Fleet of foot, dancing instead of fighting, the mock-elves standing against the congregation of the undead and willing to die were cowards. The charging Virulent and untouched were gaining ground, pressing their offense against the fearful mages on the hill. Instead of standing and fighting they rushed away from the coming storm. Men, elves, and allied forces of volunteered humanity to the will of Xem’Zund turned with the mages and gave chase. Hounds, foaming at the mouth and overtaken with the thrill of the hunt, they turned and followed as they attempted to bite the heels of the fleeing foxes. Hope was lost, or so the twenty virulent thought, when the mages clashed with the flank of their master. The vice would be sealed, assaulted from all sides they would have no choice but to be carved into bloody pieces and scattered on the waiting soil like a prepared feast for the ghouls.

Even as the entire world erupted in a flash of bitter sweet death and magic, Frirak was forced to accept that things were not as they appeared. Before him were the marshes, protection and impediment for his troops as well as those of the ambushing militia. Sweeping down the side of the hill to his left flank were the mages that he had attempted to remove as a threat, direct their attention at the charging living creatures of his army. Undead were monsters, abominations, those who willingly followed the Forgotten were little more than ants and easily ignored. On his other side was a mounted militia of armor, shields, and lances bearing down quickly upon him. Instead of gaining an advantage, he had rushed into a murky grave. The warlord was left with no option.

“Rear, to the left flank. Put yourselves between us and the mages.” Instantly the thought was dispersed to the ghouls protecting the rear. They shifted nearly as one, rushing towards the mages that threatened to tear a hole through their outer wall. Three massive figures, each the size of four of the undead cannibals, turned with the left flank and the rear guard. Blackened blades as long as an elf’s body and mauls as large as a man’s arm and just as heavy were brought up menacingly, they surged towards the descending cowards with a bloodlust twisting their thoughts. “If you do not keep those mage’s from getting to me, I swear by our gods that you better be dead.”

Frirak immediately ignored the insultingly shallow magic users and turned towards the other two threats that had come to bear. His undead bladesingers were slinging sword and warped magic at the rising crystalline cages that surfaced. A clash of near equals, the quick warriors that had waited to ambush the undead army were slinging spells and dancing death. Against them the blood-stained warriors of Raiaera’s fallen were returning spells and catching weapons with their own swords, undertones of disharmonic and deep words rumbled. Despite having been changed by Xem’Zund, the bardic nature of the region’s most feared warriors had not been removed but simply changed into something more useful.

“Virulent charging down the hill. Launch the empty throne at the charging cavalry as soon as they are slowed after they hit the right flank. Catapult it as closely as you can to the center. I will do the rest as soon as it passes over.” Frirak’s final plan was coming too soon, but it was a chance he was forced to take. All around him the desecrated dead were falling and returning blows far too slowly. Necromancers threw bolts of black energy, virulent sent walls of stone and froze blocks of ice, and bladesingers spun and twirled as much as they were allowed in the fitfully thick ooze. Destroying the knightly cavalry would diminish a threat, focus restored to the hundreds popping up in the mire with the bubbles of methane.



Out of Character:
Your post was really confusing, but I tried to figure out what was going on and respond correctly. Just tell me if it needs to be edited.