Night before spring begins, gray snow falls like rain upon the barren wilderness.
And this vast plain lies just outside the canyon defense line north of the Empire.
At this moment, a ferocious army is quietly assembling on this desolate snowfield.
In the air, dark silhouettes are circling.
They are not ordinary birds, but mutated scouts infected long ago—Vine-feathered Crows.
Their wings drag tendrils, spiraling silently through the air, as snow lands on them and is instantly shaken off, revealing feathers gray and white as bone.
A series of heavy, dull resonances rise from the ground.
It's the sound of drums, ritual war drums made from enemy bones, the sound heavy and reminiscent of some beast's panting.
With each drumbeat, the massive battle array before us swells like the tide, as if it were a living organism slowly breathing.
This army's formation is strict and bizarre.
Standing at the front are the wild and savage battle-slave beast packs.
