Ashes. Dust. The wind. The dead are everywhere in Hildmoor. They are the shadows that lurk in the corner of your eye, the gasp for air when you startle awake at night, the hate that shrivels the land; and they call for you in the rain.
Both sides have long ago denied each other quarter to retrieve their fallen comrades, and so the carcasses are left to rot on the battlefield, cheated out of their warrior's burial that would lay them to rest. That is how their oath ordains. Pestilence roams free, already here and there the weak cough and spit up blood, their faces grey and ashen, already claimed by the shadows.
There is no way out for the dead. And so when all else is gone they will continue their bitter struggle into eternity, rising up in a mist or fog as pale spectres dressed for battle, and march upon each other. The dead live forever.
And you, are you real, or ghost?