The world was a symphony of beautiful, glorious violence.
And I, Ragnar Vhagar, was its conductor.
But from my podium on top of a slightly-less-dented school bus, I could see that my orchestra was starting to play out of tune.
The front line was buckling.
Grak the Unbreakable was a magnificent, one-man apocalypse, his fists a constant, percussive rhythm of sonic booms and shattered bones.
BOOM!
The ground itself seemed to shatter as he punched a human soldier into a fine red mist.
CRACK!
A visible shockwave of force erupted from his knuckles, blasting two other nearby soldiers off their feet.
He was a whirlwind of destruction, a living, breathing meat-grinder, but even he was being bogged down by the sheer, unending number of humans.
They swarmed him like angry, squishy ants.
Sarah, my beautiful, terrifying Queen of Magic, was a goddess of artillery, her black and purple fireballs turning entire squads of militia into screaming, carbonized statues.
