The Precipice of Apocalypse

Sing with me a song of silence and blood

The rain falls but can’t wash away the mud

Again within Drakengrad, an ominous song rang out as The Cult of The Fell Dragon surged throughout the land. As instructed by their Propheter, the cultists danced and sang, conjuring forth an avatar of their god from the dormant jade magics held within the bones of dead gods strewn throughout the land.

Within Drakheim, confusion and paranoia still reigned. The mysterious performer who’d desecrated the sight of the earlier battle had been located within the city, but claimed to know nothing about what had been done beyond the walls. She seemed barely even aware of her own self, names of loved ones and paths home lost to her. As The Children of The End Times investigated further, they found the dancer they’d procured to be telling the truth—improbable as it was. Someone or something, they theorized, had somehow stolen the dancer’s identity and her crucial memories.

However, as The Cult of The Fell Dragon began their ritual, nothing could stop Lord-Aquilor Lucina Chromsdottir from riding out from the city to disrupt the doings of her sworn enemies at all cost. As she and her allies amongst The Shepherds Warrior Chamber proceeded through Drakengrad’s wilds, an unearthly darkness appeared, warping and displacing the land it covered. Even the Lord-Aquilor’s Astral Compass appeared to falter. It felt as if the Realm itself was being altered.

The Stormcast continued, marching straight into the path of King Mat’hain’s Wartide. The Lord-Aquilor was furious. She recalled expressly ordering the Idoneth to the opposite end of the region, intent on avoiding crossing paths at all costs. Mat’hain’s warriors, equally surprised by the Stormcast’s appearance, descended into paranoia, closing their ranks against any oncoming attacks. Sensing the fear in the air, the Necrosiarchs of The Silver Key descended, eager to forment the terror within the defenders of Drakheim and steal their souls for The Great Necromancer.

Outriding retinues of Liberators and Prosecutors skirmished with Namarti Reavers clustered within their Gloomtide Shipwreck, while King Mat’hain urged his Akhelians forwards to staunch the oncoming tide of ghosts and revenants hungry for their full souls. Annihilators crashed into the earth, charging forth to threaten the sheltered Namarti and drew the wrath of the Akhelian King. Vindictors surged forth to banish the gheists at their flank, before turning their spears towards Mat’hain, seeking to wash away the humiliation of their last meeting with Idoneth.

As Mat’hain busied himself with scything at the spearmen, the Lord-Aquilor saw her opportunity, rushing at the Akhelian King under the inspiring banner held by her father’s Knight-Vexillor. The two clashed fiercely, but it became readily apparent that rage ill-suited the grim Lord-Aquilor. With blades, Mat’hain clearly held the upper hand, but the Vanguard leader still had one last ploy to rely on. As the King struck what might have been a fatal blow, Lucina unleashed an overwhelming amount of Azyrite energy she’d drawn into herself. The two combatants toppled from their mounts, each near death, but the score between them settled.

The Cult of The Fell Dragon’s ritual continued largely unimpeded, their eerie song continuing to thrum throughout the land.

Within my ancient heart dwells

madness and pride

The music stirred the Lord-Aquilor from her recovery. This was familiar to her, but didn’t belong to The Cult. No, this was the song of the amnesiac dancer in Drakheim. 

While the Idoneth and Stormcast recollected themselves, the twisting shadows around them streamed past, growing together. As the song continued a hulking figure began to dominate the skies.

A dragon.

But as it seemed their ritual was completed and The Fell Dragon restored, the Propheter knew something was wrong. They had never taught their cultists this song.  The music echoing throughout Drakengrad was sung by a voice the Propheter knew all too well—their daughter’s. With a snarl, the Propheter recalled the shadowy creature they’d met within the divining pool, the one who’d stolen their daughter’s face and spoken with her voice. This was the creature’s doing. The ritual had been corrupted. The draconic form that appeared in the sky was not The Fell Dragon they’d sought, but instead a dragon of the purest shadow, drawn from the underside of The Realms.

As the shadow dragon fully formed, so too did its master. Arrayed in its same stolen blue and gray, the interloper opened their arms. The dragon’s wings stretched out in response, sending a harsh an ominous wind rushing through every inhabitant of Drakengrad and drawing their attention to the arbiter of the world’s end. Exultant, the imposter danced upon the back of their apocalyptic beast, uttering the final words of its stolen song.

Can no one hear my cry?