The Scourge Feeds On Your Fallen.

[Goldrim 1422]

 

Vak’thuul and the apostles stand perched upon a desert hill, their looming figures shrouded in Setherien’s deception in order to avoid any suspicion, their appearance an exotic mixture of races observing the massive slaughter between the inhabitants of the Fringe, with every fallen soldier their ranks will grow in strength and numbers.

 

“It’s like we’ve been forgotten, they must think their victory is assured with the Golden Lance casting blessings upon them, brethren, take a good look at their officials, soak it in if you will.. that is an order.”

 

After the battle has died down and the dead are left to rot, Vak’thuul and the other dismiss their illusions and get to work, the bunch grip their staves as they mutter dark prayers in Setherien’s name, a large oval shaped rift appears in the middle of the crimson stained battle field as the scorched soldiers of old emerge, hinging their claws beneath the creaks and crooks of their armor, dragging them into the abyss black rifts.

 

 

A small light shimmers in the midst of the rift before it quickly closes, perhaps it was a quick glimpse of the dreaded plane Burzûmkutôtaz, Vak’thuul and his fellow brethren quickly envelop themselves in a dark mist as they return back to their base of operations, as soon as the mist dissipates their figures appear to have vanished.