Flyin purple people eater

across the dusty plain, all is silent as the armies regard each other. from the forests to the south, legions of elves stand silently, channeling the energy of their homeland while their trained behemoths snort and paw at the dewy grass. from the swamps of the east, slaves huddle at their demonic masters feet against the cold morning air, their bodies beginning to reek of the decay that has claimed their lords souls. the army of the west clanks and clinks in its polished metal shells, its army a model of discipline and order, confident in their knowledge of the landscape but quietly nervous of the enemies arrayed around them. and then, from the north, comes a blinding light. and in that moment, every member of every army realizes that it will not live for another hour. yet somehow, in the glory of their adversary, they cease to care. swords, polearms, shields and spears clatter to the ground as the enemy advances with impossible speed. the hippos are coming.