Dent blinked at the carnage of bones lying scattered in the room. He spat a glob of mucus on the floor, then leaned against the nearest wall whilst the others set about exploring the room. Dent eyed his flail with newfound appreciation; the weapon wasn't as good as a sword at finding joints in armor to slice at, but it had certainly done the job against the animated bones of the dead. Just who were these dead, anyway? Dent shrugged. It mattered not. What mattered was the how it all. Who had animated them? A necromancer? His heart told him the bones hadn't sprung to life at the behest of some long-dead long-forgotten god. No, not a god; those were bedtime fables for children. A mortal, then. Or that decrepit thing in the library upstairs. The slow cogs of Dent's mind began to creak and turn, and he smiled. Hadn't Carradoc suggested just a while ago that the party return to the library?
Yes, that would do.