Clawed Vs The Undead
The undead army had retreated and their magi stepped forward, their hollow eyes gleaming with an unholy purple fervor. With terrible meaty a tear upon their own flesh, black blood dripped to the ground, staining the earth with a malevolent hue.
Their voices, low and rhythmic, echoed through the night, a haunting chant that seemed to resonate with the very soul of the wasteland. In unison, the magi all chanted the same spell, their voices harmonizing with an eerie melody that sent shivers down the spines of any who heard it.
The black blood, thick and viscous, flowed from the wounds of the magi, snaking its way across the ground like creeping tendrils of shadow.
As it spread, it formed intricate crop circles, sigils of ancient power etched into the very fabric of reality. The air grew heavy with the scent of iron and decay, the acrid tang of the undead mingling with the earthy aroma of the soil tainted by negative magic.