise Again."

There is a legend born deep in the heart of central Europe. A tale meant to terrify the little ones into behaving and to caution foolhardy travelers who venture forth into the densely forested territories of Stärkeland. Yes for all the horrors of the World War era the Fatherland holds one last secret, one that most have written off as little more than an old wives tale. Weather you know the tale as The Legend of Matilda the Grabwandler or The Curse of the Deerskinned Bestatter the story always follows a similar structure.

There once was a woman of fair complexion and radiant beauty. A female deer farm girl that would turn the heads of any man she passed. Despite her good looks and her gentle spirit this cloven-hooved beauty held a terrible curse, for she was a conduit for misfortune. Famine, plague, war, and the bitter kiss of winter slowly plucked from her each and every one of her family until it was only her left alone, a spinster with little more than her good looks and a broken heart. The people of her town felt pity for the young woman and did what they could to ease her burdens. Truly it seemed everyone in town felt pity for her loss. That was until the vanishings began. It started small; a sheep here, an oxen there, but the townsfolk began to worry when their little ones began to vanish in the stead of their cattle. It was said that before long the schoolhouses were near empty before 2 moons had passed, yet no culprit could be found. It was not long before rumor spread that it was the beautiful deer woman who was responsible for the disappearances, and so the townsfolk grabbed torches and pitchforks as they marched down to her lonely rotting farm far from the lights of the town. It is said that before reaching the farm the townsfolk reunited with their children, though not in a way that would make this a fairytale. Rather than rescuing their children from an evil wizened witch the townsfolk were greeted by the unseasonable chill of winter, the rattling moans of the departed, and unbridled voracious hunger of the underworld. Corpses by the dozen rose from the rotting cornfields, clawing, grapsing, and biting at anything they could get close to as if desperate to cling to anything that had the one thing they lacked, life. The townsfolk were indeed reunited with their children, reunited and overrun by the fruit of their loins corrupted into dead shambling horrors the likes the world had rarely seen. Their shreiks and cries gave way to the baleful wheezing of the dead and the howling of the autumn wind, perfectly scored by the unnatural thumping that echoed through the empty fields like the beating heart of some massive unseen beast. It is said that the beautiful deer yet still lives, now roaming her homeland on some unholy pilgrimage; spreading plague and death with every step her desiccated hooves take. So beware, brave reader. Beware treading in the lonely places of this world. Beware the thumping heartbeat of the dead. And most importantly beware The Lichqueen.