A patrol of deadly marksmen arrive at the battlefield on a cold, icy wind

Undaunted by the shrill blizzard, they attack with precision

They will rain death down upon any target they oppose

Clouds of flying shards will tear their enemies to pieces

Closely followed by hungry scavengers who faithfully feast upon the spoils

These stone-cold killers feel no remorse for their deeds

No incentives compel them expect for the glory of spilling blood

Rejuvenated by the fear on their foes faces

They will march again to the next killing field