Chaoseater

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  1. As quickly as they had vanished, the ragged party tumbled from the portal and the massive form of the Chaoseater blinked. Beneath his gaze the tiny bone slave dashed for the ritual dagger and shattered the integrity of the spell that had opened the gate. Around the circle pylons exploded in showers of sparks, and the portal flickered but resolved once more, now held only by the Gatekeeper. From within an orange glow flared, reflecting dimly from the Death Knight's dark plate. As simply as lowering his outstretched hand, he severed the power keeping the rapidly degenerating portal open and turned, filling the space with his own form. The flames broke in midair, illuminating a translucent green sphere as the abomination that had once been Tauren shielded the party from the Fireweavers final conflagration. Ice turned to steam in a flash, and then it was over. Silence fell over the circle and the fine edge that the magic of the working had laid on their perceptions was broken. The cold blue eyes gazed down at the party. They passed over the one-eyed orc, their prize, though the Monster above knew him but little, the elf, the trolls, and finally lingered on the bloodied corpse of the Rutilan’s Matron. They looked on, impassive, as the flower bloomed from the body’s bosom. They waited and watched, and only after a long moment turned away. A matching set of eyes shimmered in the underbrush as a massive black war wolf loped out of the forest and the Warchief of the Blacktooth Grin swung up into his saddle. As he reined around he spared a final glance to the party and his deep voice rumbled forth “My commitment is fulfilled.” And without another word the Chaoseater vanished into the gloom. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ It was some time and long miles from the clearing when Bager brought his own mount into line alongside the giant Steelborn. The smaller worg layed back it’s ears and lowered it’s tail, able to sense the undead power that gripped the alpha beast that bore his master. The Laughing Skull priest turned his bone face up to regard the ominous rider. “Bager, he so enjoys the moonlight rides. Though it would seem the moonlight does not agree” he cackled up at the dense clouds above”. “Your enjoyment is the least of my concerns Grot” Came the rumbling response, sullen despite its overtones of threat. “What did you see?” “Working orcs go through the portal, only broken orcs come out” Bager shrugged, the bones and beads of his garb clattering slightly “Your servant Bager thinks maybe portals are not so good for the orcs of this place, yes?” A rumbling growl emanated from the massive metal form and he had to fight to keep his wolf from bolting. “Much and more took place in that clearing Grot. The Matron lies dead, her spirit flown. I had thought to have long years before that one passed, but I have yet another promise to fulfill.” The Chaoseater’s cold eyes turned to regard the priest at last “You will wait a day, perhaps two, then seek out these Rutilans. Offer what condolences you may, and take a measure of their power structure. I…..” a sharp popping sound split the night air and Bager realized it was gears catching as the Steelborn clenched a massive fist “I will see to their Matron” An unspoken command sprang between rider and mount, and powerful limbs flexed as they tore away into the forest towards the Sea. Bager reined up, watching them go. He glanced back the direction from which they come and the Laughing skull choked out a giggle. He immediately thought of Feathered -orc-who-walks-like-cat. After a moment, Bager fished out his hearthstone and whispered the incantation to whisk him back to Dalaran.
  2. His bone face twitched and spasmed as Bager held back a fit of laughter and excitement. Within the mushroom circle the air had grown thick with the potential of what would be wrought here. The Steelborn had taken a dagger from the skeletal orc slave and knelt. He had been there, kneeling completely still for long minutes now, even the blue skulls of his armor had lost their glow, and the massive Warchief seemed like nothing so much as a statue. It was all the Laughing Skull could do to keep from cackling. Even now he knew the Steelborn was drawing his power, the might that Bager had first seen on his homeworld of Draenor. A power more fundamental than any of strength at arms or skill in combat. It was an idea, an underpinning. He had heard this one called many things. A Death Knight, Steelborn, Lord of War. But now he would truly be himself…. The Gatekeeper. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The rain sputtered to an uneasy end, silence fell over the circle and it’s inhabitants, and still the massive steel form knelt unmoving and unmoved. After what seemed like an eternity there was a loud crack, like the shot of a dwarven rifle, and a lance of glowing purple energy shone from a point on the edge of the circle. A glowing rune of some unknown script, seemingly punched through the very earth as cleanly as a scribe draws on parchment. Another crack resounded from the opposite side of the circle, and another, all in a rattling rush until at last thirteen glowing sigils defined the circle around the gathering. The sky above grew black consumed by an unseen void stretching into the unknown. There was a rustle of movement from in front of the trolls. The Blood crystal rose into the air, spinning slightly. Light from the runic circle played and danced within its many facets as the gen lifted over the heads of the onlookers. It spun faster, its lines blurring, the light somehow becoming more intense, casting blood hued beams across the circle until finally it shattered a sound like the deathrattle of some massive beast. Fine crystalline shards spun and ground themselves into a fine mist which when swirling as though with a mind of its own around the clearing twisting and curling around each of the participants. Serpents made of wind and mist coiled and sprang to the center of the circle where they crashed into the kneeling form of the Chaoseater where they exploded in puffs of red dust which drifted towards the ground, briefly defining ghostly unseen chains in the air. Chains that seemed to link each of the inhabitants of the circle with the inert Death Knight before fading away with the remnants of the mist. Still, all would feel the sharpening of senses, the connection between them all at the very edge of perception. After another moment of silence the wind outside the circle whipped up, and the sky above flashed with a lance of lightning. As if on queue, the stone of elemental Ice lifted from the ground, tumbling and spinning slowly in the air. Rain began pelting down in a torrent, and where it struck the stone icy stalagmites formed, expanding outward. Like it’s red brother, the ice stone spun and whirled, it drifted to the center of the clearing above the large black figure and after a moment that stretched into infinity it exploded. Icy needles shot out in every direction but the missiles were not as deadly as they seemed. They caused no pain where they struck, did not sink past the surface, but spread covering any and all in a rime of thick frost. Armor was reinforced, claws and weapons because razors sharpened by crystalline edges, and a subtle cold power permeated the party. Not the debilitating cold of most magic, but the bracing cold felt by a powerful predator in the depths of winter, one lunge away from the sustaining blood of a kill. Though the rain outside the circle continued, within it sputtered to a slow halt, becoming instead a lazy snow flurry, and finally channles in his armor flooded with blue light and the Chaoseater rose. He took one long stride forward, and plunged the black dagger into the ground. With one long glance around he regained the center and with the rasp of steel on steel he drew the massive cleaver-like sword at his back. Runes along it’s length flared to life at their master’s touch and a swirling vortex of unholy light flickered at the tip between shattered shards of steel. He faced the dagger where it stood in the ground and raised a hand to his left all three fingers outstretched. All but forgotten, the bone cube shot through the air to the massive Tauren’s hand. He turned his frozen gaze to it, turning the bauble this way and that before whipping it into the air. The bone surface was lost in the gloom until it came falling back, tumbling end over end. Black cloak whipping in the wind, the Death Knight spun, faster than should be possible for a being of his size and brought the sword around in a flat arc, catching the cube as it fell and slicing clean through. A wail of pain and fear broke free from the empty halves of the box, accompanied by sickly green and purple mist that writhed and tangled, offering glimpses of a tortured human face, before it shot towards the sword encapsulating it in a shrieking tornado of magic, until it was consumed by the nexus at the end of the blade. Purple energy crackled over the Chaoseater’s armor as he re-sheathed his dark blade and grunted. Compressed air shot from vents in his helmet with sharp bursts of satisfaction. Finally he raised a hand as bolts of barely contained energy lept out, tearing up the ground and tracing a large rune beneath him. He reached out in the direction of the blade delicately, softly, and with a gentleness unbecoming of the dreaded Warchief of the Blacktooth Grin he took reality between his fingertips and drew it aside. The deep rumble of his voice swept out in a whisper that nonetheless shook the circle and the forest around “Aparturum” Before the group a shimmering purple door stood tall, the darkness and gloom beyond impermeable past the first several feet. The Death Knight kept his arm raised and glanced to the others. “Your way is prepared. I shall hold the gate, but know this. None shall pass back into this world tainted, and the door will not remain open for the laggard. Be about your business, for the way will not survive the hour….” He turned his visor back to the portal and he seemed to dismiss them all. Again he drew his sword and stood. Ready.
  3. The Chaoseater’s massive form loomed behind the undead mage eyeing his assortment of tools and contraptions. The black plate that shrouded him whirred and clicked with internal mechanisms as he shook his head and turned towards the mushrooms. He began striding deliberately around the circle, widdershins in the parlance of druids who sometimes kept brighter groves than this sacred. Coldly glowing eyes watched the Matron from behind their clear crystal visor. When three circuits had been complete the Death Knight stepped into the circle, his voice rumbled like stone on steel and shook droplets from the undersides of the mushroom ring. “The Shadowlands will not be like any land you have known. This is the place between worlds, the darkness that devours. You who would pass, who would pierce the veil, step forth into the circle.” He paused rain streaking down across black metal dotted with the glowing blue of stylized skulls. “If any doubt your strength or ability, be gone now. Doubt, fear, these are a sweetness to the beings that torment he whom you would save. And in carrying them beyond thou would doom all.” After a moment he turned to the tall elf, Baalthemar his name was “You have the items?”
  4. The sky blood fell running in rivulets down Bager's bone face. It collected in droplets on the bones and beads of his harness and dripped down to mingle with all the rest from his perch, unseen in a tree near the clearing. He remained motionless, empty eyesockets turned towards the party as they gathered. The massive black form of the Chaoseater was easy to spot, head and shoulders taller than the others, dotted here and there with the glowing eyes of skulls. Bager watched as he swung down from the saddle of an equally massive worg to survey the site of the coming ritual. There was a glint of light off crystal as the Death Knight turned partially toward his mount, something seemed to pass unsaid between them, then the great beast leapt into the foliage and was gone. Finally he strode forward, eyeing something the biggest pink orc Bager had ever seen was pulling from a pack. He choked back a laugh as he waited, watching.
  5. Bager choked and quivered, body tensing with barely restrained laughter. He hung like a spider from the rafters of the Knight Commander’s chambers, as he had for a day a night and a day. The beads and bones of his ceremonial garb shifted lazily in any stir of breeze through the arched windows of the tower room but made no more sound than the well oiled chain that secured him to the musty ceiling. The carved bone of his face did not turn away from his prize as the fit passed. The Knight below sat at his desk putting quill to parchment, and both attendants and soldiers came and went with never a passing glance at the shadows above where the Laughing Skull priest hung suspended and motionless. The pink Orcs of this land were an endless source of amusement for Bager. He fought back another spasm of laughter as he considered how much the gods must hate them. They had not even been blessed with thicker hides or tusks, their claws were dull short things, even their eyes were all but blind as his very presence showed. Finally, the Knight below drained his cup, and shortly thereafter his bladder, before sweeping on his blue cloak with its golden cat embroidery and striding purposefully from the chamber. The Laughing Skull released the grip he’d held for days and chain slithered through his palm as he plummeted towards the stone floor, with a fluid motion he grabbed the pink orc chief’s chamber pot and flexed with arm and leg drawing himself smoothly back into the rafters. From there, he swung from post to post, out one of the arched windows, and across the slate rooftops of the pink orc castle. Bager had just delivered his prize to the kitchens, an ingredient to the Knight’s dinner even now bubbling in a cauldron, when a lance of frozen pain shot through him. Thoughts filled his mind, words from tongues the he did not know, ideas and terrors that were not his own, but below them all was a single thread of understanding “COME TO ME.” He shook himself, bone charms and beads clattering as he slipped out a doorway into the evening’s gathering shadows. Mere moments had him over the pink orc’s stone walls and out into the forest where he began running, bare feet leaving no mark of his passing as he made for the Swamp of Sorrows and the only one to whom the Laughing Skull could be so summoned. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The Steelborn was leaning over his maps when Bager found him in the war room of Stonard. He took a moment to admire the massive form that had become his anchor to this world. The blackened plates, glowing blue lines of energy pulsing through the eye sockets of rough skulls carved into their surface. A long black cloak hung obscuring him from this angle, pooling at the giant Death Knight’s hooves, but he knew there was no part of the Steelborn’s form that was not shrouded in metal and machinery. Though he moved as quietly as ever, he had progressed no more than a few steps into the warroom when the deep rumble of stone on metal of the Chaoseater’s voice rolled out “Report.” Bager grinned, though the bone of his face always bore a sharp fanged smile “Bager has been quite busy Warchief. He spreads the word of the gods to the pink orcs far and wide, yet they do not see. He servers them orc water soup…” His words caught in his throat as a cold knife twisted in his chest, pain wracking his body. The sensations passed after a moment and the Warchief of the Blacktooth Grin turned to face him. “I care not for what dishes you serve to whom, Grot. The Rutilans, were your objective….” glowing blue eyes narrowed behind the clear crystal of the Steelborn’s visor. “Ah…. *heh* yes Well. I have befriended Feathered orc who walks like cat, she is quite the…” an arm of purple lightning crackled from a massive steel fist and Bager felt himself jerked bodily across the room. Metal fingers wrapped around his throat and pulled him close to the Warchief’s visor. Chaoseater grunted, compressed mist blowing from vents in his helmet. “I did not send you to make friends Grot. You were sent to watch, to report on their movements. You have failed me… but will not do so again” Every inch of Bager’s body exploded in wracking pain. Ravagers tore out his entrails, spreading them steaming to the ground. Ants tore through the eye sockets of his face and ate away the flesh beneath. Fire engulfed him to quickly be subsumed by a cold so intense he thought to shatter as he fell to the ground. The pain seemed to go on and on, but after a timeless expanse that from the burning of the candles could not have been more than a few minutes, the pain ebbed. Bager pulled himself to a kneeling position before the Steelborn and he noticed it had begun snowing. Inside. He cackled, and turned the carved bone of his face to the imposing form “Thank you for your gift most terrible of gods. Bager shall do your will, speak it and it will be so.” Those cold burning eyes watched him for another moment, only the slow ripple of the greatcloak where the Warchief’s tail swished betrayed any trace of animation. At last he turned gesturing to a blank space on the floor. The snow intensified, swirling into a tiny blizzard which settled in places, grew in others, until the flakes resolved themselves into several forms. There, in miniature were the Warchief himself and several of the members of Rutilus Luna, though all was in shades of white, the detail was exquisite and it was no trouble to read the emotions in their faces or the setting of their tiny frozen diorama, The Filthy Animal tavern. The figures began moving, he heard a click and a whirr, and as if from far away Bager heard the words of the figures emanating from the Warchief’s chest. They bickered and spat words at each other, circling with talk of honor and orphans, he stifled a laugh. But then there was talk of shadowlands and allies lost or found and he leaned forward interest piqued. There was to be a ritual, a journey to a place of darkness and ghosts. As the tiny white vision of the Warchief turned and left, his massive black form dropped his hand and the snow lost it’s form, collapsing into a quickly melting mound on the floor of the warroom. “I shall lead the ritual to open a portal to these Shadowlands into which this Grim has been drawn. But I trust not these Rutilans….” the Death Knight growled deep in his chest and Bager’s beads clacked together with the subtle rumbling in the air. “The Ritual will leave me weakened and with the depleted numbers of Blackteeth in the field…..” The Steelborn turned back to his maps grunting “You will follow…. At a distance and unseen. Should any of these Rutilans draw blade or spell against me when the Ritual is concluded, you will disrupt them, then join me as we slaughter the traitors and any they hold dear.” He drew a sheaf of paper sealed with his glowing sigil and cast it at the floor between Bager’s knees “Your orders” The Laughing Skull priest cackled and scooped up the paper, a single snakelike ripple through his body brought him into a backward spring and to his feet. Bager bowed low “Bager listens, and Bager obeys Steelborn.” He bowed deeply, bones and beads scraping the floor as he backed away, not turning until he was already back in the muddy expanse of the yard in Stonard. Bager chuckled to himself as he turned and broke the seal on the paper, reading the details of the ritual assembled by someone called Skychaser. He had seen the Steelborn take the field in countless contests, his very presence in battle could shatter pink orc lines that seemed insurmountable. But the metal and contraptions of his shell were only physical barriers. Bager had not seen the Warchief’s true power stir since that day in the Black Iron gorge when he was reunited with his face. A tremor of laughter shuddered through him as he thought of the upcoming ritual. Bager was certain he would find it hilarious.
  6. <This is an older post from a site that I don't believe is hosted anymore. The posting rules link is broken, so if this should go somewhere else please let me know> Aloric gripped his sword tightly and willed his hammering heart to slow as he moved deeper into the crypt. He moved as quietly as he could manage in his shining plate armor but he still made quite a bit of noise, and three of the party members behind him fared no better. The fourth however glided up beside him, fading out of the shadows and turning her glowing yellow eyes to him, a single white eyebrow raised questioningly. He nodded to Allustriael, the group’s scout and lifted his chin towards the darkened hallway before him. The nimble nightelf disappeared quickly and silently into the gloom. The paladin held up a hand to halt their progress as he awaited the rogue’s return, steadying his breath as he turned back to check his party. LaRouche, a mage in brilliant blue robes muttered quietly as he leaned against a wall, evidently trying to remove a pebble from one slipper. Bromgar glared ahead into the darkness, his left hand resting on the head of his giant hunting dog, while Tilling, the tiny gnome in heavy plate lay across the beast’s back trying his best to feign being asleep. Margaret the priestess smiled as Aloric looked towards her and mouthed a silent prayer. He nodded in thanks, passing a hand over the sigil of the light she had given him before this expedition, he was happy to have another of the faithful with him, especially considering their quarry. His group had initially come to the lost continent of Pandaria with his cohorts at Lion’s landing, helping to fight through the Horde armies that attempted to thwart them at every turn. They had pushed forward as the war went on, into the jungle. Last night they had been attacked, their entire division rose to the cry of alarm and he, being awake and deep in prayer, had been one of the first to respond. A massive form, it’s head almost brushing the lower branches of the canopy darted through the rows of tents. Blue highlights glowed in the form of skulls and where it passed, ice and snow covered the surrounding ground. A Death Knight then. He had muttered a quick prayer and the ground around him crackled with glowing radiance, blessing the area. A growl, so low and deep that it caused droplets of dew to cascade down from the nearby trees echoed from the giant, and Aloric remembered the cold feeling as blue burning eyes turned to him. But almost as quickly as the attack had begun, it ended. The dark armored form turned and disappeared into the brush at the edge of the camp, but not before the paladin had seen a shape on it’s chest. It was stark white against the black of the creature’s armor. White teeth, with a noticable gap. Aloric shook his head from the memory as Allustriael padded out of the darkness. They had tracked the creature all night, the rest of the division waited above, but he knew they would not be needed. The Blacktooth Grin may have been harrying the alliance around the continent, but a single death knight would prove no match for he and his cohorts. He almost felt foolish for the racing heart of a few moments before, these were his chosen fighters, heroes of the alliance one and all, and the abomination was hiding in a hole in the jungle. This was extermination, not a hunt. He turned to the night elf, not taking any precautions to keep his voice down. “Report” Allustriael blinked at him, but spoke in only slightly hushed tones, which for her was akin to yelling “A left and a right, chamber at the end of the hall, he is alone, possibly wounded. The ruins though...” She paused, “there’s something going on, I’m not sure.” The Paladin nodded, “Thank you.” he spoke to the rest of the group “Let’s be done with this business.” He moved further into the crypt, following the rogue’s directions and the rest of his group fell in behind him, readying their weapons. As they rounded the last corner, a soft green glow reached them from the chamber at the end of the hall. Aloric narrowed his eyes, and continued forward, sword and shield raised. As they entered the chamber, he saw that the light emitted from runes carved into the ground walls and ceiling. The massive death knight stood in the center of the room, looking up at the markings, seemingly in some sort of a trance. He saw the creature’s horns and the swish of a tail under the long black cape it wore and realized it was a massive tauren, gigantic even for that race. Beside him on the floor lay a massive cleaver-like sword. The still form made no move to attack, though it must have heard them enter. His group fanned out around him as he looked from the statuesque death knight to the glowing runes on the walls. He immediately got a sick feeling in his stomach, his vision swam, causing the runes to writhe and twist like serpents, drawing him in. The paladin pressed his eyes closed, forcing his mind away from the magic of the runes, he checked the rest of his group and saw them shaking off the dazzling effects in a similar fashion before he turned back to the tauren. He almost felt sympathy for the beast, he had not been so lucky, this would not be a fight but a slaughter. He raised his sword and called out “Surrender yourself, barbarian, and we will send you to your pagan Earthmother quickly!” The tauren jerked as if struck, the call obviously being the first time he noticed them. The giant form turned slowly, it seemed confused. The Tauren looked down at his hands. “What a fool I have been..” the death knights voice sounded like boulders grinding together and the deep rumble vibrated through the air around them. Aloric shook his head and started forward, sword raised. Suddenly, the tauren raised his hand and took one long step towards them. The paladin raised his shield to block any incoming magic. He waited a few heartbeats, but there was only silence. He looked over his shield, a faint shimmer of green passed over the death knight’s form but other than that he was completely still, behind him LaRoche coughed. Aloric lifted a brow but shrugged off the confusion and again raised his sword, ready to charge. A hand fell on his shoulder, and he turned to see the mage. LaRoche’s eyes were wide, pure terror on his face, he clutched at his throat, his hands shook and even as the paladin watched he saw blisters and boils rise on his flesh. LaRoche tried to speak, but black fluid seeped from his mouth and he collapsed, the plague consuming him from the inside. “KILL HIM!” Aloric screamed, spinning towards the death knight, ready to suit action to words as a harsh scraping echoed through the chamber, the sound of the tauren retrieving his massive sword. Bromgar and his hound roared in equal measure as the latter darted forward leaping for the death knight’s throat. The tauren caught the beast in midair with a vicious backhand, breaking the hound’s neck with a pop that seemed to bounce around the chamber, even as the dwarf let loose a volley of rounds from his rifle, sending out bursts of choking smoke in the confined area. Several of the rounds plinked off the heavy armor of the abomination, but a few found holes in the plates, staggering the giant. A black armored hand raised again, and a bolt of dark energy shot forward, blasting into the dwarf’s chest, throwing him back. Tilling charged forward, his tiny voice roaring in challenge, he lept heroically towards the death knight, dual maces flailing even as a blur of motion showed Allustriael darting towards the massive form’s back. Aloric nodded and made his own dash forward. The Tauren spun, far too quickly for a creature that large, his hand shot out and closed around tilling’s head, the massive fist engulfing it and squeezed with an audible crack as gore seeped from between his fingers and the gnome’s body went limp. The death knight continued his spin, glowing runes flaring to life along the length of his blade as he swept it in a long arc, catching the night elf rogue in mid leap. Allustrieals long toned legs hit the ground several seconds before her upper body, and Aloric watched in horror as her glowing eyes focused on his before he saw the brightness drain from them. The paladin’s mind screamed as he looked back to the death knight in time to see him hurl the dead form of Tilling at him like a stone. He raised his shield to block, but even so the weight of the diminutive form stopped him cold in his tracks as the heavy armor struck his shield. He barely had any time to process what was happening before his shield was ripped wide of his body and he felt intense cold in his shield arm. He looked down and recoiled as he saw that his limb simply ended at mid bicep, blood sprayed from the wound. Aloric tried to scream as a giant hoof planted in his chest and he was slammed backward with such force that he lifted from his feet. He landed hard, his sword clattering from his grip and he crashed to the ground and slid several feet before coming to a stop. Coldness seeped into his body as he felt the blood pour out of him. The paladin looked up, seeing Margaret’s face. Her beautiful features were pale, but set in a mask of grim determination. All was quiet except the slowing pound of his heart in his ears, but he could tell she was yelling out a prayer, motes of golden light gathering around her. Like a flash of purple lightning a chain of dark energy shot into his field of view and coiled around her throat, lifting her off the ground and strangling whatever healing magic she may have been trying to call. Margaret’s staff fell to the ground as her hands went to her throat, then they shot out wide in surprise as the massive blade came forward, driving straight through her torso. After an eternal moment, the blade ripped back, and the dark energy flickered and withdrew, allowing her body to fall to the floor beside him. Aloric’s eyes went red, blood marring his vision. he tried to cry for what might have been, if it weren’t for this war, for his vows. Margaret’s head fell near his and their eyes locked. In the green light of the chamber he could almost imagine her face in the dappled light of late afternoon in Elwyn Forest, that day years ago when they had been little more than children. The cold in his limbs began to feel warm as his heart slowed further, and he reached for her hand, forgetting that his own was missing. At least they could now be together, this life was over for them, but Aloric knew that in the grace of the light, they would be together in the next. His view of her shook, and she fell away. Aloric tried to scream but he had no breath in him. Vision darkening, he realized he was being lifted, his whole body brought up from the ground. His face writhed in terror as a dark shape filled his vision, glowing blue eyes seeming to pierce his very soul. Though his ears could hear no sound, a voice, deep and grating roared within his mind, and he felt his essence vibrate with the power of those words, as his heart beat it’s last and the darkness closed around him. “Not this day human, your new king calls you. YOU ARE MINE”

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