Falling

The soldiers' cries suddenly pierced the humid air. Vador instinctively tightened his grip around the young elf as his gaze scoured the enemy lines. The undead advanced despite the downpour, their rotting flesh glistening under the magical rain. Worse still—some of them were mutating, their twisted limbs sprouting bluish scales where the water ran off them effortlessly.

"The aquatic protection spells…" the sorceress murmured, horrified. "They… they're absorbing it."

A sickly green bolt of lightning tore through the clouds, illuminating the source of this corruption: A massive figure, draped in a cloak of ashes and tattered cloth. His face was half-hidden behind a cracked helm, from which a pale, ghostly glow seeped, unnatural and unsettling.

"That's the Black Blade Necromancer," Vador growled, drawing his crystal dagger. The elven metal shimmered with a milky radiance, resonating with the magic in the air. "He's the one corrupting the corpses of our allies."