The fractured plains of Fathomi shimmered faintly as the army of Naryashui's duplicates marched toward their target, a sprawling bastion they knew only as a massive, divine-touched land, unaware it was Vaingall.
Seven thousand rabbit-like humanoids moved in eerie terror, their reddish-brown cloaks billowing like bloodied sails, their red eyes glowing with feral glee.
And with them, they carried the air that was thick with the stench of ash and blood.
The ground scarred from their past conquests, yet their steps were silent, cloaked by layers of stealth spells cast by their battle-oriented mages.
The massive caravan fortress rumbled behind, its spiked exterior bristling with red blades, its wheels grinding the earth as duplicates within fueled it with their regenerative blood.
In the distance, a lone watchtower came into view, its obsidian spire standing stark against the horizon, devoid of defenders, walls, or artillery.
