Thudding, the clanking of chains hanging from discolored patchwork flesh, cruel liturgies written upon faded skin parchment wrapped around over sized limbs.
A beast of death once a man strutted forward as if he was a farmer passing through a field of wheat rather than a monster on a battlefield laying waste to the living soldiers before him, fist crushing bone and battering flesh.
Cold breath billowed from a lipless maw of yellow teeth spewing the stench of death. The liturgy covered parchment wrapping his head hid all but mouth and eyes that held within them clarity unlike the milky white of the shambling zombies at his flanks.
This abomination was one of the generals of the south, Dimitrios. Once known as the stone footed for never backing down from any challenge, he's now known as the Hell Guard standing against the northern imperials descent upon the southern kingdom of Carthus.
Once just a mere man who guarded his king he was now Eight feet tall and weighing over four hundred pounds his chest covered in a thick crude iron plate and his limbs were wrapped in thick chains and liturgies of death so that he may carry the beliefs of his king with him always; sowing his lords will through the strength of his rot iron fist.
With a snap of his arm a chain whipped outward turning the lesser man before hims head into a red mist, the helmet they were wearing pinging violently through the air.
Batting away a pair of soldiers with the back of his hand, he grabbed a third who managed to thrust their sword into his leg picking them up and tearing them in half gambeson, spine and meat ripping loudly, entrails and spinal fluid flinging out.
In all his time he'd trampled hundreds if not thousands of enemies with this body his king's knowledge had granted him. The cutting, the suturing, the excruciating burning pain of flesh and bone not his own being bound to his body, all worth it to pursue the dream of his lord.
For it granted him might unmatched by any save a fellow death general, a might he wielded with zealous gratitude.
Lifting his arm just in time catching several blades that had been aimed at his head in his forearm he flexed, shattering the steel embedded within as he turned to face his new foe.
It was an older man of perhaps fifty or more. He wore no helmet, his slicked back snow white hair hung just past his shoulders seeming to glow faintly. A surreal sight even for one who lived in death such as Dimitrios.
Pulling the blades from where they were stuck he let the scraps of steel fall to the earth as he began walking without any sense of urgency or furor towards the one who appeared to challenge him, his voice a deep rasp as he spoke.
"You, heretic who denies my lord's will. I am Dimitrios the stone footed but I am also known to you as the Hell Guard. You are no common rabble, tell me your name and I will commit it to memory."
The man stared at the wall of dead meat, a crooked smile playing on his lips. "Earl Ulysses Witchmane lord of Edurand. Mystic, and father to a son murdered by the bedazzled cadaver you call a king." He added with clear malice clapping his hands together the swords of fallen friends and foes alike rising into the air.
Enraged by the insult Dimitrios bounded forward arms up to protect his head throwing off the blades that managed to stab into his arms and legs swinging the chains in a fury hitting only air, as the air is where Witchmane had gone standing upon the flat of one of the floating swords out of reach sending a pair of baldes sinking into his foes collarbone from above.
A cold wrath emanated from the general and with an aggravated grunt he tensed his muscles shattering the steel within into pieces before looking up at the smug bastard who hovered out of reach.
"Oh what's wrong, did that gold speckled twat choose a general who's helpless against an old man? Or maybe you're just too dumb to throw rocks?" The Earl Witchmane taunted.
"What lost your nerve, did he not put anything between those legs of yours? Or maybe the issue is that he forgot to upgrade it and you're feeling inadequate?" Witchmane laughed.
Dimitrios grabbed a nearby body, flinging it at the overhead goader who dodged a smile still on his face.
"Well it is a bit nippy out so I suppose it's not entirely your fault, granted you're also dead so that must affect blood flow, which I'm sure poses an entirely different issue down below."
It was not at all a way a lord should ever talk. Even if he had come from peasant origins it was unbecoming to speak in so undignified a manner. For a noble the battlefield was supposed to be a place of honor and dignity. Earl Ulysses Witchmane simply didn't care, he wasn't going to be nice to someone trying to kill him.
The magic in his body didn't circulate like a normal persons meaning using any spells aside from bewitching was much too dangerous, perhaps that's what allowed him to become so effective with such a utilitarian spell. A perfect art for dealing with hordes of undead.
"Or perhaps he told you the big ones hurt?"
With a twist of his wrist and a snide grin the sword's shards still in Dimitrios began to stir, moving around picking up speed leaving the death general to realize far too late his mistake from not simply pulling the blades out earlier as small pieces of metal began to blend him from the inside.
Blood poured out and his head burst destroying his brain putting an end to the south's stone footed champion. Watching what remained fell, the weight shaking the earth Earl Witchmane exhaled. In the many years he'd been fighting he'd slain three of the south's death generals.
Flying higher, he took in the sight a large cloud of eerie gray green mist that stretched for miles across the landscape further south barring entry to the peninsula. The death mist, the gates of hell from which countless undead abominations far more vile than Dimitrios had poured out from.
The living could not trespass it, killing all who entered. For a little over forty years he'd been fighting this war, having seen countless men die. Young men, men like his son Duncan who had been murdered as a result of the mad king of the south's cruel desire to bring death to all living things.
He shuddered remembering the rotted diplomat who proffered a vile peace. Offering equality in death with open arms; to make all undead who would feel no hunger or pain and would live free and happy under the new self proclaimed god Kaius Carthus.
Worst of all this war was at a stand still. The south lacked a decisive victory and the north couldn't press them at their heart, nor was either side willing to risk a large battle.
The last one ending in disaster due to the interference of a certain undead.
He looked over the death below him hundreds of the once living and a few thousand undead having butchered each other. They'd burn what they could so that the necromancers couldn't use the leftover bodies for the creation of their abominations.
He had a feeling humanity had yet to see the worst of what the south could field, and he had a good intuition.
How longed for this conflict to end, for these nightmares to be just that, nightmares and nothing more. He was getting old; he wished for nothing more than to spend his days in peace managing Edurand and spending his days with his grandchildren.
A horn blew sounding it was time to pull back, the campaign to thin the south's forces had been successful. He turned away and began flying back to regroup with his troops not bothering to look back to not carry the faces of the dead home with him.