I got up a little late today, so the revisions were delayed a bit. I have to go out today, and I'll write the update after I get back. There shouldn't be any problems today.
Still, I did get the revisions done. Sorry about yesterday, and thank you for understanding.
Broken walls and ruins littered Stratholme. Although a great army had begun repairs and built structures unique to the undead, too little time had passed. The city's transformation had barely changed its buildings.
Yet black mist roiled everywhere, and dark power ran rampant.
With so many undead gathered together, there was no need for them to deliberately release their dark power. It accumulated naturally.
Baron Rivendare dismounted from his Deathcharger and stepped down onto a mat of bones.
He walked straight into Stratholme, returned to his military camp, and entered his tent. Removing his helmet, he casually set it on the wooden table.
It landed with a clang, and he promptly lay down on the mat.
He looked up at the tent, which had been sewn from burning silk cloth.
It was extraordinary. Anyone with a discerning eye would have recognized the exceptional quality of every furnishing inside, whether the wooden table or the tent itself.
They had all been crafted by hand, each the work of a master.
Sold to nobles, they would fetch a fortune. Some were simply beyond price. Even if someone wanted to buy them, they would never get the chance.
What he had once cherished had now become junk. When he was alive, that wooden table had been another matter entirely.
He had treasured it, treating it as a priceless rarity. Never mind casually setting his helmet on it with a clatter-he would not have put anything on it at all.
A thousand years of