The forest was alive. It moved like a seething carpet of maggots, heaving and convulsing. War machines rose up like apocalyptic monoliths, creaking ominously, a mournful, braying keen. Forges illuminated parts of this roiling mass, points of fiery, hateful light. The air swirled and moaned as sorcerous power was drawn irresistibly to pulsating, purple glows, making the air resonate with nauseating menace. Trees came crashing to the ground, groaning their anguish, hewn asunder by hungry axes to fuel ravenous fires. A tumult of voices struck out at nervous ears. Angry, hateful voices that called for blood. And the drums. Oh the drums.