Our captain was moving like a whirlwind, and around him, his sword was weaving what looked like a veil of night, the very same that earned him his nickname: Spada Nera. More importantly, a few feet away, all around the captain, the Corvus were circling. The beasts were like a walking black cloud. What a great group of scavengers they were: as soon as he had cut a throat or sliced off a limb, they bore down upon the wounded and pecked away at them with their rusty beaks, ripping them apart with their claws. Our handsome captain was like war embodied, with his black scythe in one hand, and the Corvus around him like a flock of crows. They barely had time to finish off the vermin, to choke the devils, before our leader took another step forward and delivered yet more blows. A lunge to the right, a slice to the left! Their skinny bodies and their cruel claws fly in, and down goes another devil.
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