The crimson moon bathed the battlefield in its eerie glow as Ludwig stood amidst the carnage, his Durandal Shard dripping with black ichor. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the acrid stench of werebat insides filled the night air, clinging to his tattered robes. His chest rose and fell in steady, unnecessary breaths - a lingering habit from life that his undead body maintained out of muscle memory rather than need.
With a practiced motion, Ludwig raised his sword high above his head, the blade catching the moonlight in a deadly shimmer. The first Werebat lunged at him with a guttural screech, its grotesque maw gaping wide to reveal rows of needle-like teeth. The sword came down in a devastating arc, cleaving through matted fur and brittle bone with sickening ease.
[-12,000]
