[WP] You are a regular soldier in a regular army fighting a very irregular enemy.
...
"CAVALRY CHARGE!"
By the Royal-Favored noble Jen'e Baptiste's orders, the horses and men of houses surged forward from the open gates beneath the chorus of horns and shouts.
Swords, lances, flags lofted to whip with startling speed through the air of the morning sky, all readied for the coming battle. Immaculate, both in strength and beauty, the white of their polish was matched only by the ferocity of their cheers, weapons raised in tribute to the act they would soon perform. As they pressed on atop the field beside the great city walls, the slope shifted and forced the movement northward, seizing the momentum of a slight downward incline beside the divots and gutted hills of the Western fields.
Kelth Greysky rode in full armor, father's sword at his side and lance lofted to the brilliant Eastern Sun. Today was a day of heroes, of faith, and of justice. For the name of the Church, the city and the crown: They were to be the first defenders of the Doterra. This charge would be the opening act upon the enemies which would soon lay siege to the frightened citizens of the lands. Here was where the men of the bard's great songs were born!
"FOR GLORY!" Another cheer raised up as the horses began to fall in rank upon the flatlands, hooves throwing sod and turf asunder. At their center, gilded and fantastic armor shining like a mirror's edge beneath the morning light, Noble Jen'e's longsword lifted towards the sky and downward the point of the arrow as their shouts gathered for a mighty crescendo.
"HUAAAAAAAAAAARRRR!"
From atop his own steed, Kelth had just enough time to look back ahead before they crashed upon the enemy with a thunderous violence.
Blood flew, bones cut, bodies were trampled and smashed by the bulk of war-horses. Screams lifted up as his father's lance cut through torso and neck, wavering and re-adjusting. Soon they would break through, soon they would emerge and rally once more, to cleave the enemy- again and again. Run them to dust!
Before a great and armored charge as this, such weak foes could stand no chance at all. They would fall in droves, useless and broken beneath the fury of man.
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Suddenly his lance snagged, caught and thrown free of his grip among the corpse of a shrieking beast, white hands grasping and clutching all the while for his armor and legs. Though it pained him to lose such a piece, with a heavy hatred Kelth's grip released the weapon, crossing hip to draw free his sword in place. It replaced the lance, cutting low just as the cavalry formation crashed into another dense group of enemies.
Kelth did his duty, swinging wide with care to avoid his companions running beside him.
Or, his companions that had been beside him.
Among the glorious formation, gaps in the line had appeared. Beside Kelth, where there had once been over a hundred warhorses and knights atop them, there were fifty, less- even as his own eyes caught sight- breaking free of the next thick resistance their numbers seemed almost halved.
The terrain! He realized all too late- they had passed across the field! The ground- the horses!
Then, his steed shrieked. Rearing back in a twisted tumble as it threw Keith heavy to the ground. Forward and alone, it crying out and smashed into the next dense crowd of groaning bodies. Soon it was a distant memory, gone or lost into the waiting enemies of the next wave.
Dismounted. Alone. Stranded in armor far too heavy to travel serious distance.
Cold panic seized him as Kelth took his sword with both hands, swinging at the first opponent to approach- cutting them down with ease. Their neck and head were pulled apart by gravity and angle- a perfect slice.
"HA!" He grunted, as he swung again. Another head rolled, and another. "HA-" His blade hit bone, and his foot kicked to pry it free, gauntlet smashing against bone and flesh to take down yet another foe.
Still, more came. Those many survivors of the charge.
"DEMONS!" Kelth shouted with zealous rage, blade cleaving all who approached. "I SHALL BANISH YOU!" His chest felt hot, his body heavy, his lungs tightening beneath the heavy armor and chain-mail atop him. Swing after swing after swing.
Grasping hands pulled at his back, and he threw them to the dirt, boot crushing skull and neck as he turned to cut down another. There were so many, so many-
"HAAAA!" His blade whirled with the light of a seasoned fighter, trained to perfect beneaht the church, beneath the light and the scriptures. To defeat any enemy, to never give up on the salvation of those holy teachings, to banish the evil from the Western lands.
But another set of grasping hands fell upon his armor. Then another still, and another. For every foe he struck down, another stumbled its way towards him, eyes burning like the coals of an ashen fire. A deep and smoldering hatred that could never be quenched.
"Graaaaa..." Their seething moans bellowed from punctured lungs and empty throats. "Graaaaaaaooooooo..."
First to his knees, then his hands, then the weight began to build until his face pressed deep into the mud, smothered under the pressure of bodies and bone. Struggle as he might, soon even his chest could not rise beneath the force that weight down, pulls and tears ripping ad the gaps in his plate as those horrible calls heaved out from crusted lips, and bleached bone.
The ghouls cared little for the method, so long as it brought him death.