The armies met in an abandoned town, forever stained by the vile Devout presence.
The ranks of the Fallen made up of undead and foul abominations.
Against men who take death with hearts full of courage.
The Damned tried to find cover in the forest but the Chronomancer used his mastery about time streams to guide the bowmen arrows, ending his threat.
The armies marched onward, the slaughter was imminent.
There was no turning back.
A moment of doubt.
A moment of pain.
And the death of a hero.
Even the archers joins the fray, the meaning of defeat was more bitter than death.
When night came on the bloody battlefield there was no glory for anyone, only a feast for crows.