A hunched form plods through the shadows of battle, picking up where the late warriors left off. Defiling and devouring corpses to its many hearts' content, this creature is neither beast nor man.

It is merely the demented ramblings of the last men standing. It is the fear that grips those who lie bleeding upon the battlefield. Even the vultures dare not contest its carrion, and only the flies, with their sense of doom masked by the rotting flesh inhabit the vicinity of the thing that has many names.

More a harbinger of putrid death than the darkest raven, he stays their advance upon the mounds of the dead, demanding the lion's share of it all.