A CRIMSON SLAUGHTER OVERTURE

Upon the ravaged plains of plane, where twisted metal stretches to eternity, a symphony of violence unfurls. The Slaughtered Few marches, a tide of crimson armor. Each step echoes with the rhythm of slaughter, a macabre rite to their cruel god. {Theirstandards flap like the wings of demons, each bearing the {grim insignia of a skull. {Their horns