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Upon the battle field it hung. A choking mist, hustled along the long dew wetted vegetation that even seemed to cry for help, by the screaming winds that howled to run for what was coming. The air was chilling to the bone, it whipped and lashed out at those who stood upon the mud surging, grass choking hill.
Among those that had gathered upon that rank sodden hill, whose eyes began to strain from desperately trying to stare through the impenetrable wall of mist was a man. A man of large stature and pride so high that not even the ficklest deed of dismay could topple it. He sat aloft a chalk white steed that was as mighty and as fierce as its rider. That was as bold and strong as the day was old. That of its reins held firm by its master, seemed afraid to hold on to the colossal beast of burden.
And so you ask who was this man? Who could be allowed to even stroke this creature of almost legends? This man was 'Drake Von Chashsmer'. 'General Drake Von Chashsmer'.

His armour glistened like diamonds fit for emperors to come. A full body plate of it. His uniform though faded from so many battles and those to come. The red and yellow slowly washing away as though being rubbed out by a magical force, still maintained a dignity that could not be denied even through old age and times of hardship. His hair and goatee not grey or white but a radiant silver that almost matched his armour that was fit for gods and lords.

His wrinkled face still contained that essence of youth, of which we all crave within us. His eyes small, blue as Mediterranean seas and as sharp and piercing as a sword tip, ever vigilant of the oncoming hoard that rumbled the earth and crashed through the wall of mist.

They had come. All shades of green spearheaded the mist. The cackling of mushroom drugged frothing goblins, the squeals of grotesquely over fed boars and slimed up red greasy cave squigs with riders, and finally the blood curdling, bone shaking, earth pulverising roar of, 100'000 ORCS! That almost smashed sound waves with terror.