A grim determination hung in the air, thick as the blighted mist that clung to the southern horizon. For the first time since the fracturing of the ancient Concord, the armies of the six Lycan kingdoms marched as one, their destination the ravaged heart of Morrathiel, the source of the Skarnwraith plague and the seat of the corrupted Queen Selene. This was no mere border skirmish; this was the March on Morrathiel, a desperate gamble to sever the head of the serpent and reclaim the light that had been extinguished.
At the forefront rode King Theron Vaelorin, his silver hair gleaming under the perpetually twilight sky. His gaze was fixed on the blighted lands ahead, a grim landscape of twisted trees and black rivers that had once been a realm of radiant beauty. Beside him rode Lord Vorlag Ironclaw, his massive warhammer resting across his saddle, his gruff face set with a resolute grimness. To Theron's other side rode Queen Maelis Wildheart, her verdant cloak a stark contrast to the encroaching decay, her jade eyes filled with a sorrowful determination to heal the wounded land.
Behind them, the combined forces stretched for what seemed like leagues. The disciplined ranks of Vaelorin sentinels marched with a grim precision, their silvered weapons held ready, their formations a testament to centuries of strategic warfare. Alongside them strode the fierce berserkers of Ulvaren, their primal energy barely contained, their axes and spears thirsting for the bone and mist of their hated foe. The ground trembled under the heavy tread of Draventhall's iron-clad warriors, their experimental "bone-breaker" devices carried with a mix of hope and trepidation.
Queen Lyra Wildheart led a contingent of Tir Vareth healers and light-wielders, their lumina torches casting a flickering radiance against the gloom, their vials of concentrated moonpetal essence clutched tightly, ready to mend the wounds inflicted by the Skarnwraiths' chilling touch. From the shadowed edges of the marching army moved the mystics of Solmorae, led by the veiled Lady Seraphina, their silent chants weaving protective wards and preparing arcane counter-measures against the dark magic that permeated Morrathiel. Above them, riding on swift, specially bred aerial wolves, flew the astronomers of Nytheris, led by Warden Kyros, their keen eyes scanning the blighted skies for celestial omens and potential weaknesses in the shadow's influence.
The march was a testament to the fragile unity forged in the face of terror. Old rivalries were set aside, at least for now, replaced by a shared purpose. Vaelorin strategy guided the advance, Draventhall's brute force stood ready to break the enemy's lines, Ulvaren's ferocity promised to meet the Skarnwraiths head-on, Tir Vareth's healing offered a chance at survival, Solmorae's magic provided a shield against the darkness, and Nytheris's celestial insights offered a glimmer of hope for understanding their unholy foe.
The deeper they ventured into Morrathiel's blighted lands, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. The air grew heavy with the stench of decay, and the mournful wails of unseen Skarnwraiths echoed through the twisted forests. The ground beneath their feet was cracked and barren, the once-vibrant flora replaced by thorny, black vines that writhed with a malevolent energy.
Skirmishes erupted along the flanks of the advancing army. Silent Skarnwraith raiding parties, emerging from the blighted mist, struck with terrifying speed, only to be met by the combined might of the Concord's forces. Vaelorin archers loosed volleys of silvered arrows, hoping to disrupt their advance, while Ulvaren berserkers charged into their ranks, their axes shattering bone. Draventhall warriors unleashed blasts from their "bone-breakers," scattering the undead and creating temporary safe zones. Tir Vareth healers worked tirelessly, tending to the wounded, their moonpetal essence a vital balm against the life-draining touch. Solmorae mystics chanted protective wards, deflecting bursts of shadow energy, while Nytherian sky-riders provided aerial reconnaissance, tracking the movements of larger Skarnwraith formations.
The march was slow and arduous, each mile gained a victory hard-won. The relentless nature of the Skarnwraiths was evident in their unending attacks, their silent persistence a chilling reminder of the darkness that controlled them. But the combined armies of the Concord pressed on, their resolve fueled by the memory of fallen comrades and the desperate hope of reclaiming the light.
As they drew closer to the heart of Morrathiel, towards the ominous silhouette of the corrupted Sunstone Citadel looming in the distance, the blighted landscape intensified. The air grew thick with a palpable sense of dark magic, and the mournful wails of the Skarnwraiths became a deafening chorus. The final confrontation was drawing near. The March on Morrathiel was reaching its climax, the fate of the seven kingdoms hanging in the balance as the unified forces of the Concord prepared to face the corrupted Queen Selene and the source of the encroaching darkness. The price of failure was unimaginable; the hope of victory, a fragile flame against the overwhelming night.