The steady beating of wardrums, accompanied by the steady rhythm of the clanking armor of a hundred thousand troops marching in perfect formation drew Harkan's attention.
Harkan stood alone at the bottom of a smoking crater, a massive pit of upturned soil and broken bodies. Tendrils of steam rose from the bone dry soil and the charred corpses around him, scraps of armor welded to dead flesh. Even as the cacophony drew nearer, Harkan nonchalantly made his way up the slope of the crater. Over him, the clouds grew dark with the promise of rain.
Harkan stepped out of the crater into the grassy battlefield, watching as the sounds stopped. A forest of weapons and warbanners filled the horizon, an army, twice as numerous as the one before stood before him.
With a loud cry, the army began to descend upon him, the ordered marching devolving into an ear-shattering rumble, the very earth shaking at their steps. Harkan raised his hand to the sky and called forth his blade, a massive bolt of lightning arcing down to the palm of his hand. Wrapping his hand on the shaft of the lighting bolt, he drew it in, shaping it to the form of a glowing, crackling sword.
It was then when the rain fell, a massive downpour followed by torrential winds, forcing soldiers to the ground. Harkan marched wordlessly, swinging his blade in crackling arcs, hewing easily through shields and swords alike, leaving nothing behind but smoking severed limbs and the groans of dying men...
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