As if personally offended, the creature commanding the ghouls strides forward, pushing through the charging masses with ease. By chance or low cunning or just because he was the tallest figure on the battlefield and standing on an elevated point besides, his burning eyes lock onto Van Hal, and his eyes glow with dark hunger, his distended muscles bulging with strength that no mortal could withstand. But in doing so, he overlooked the two figures standing at the side of the Elector Count.
With a chanted prayer that you faintly realize is a continuation of the one that began the battle, the Priest of Sigmar glows, literally glows, with what you cannot help but know is the manifestation of the truest faith in the Champion of Mankind. The gloom of the forest is driven back as a mirror to the sun in the sky bursts forth from the armoured priest, and the courage of every true servant of the Empire is bolstered as- you shake your head, trying to regain your concentration. Something about whatever it is Kasmir was doing (was it magic? was it divine? was there a difference?) seemed to twist your thoughts into grandiose purple prose, and you can't afford to be distracted. Because as the terrible creature advances, undeterred by the beacon of faith that Kasmir has become, you step between the two of them. Since the first pull of a trigger of this battle, you've been drawing the Ulgu that lies thick in the shadows of these woods into you, and shaping it into the most difficult and potent spell of Grey Magic you know. And as your silhouette falls upon the tide of the dead, you let the magic within you burst forth.
And in an instant, holy light and caustic Ulgu woven by the combined will of a priest and a wizard slam against the packed ranks of the creatures and they melt.
Literally.
The terrible cries of the Singing King are nothing compared to the hundreds of agonized screeches torn from the throats of those between you and the King, and the air is filled with their cries and the smell of boiling flesh and a horrible fog of vapourized skin. In instants the creatures have either literally or figuratively melted away and there's nothing between you and the Strigoi, and the worst cry yet fills the air, as the set of lungs that commanded a battlefield is given over to nothing but the expression of pure agony as the creature's skin boils away to reveal blackening muscle and yellowing bone, until they, too, begin to liquefy...
The legendary resilience of the grave might had been enough to counter even that, had Van Hal not chosen that moment to raise his repeater rifle and unload every single blessed bullet into the hideous creature.
For an instant, your shadow stretches across a portion of the battlefield filled only with the bubbling corpses of the rightfully dead, until Kasmir's beacon of light blinks out and shadow rush back in to fill the void.
