The horse galloped as fast as she would go. The rain was pouring down from the heavens; a giant bolt of lightning shot in to the ground ten meters away. The horse neighed loudly in fear but kept on striding forwards. The rider was dressed in black robes, a hood pulled tightly over his head, blocking his face from sight. The robes were pulsing with a mystical blue aura. At the rider’s side was a short sword in a scabbard glowing with the same magical light.
The horse was as pitch black as the night with glowing red eyes and a mane of spiky, purple hair. It was a ghost horse, conjured by only the most powerful mage. As the rider came closer to his destination, he slowed to a trot. Before him were the giant black gates of Archon.
The mage nimbly dismounted and landed flat on his feet. He pulled his hood of his face revealing dark green eyes and a tanned face. He had the scabbard and strapped it to his side then with one hand he clicked his fingers and the horse faded away into the darkness. The black clad figure shouted to the guards on the battlements; " I am Naral, the servant of your great master, I bring him news of glory. Let me in."
The iron gates swung open revealing lines of Orks getting ready for battle. Some were using the forge to craft a better blade others were sharpening their own sword. The mage strode forwards. As he walked the lines of Orks around him parted in fear of the powerful wizard.
As he drew near the tower the guards stepped aside and pushed open the iron studded doors. The mage marched in and took the stairs two at the time. At the top he saw his lord, the great one Quarsar.
Naral bowed down and wispered "the seventh city has fallen."
Quarsar stood up and shouted in his booming voice " We will march on the final city tonight!"
