“And what of it?” The armoured man asked the plates of his heavy armour pitted, dented and, spattered with a drying brown liquid.
“His lord may be displeased,” the gaunt figure said, it had the aura of a perpetual sniveling thing about it, a worm perhaps. It’s round pink mouth full of yellowed thorn like teeth, little black eyes.
“Pah,” the armoured man spat, “if I cared what that puss filled festering boil of a lord’s opinion on battle we would still be dying of the yellow death in the swamps of Anchor!”
“That may be the case,” the worm said as it pulled a black orb out of its pocket, “yet shall we report your progress?”
“Yes. I suppose we must.” He looked out across the field of bodies that had been the scene for the battle against the trifling forces of the Kingdom of Black Helm. His eyes settled on another nightmare like figure stroding gracefully towards him, it was slight like a girl ready to be plucked, but its figures were looked like obsidian knives, its face a porcelain mask a painted laughing mouth and eyes that glowed like thunder in a stormy sky.