Ludwig pushed himself out of the pile of corpses with a slow, almost mechanical motion, the sound of bones cracking beneath his weight mixing with the squelch of wet, half-mangled flesh sliding against the smooth lacquer of his armor. His hands sank deep into something gelatinous and unrecognizable before he could get proper leverage beneath him. The air stank of death thick and heady, like curdled milk baking under bloodied sunlight, though no sun dared pierce the clouds above. Blood clung in great slick ribbons to his regalia, and a smear of pulped viscera stretched across his thigh like a sash. Bits of bone, hair, and other things better left unspoken were glued to him as if the dead refused to release him just yet.
He rose fully now, his posture steady but uneven, an ache grinding beneath his ribs. The armor shifted as he moved, and though it was enchanted to mend, the body beneath told a different story.
[You have broken ribs,
Your shoulder is fractured
