The battlefield groans beneath the weight of a hundred thousand feet, though most of them are inhuman. Dimartino's vanguard has gathered in force - an army of twenty thousand, monsters and men alike, lined at the edge of the clearing where the undead led by Corpsie have made their stand.
The horde across the field is dead still, and the thirty thousand rotters are packed tight, shoulder to shoulder. A sea of death - soulless humans without will. Their groans are muffled by the sheer volume of their number. It's less a sound and more a pressure. An omen.
Barns breathes deep and hoists the Silver Rake above his head. Fire catches in his eyes, but his hands do not shake.
"Adventurers, no - FIGHTERS OF DIMARTINO!" he roars. "CHARGE!"
The monsters scream. Kobolds yip and howl. Trolls bellow. Skeletons raise rusted swords. Adventurers tighten their grips. Underhill's Royal Police fall into formation. Godrick leads the first surge, his twin blades flashing like arcs of lightning.
