Unnatural storm clouds gather overhead, blotting out the pale sun and casting a foreboding shadow across the battlefield. From the twilight the chittering of bats and the bestial howls of wolves fill the air. A chill descends over the land, striking dread into the hearts of mortals that dare stand against this nightmarish host.

Packs of Crypt Ghouls bound forwards, devolved cannibals baying like hounds, eager to feast on the flesh of the living. Shambling hordes of Zombies shuffle forward with lurching steps, wisps of green witchfire playing about their limbs and dragging them forward like demented puppets. Their tattered flesh is blotched and rotted, revealing bloodless veins and unbeating hearts, their lifeless eyes staring mindlessly ahead. Some are little more than skeletons while others bear a terrifying resemblance to the recently deceased.

Behind the Zombies rank upon rank of Skeletal Soldiers march resolutely forward, clutching the bronze swords and shields of old, glowing balefires burning within their empty eye sockets. All that they remember of their past lives is faint echoes of battles fought in ages past. All that they feel is the compulsion to fight and obey their masters as they did so many years ago. Mortals who dare stand against the undead horde are confronted with a ghastly apparition, for what soldier could remain unafraid with the vision of his own death lurching towards him?

Called forth from their rest by the magic of the dead, unquiet spirits roam the twilight fog. Their groaning cries pierce the soul and their chilling touch steals the life energy of the living, as if their fingers were daggers made of ice. Writhing with a pulsing nimbus of black energy, Wraiths and Banshees flow amidst the Undead throng, seeking the warmth of mortals. Mortal weapons merely pass through these supernatural horrors and their presence drives the living insane with dread.

Clad in the ancient armour of distant centuries Wights, Grave Guard and Black Knights plucked from their barrow graves march implacably forward, step after step, in a silent mockery of the Knightly Orders of Men. Their weapons are corroded with time and dusty with the years, held together by an evil magic that suffuses their being with an eerie green glow. The mere touch of their blades is enough to snuff out the life of a living man and they are sustained by a seething malevolence powerful enough to ignore blows that would mortally wound a living creature.

Behind these creatures the witchfires of the army highlight the haggard-faced Necromancers cloaked in the skins of men. With their magical urgings bone knits and flesh fuses as the fallen of the shambling Horde stumble back to their feet to resume the advance with lipless moans. The stench of death hangs over the army like a pall.

At the centre of this hideous parody of a Mortal army stands the most powerful and dangerous abomination: the Vampire Lord. It is this nightmare creature whose will has summoned the dead from their graves and it is its will that has bound the army together. Vampires are unbelievably ancient beings. Created 5,000 years before present day by Nagash they embody Necromancy: The magic of the past, of withered flesh and faded times. With unnatural strength, speed and toughness sucked from the souls of their prey the Vampire is a lethal Warrior-Sorceror that strikes a gripping fear into any who confronts it. Seeking dominion over all living things, a Vampire Lord raises its army from ancient battlefields and dusty tombs to overthrow the rule of mortals and reign over the survivors as an undying, merciless Emperor.

Few face the Vampire Counts and survive. The few who do are forever haunted by the memory.