Boyar Lazarus Sangrey, former nobleman of the Zoolisk Tsardom now chief necromancer over a host of foul undead, sat mounted atop his steed. It was a horse of insurmountable height, being far taller than any normal warhorse, and was adorned in solid blacks of pitch black, barbed, steel. The creature's midnight fur was barely discernable under the war-barding that it bore, but it was the necromancer on the creature that was in command. He was becked in the same style of heavy plate armour, black, barbed, brutal, except he wore nothing over his head to cover his alabaster features and scarlet red eyes. Behind him, fanned out in a wedge shape, were similar mounted figures. They were arranged with an accuracy and precision that would have taken mortal armies many years of training to get perfect, but these were no mere mortal men, for they were in actual mounted liches, armed with bows crafted from blackened wood.<br/><br/>There were numerous creatures with them, but the force was dominate by the black shapes that the liches cast. There were zombies, revenants, and other monstrosities by the handful. What zombies there were, were scattered (or rather driven) into as orderly ransk as could be given to them, but their ramshackle appearances - rotting skin, congealed blood, guts hanging limply from stomachs, not a single thing about them was uniform...but they could all drag a man down and rip the flesh from his skin with savage bites and claws. Even some human mercenaries marched alongside them, though it was questionable if the men were truly mentally stable... Each unit of liches was commanded by a Dread rider leader, their appearance, or rather their armour for that was the only thing visible, was the exact same as their master's.<br/><br/>Beside Lazarus, was what at first glance could be considered a wagon of sorts. It was pulled by two horses of similar statue to his own, but the controller was much different. He was swathed in coal black robes that had dozens of pouches haphazardly stitched to them, and he wore a black mask upon his face. He held no power however, he was a servant - Scum and little else. In the back of the old wagon sat two more figures, neither were as imposing as the others, for their faces showed that they were comparable to mere child when faced with the likes of the wagon driver or Lazarus himself. They were nothing more than acolytes, necromancers in training, their power was little and their control over the undead feeble at best.  At his sides were two mounted humans, one a woman and the other a man. Belle Marth, and Ulrik Dukes, respectively. The latter was clad in the black full plate of the other mounted troops, but the later was dressed in something far less combat orientated, some may even say unpractical.<br/><br/>"Let us hope that this meeting is, fruitful. It would be most....unfortunate, if it were not." Ulrik muttered, a thick and heavy accent easily heard in his threateningly low voice. He had never been one for patience of any kind, and meetings of all sorts were little more than annoyances that he only attended due to it being the will of his master and the furthering of his own goals. He lived by the ways of a tyrant, HE was the bodyguard oh his liege, NO ONE ELSE and as such he was put on this planet to stop people from reaching a similar or loftier role than he.<br/><br/>Any further comments were swiftly silenced by the outstretched, gauntleted, palm of Lazarus, a recently sent out scout had reappeared in a timely manner, luckily. It was one of the, presumably insane, human mercenaries, a man hailing from the Khante as evident by his armour style and facial features. As he approached, he bowed his head to the three trained necromancers before him before speaking. "Sir, the camp is just ahead." He said to them in a respectful manner. Such formality did not suit the mercenaries, but as they learned when one of their comrades spoke out...disrespect was simply out of the question.<br/><br/>"Good." Lazarus answered, spurring his steed onwards. He trusted in the competence of his lieutenants to get his forces moving, incompetence was nothing short of a one way ticket to becoming a new flesh-work to march for the host..<br/><br/>Ulrik and Belle knew full well what to do. Giving the appropriate signalling, the host of undead was swiftly marshalled into a march of undeath through the last minutes of the journey. To the common village folk, such a host of undead was to see some of their deepest nightmares and fears realized in the shape of deathly army of shuffling and groaning monsters...however, the common village folk in places had grown almost used to the sight of the dead walking among the living in ways such as this...more fool them for thinking that all undead were merely predictable.<br/><br/>Their last minutes of journeying had been swift and timely. Original estimates placed arrival at a half day later than expected, but clearly that had been false. The shapes of yet more mounted soldiers could be seen pocketed about the sides of the valley leading to their final destination, clearly they were to be expected, and no warning was needed. Forming into orderly lines, the host of undeath marched through the valley, paying little heed to the few soldiers that were scattered about. Their lives were forfeit unto the whims of Lazarus should they attack them. The marching came to a halt once a clearing had been reached, it was filled with all manner of undeath, and a large tent-like structure. However, the ground itself had thundered at the treading of nigh two hundred armoured cavalry men, the meeting best be fruitful.<br/><br/>Instead of brazenly marching any structure like a barbarian, Lazarus instead dismounted from his steed, and awaited to be addressed, as was only courteous and the manner of gentleman.