The battlefield did not give them time to breathe. As the next wave of undead Elves advanced, something changed.
The Magic around them warped. It was no longer flowing in clean streams but twisting in on itself and darkening in color.
Their chanting grew deeper and more chaotic, no longer carried by individual throats but by the ground, air, and the ruined landscape around them.
The undead Elves began to change.
Their cracked bodies stretched unnaturally as bones bent and realigned with wet, grinding sounds. Arms split at the elbow, forming extra limbs wrapped in rotting robes and flesh.
Their faces peeled apart, revealing glowing symbols carved directly into skulls beneath. That was the only time those symbols were revealed, when their face flesh was opened.
Their mouths multiplied, all whispering different spells at once, overlapping until the chanting lost meaning.
