On one fateful night Mathale was hunting a great beast within a forest of which its undergrowth never saw the light of day, a constant mist clinging to the ground. Whilst trudging through, a harsh and foul breeze descended, the skeletal branches swayed back and forth, the sound like bones clattering against one another. Outstretched hands appeared within the mist, seemingly grasping for an unattainable goal. It was then an impossibly dark shadow appeared, raising an outstretched boney finger and uttering a language that made Mathale ears bleed. When his screaming ceased, Mathale’s form was hunched on his mount, his body slid from the saddle and collapsed on the marsh-like floor, his armour rattling, his vision blurring until the darkness descended. Upon awakening, he felt thin, insubstantial. Raising his hand to inspect, Mathale noticed his form was ethereal, the mist oozing and yet clinging to his being. Confusion overcame him and then he heard it. A voice so dark, powerful yet strangely comforting vibrated through his thoughts.
YOUR TIME HAS COME MATHALE, YOU WILL NOW SERVE MY EVERY WHIM.
Nagash had claimed his soul and now Mathale serves the lord of death as a dark messenger, for upon his arrival, death is sure to follow.
