A small war camp is set up in a meadow beside a river. Tents are laid out in neat rows. Purple banners with an image of a nine-petaled lotus fly overhead. Carts of supplies, hospital tents, and various other followers are kept protected within the bounds of the camp itself; theirs is not an enemy who would hesitate to attack noncombatants. The sun is barely peaking out over the hills to the east and there are lingering traces of fog.
Guards patrol and watch, wearing robes and armed with swords.
From nearby comes the sound of a horn, and people swarm out of their tents like ants. Enemy spotted, coming in from the north out of the forest. Walking corpses, their pallid skin crossed with black veins and their eyes a milky white, disorganized beyond that they all seem intent on shuffling their way towards the encampment.
A few of the fighters leap unnaturally high, sending out waves of light from their swords - or in one notable case a whip of violet lightning - to strike waves of distant undead. Most of the rest, not having yet developed their golden cores, merely swing at the enemies.
Those who can leap shout down orders and information to the ones on the ground. They have orders to keep their distance - they are too hard to replace and they will be needed to purify the undead once they've stopped moving.