As one, the undead lurched forwards, arrows falling upon them like rain. Nothing could slow its advance, though, and as the defenders watched, their comrades rose from the ground to strike at those who were once their friends. Each man who fell rose again, swinging twisted blades and shattered limbs. Arrav stood among the walking dead as a warrior of the gods. Nothing could come close to him without being cut down. Those that he struck with his blade did not rise again, and soon the bodies were piled high around him.

He leapt forward into the midst of Zemouregal's army, hacking a path to the sorcerer. Behind him, Avarrocka put up a bold defence, but the edges of the town were already alight, and mobs of the dead were roaming the streets unhindered. Only at blockades and fortified houses were the humans and dwarves slowing the advance.

Arrav finally broke from the army and looked upon Zemouregal. The mahjarrat was not as tall as Arrav, but in his hand held a sword made of shadow and smoke.

'Your doom is upon you, foolish weakling,' Zemouregal said then, 'your shield may save you from my magicks, but your home will drown in blood. Even now, your people are being slaughtered and shall rise again as my slaves. And now, standing before me like a belligerent child, you shall feel the might of my arm.'