A phalanx of mace-wielders, legioned by the dozens, swathed in interlocking geometries of archaic clan and tribal shroud, donned in specters of yesteryears garb

A phalanx of mace-wielders, legioned by the dozens, swathed in interlocking geometries of archaic clan and tribal shroud, donned in specters of yesteryears garb. Upon crowns they bore the half moons of sun-shielders, hands sheathed in the callused gloves bearing the earthen residue of the wars waged on emerald fields. Some festooned in old world breeches and shapeshifter's bonnets, others in the blaring colors of plebeian polo and desert-dusted shorts. Among these warriors, a solitary figure, a shielder of storms, his trusty parasol held high. Another’s lower limbs swathed in ghostly shroud, baptized by the verdant life of the fields. And still another, a tragic bride, her veil sanguinary from the love-feast unholy. Feathers plucked from the winged ones adorned the headgear of some, the rawhide caps of others akin to the primal trophies of untamed hunts. A lone paladin armored in the steel and iron of yore. Faces beneath this motley parade painted in the ghastly festival hues of the carnivalesque. A cacophony of unknown tongues ricocheted, a grotesque operetta resounding in the ears of those unversed. As they approached the maiden's tee, they were as a raiding horde birthed from some primeval chaos, an epoch more untamed than the manicured world they stormed upon. The shrill discordance of their cries echoing, their raiments in their wake, whispering tales of an infernal dimension, billowing like the smoky breath of the underworld's beast.