Wraithlord

Light poured into the General's frame and didn't let go.

Bone cracked and reformed beneath the glow, the General's already imposing height stretching taller still, shoulders squaring into something built for war rather than mere duty.

The tattered, rust-eaten armor plating twisted and reshaped itself piece by piece, shedding centuries of decay in seconds, until what remained was a set of black, jagged plate that looked forged rather than found the kind of armor that belonged in an old story, on a figure nobody wanted to meet on a battlefield.

A rift tore open in the air beside him, and something stepped through it a horse of bleached white bone, hooves wreathed in dancing, undead flame, each step leaving scorch marks that flickered and died against the snow.

Its eye sockets burned the same pale fire, and when it exhaled, the breath came out as smoke rather than mist.