What Remains

[Dreamspeaker]

Atrellyan invasion was still underway.

Many losses are suffered from each side, with culmination happening around siegeworks upon the various city-states of Meranthe. Two sides clash, but there is a third player that is yet to intervene in a fighting - though, it seems they are the ones to profit the most.

The Undead army marches after the fighting is done, here to collect the fallen. Though likely intercepted by occasional forces that disrupt them, they do not seem keen to engage first in a fight, and otherwise spare any villages or towns on their path- perhaps to not get caught up in the fighting and reduce their numbers unnecessarily. Instead, to those that observe them, their mission becomes clear - to maximize the amount of bodies added to their numbers and carry them off somewhere else.

Occasionally, the Imperfect appears among them. A Demon Lord of a native origin familiar to many, bearing Coronacht on his person. Every now and then, he comes to collect the bodies, whisking them away via Rift to an unknown location; some of these bodies return as newly risen Undead to replenish the numbers of the army that occasionally gets attacked in small skirmishes, but otherwise, the fate of the most remains unknown.




"Take them with the rest. There's much to be done."

[PastaTM]

Those among the war, the Invasion of the Western Front... would see and witness a figure watching across the sandy dunes. Nothing more than a shadow would cover their face, with a scythe as red as blood upon their back. Not a word was uttered as the sands blew, the war came to a clash, as friends, family, and foes all crumpled into one mass.

Watching the bloodshed that was war, but that's not all that they were there for, even among the masses the bodies of the fallen.

Their life escaping them for a higher purpose would remind such for a time.

For a price.



A sickly ritual was done, and death in the air started to fade away- as the bones of the follow. The flesh and bodies would be carried off into the shadows. As if it was alive, eating away at whatever flesh, mana, and bones the shadows could get their hands upon.  Ravens cried out as their feathers fell to the ground, crumpled as the once outlines of armor, weapons, and even more would be hollow.

Non-Magi, Magi, Demons, Night Creatures, nothing was safe from the grasp of the ritual.

These battlefields were 'cleansed' and picked clean, and weapons and armor were left to rot in the beating sun.

No one can escape death.

A message was provided.

"Too slow, Old Man."

"But not even I will take the heroes of The West..."

"...I am not that cruel."