Amidst snow covered jagged rocks, misty, unforgiving skies, and a chill so intense that it could burn flesh and bone, stood an error, entities that were not meant to be.
They were an aberration to what was normal, all undead were, they were a mockery to the divine, an attempt to step into the realms of divinity.
And they were beautiful in their damnation.
The snow laden lands were littered with rows and rows of unending undead. Monsters with nine inch claws, legendary knights that had once danced to the tune of war, giants who had once brought ruin to several lands— all of them in order, all of them beautiful in their submission.
They did not tire, the snow did not eat at their lifeblood, they did not have mood swings, they could not imagine the thought of treachery.
They would go to hell if need be…
"The perfect army." Sataen whispered, licking his lower lip as he watched them.
Although, there was no such thing as true perfection.
