[ WP ] An army made of united races of fantasy united in honor , chivalry and a worthy cause . You are the leader of their enemy , your army is brutal , hardened , and close quarters combat is far from chivalrous . Which is something they are about to find out .

A heavy horn sounded across the thickly forested treeline; proud, brassy notes echoing across the landscape as the races of man, of dwarf, of elf - all the races who believed in justice and unity, who believed in righteousness and the cause of a greater good. They had come together under the banner of the Light Lord. A champion bedecked in golden armor, his long, flowing chestnut hair fluttering in the gentle breeze. Roaring lions formed the pauldrons of his suit, his torso a curling script of powerful Elven calligraphy and Dwarven runecraft. A shield encrusted in diamond, meant to turn aside sword and bow and spear. 
 
 Within his hand he clutched a banner of flowing silk fabric, the material imbued with the divine magic of the Nine Gods. He was born of angel and human, and from his lips flowed words that had bound together every honest man and woman in the realms. His personal cadre consisted of a fair Elven maiden skilled with her longbow, of a sturdy Dwarven shieldmaster who now bore the crown of his people after usurping his wicked stepbrother. A wizard of humble origins, having cast out a wicked cabal of sorcerers who had secretly come to rule his university. 
 
 They were good men, and their heralds held their heads high as they preached that message of tolerance and love. Telling, again and again, of how this final battle was going to break the back of the forces of evil. How their foe, battered and bloodied, was going to fall at the tip of spear and sword. That arrows were to sail forth from the heavens, smiting the foe. They were, after all, merely up against the forces of darkness. Orcs, goblins, trolls, those traitors to the light that dared to venture to the enemy. Craven cowards that had cleaved to the breast of the Dark Lord and his wickedness, who employed slaves and broke the backs of those that stood against him. Cloaked in darkness, wearing armor wrought from shadow. Wielding a sword of blood-red iron that sang misery and depravity with every blow. 
 
 Thus the heralds of darkness had spoken of him, declaring doom and death, with a burning village to their backs and hundreds a left crucified upon the salted earth. 
 
 Thus the unified army had marched forth, spears and swords at the ready. Assembled in neat formations, marching rectangles clad in shining armor with banners at the head. Sergeants brandishing their swords, men with straight backs who marched forth to meet their foe on the field of battle. 
 
 That was when they stepped upon the first trap. Devious innovations of the Dark Lord, wrought by his wicked sorcerers and fiendish, exiled smiths. Plumes of smoke and flame burst forth, scything fragments of metal fanning from the center of several formations. Magic of an unknown nature ensured an abundance of wounded, even as holy healers sallied to mend what they could. 
 
 These eruptions did not pause the advance, the distant formation of the enemy army banging upon drums and blaring at twisted horns. They did not adhere to the unified formations of the just, instead creating a small mob of sword and axe and bow. Orcs stood beside trolls and goblins, and at the forefront of that army stood their daring leader. A cloak of flames lapped at his back, searing the soil beneath him. An aura of malevolence radiating about him. 
 
 Onwards they marched, nearing the ruins of the village and the crucified. Yet they were undeterred, driving forth even as the first men began to fall. Bowmen concealed at the treeline, darting back and forth. Barbed arrows sinking through leather and flesh, broadheads sinking into eyes and throats and hearts. Archers with significant accuracy were given special targets. Sergeants were the first to be targeted, then healers. Distinct attire easily marking them out, whereas the Dark Lord's archers daubed themselves in mud and foliage, refusing to bathe so that their filth was that of the land. The Elven archers fired from beyond their range, but the trees provided great cover, the overhead foliage catching many arrows just as the tree trunks did. 
 
 They melted into the treeline as the Elves peppered the area, the mounted archers of the humans diving into the forests with lances readied. 
 
 Only to be caught in tangling vines and branches, trees brought to life to plague the horsemen. Flailing with madness and fury as corrupted treants crushed riders and horses alike. 
 
 The morale of the attackers was high as they advanced initially, but that morale rapidly faded with each blow. They had girded against the evil of the Dark Lord, but what of the misery of their allies? The charge staggered with a fresh eruption of earth and flame, their will sapping, orderly formations left to face what was looking less and less like an outnumbered mob. 
 
 For their numbers were lost merely advancing, their unity hollow in the face of battle-hardened brotherhood. 
 
 They were going to earn their battle-hardened brotherhood, though. 
 
 And then they'd perish.
