Cold

"Dance, my little puppets, dance!"

Dalaray throws his arms back and forth, wiggling his fingers in an odd fashion. The smile on his face is not that of which I remember, but one far more cruel, far more insidious. But he is the master to my being, so it is ignored.

He chuckles loudly, throwing his head back in a fit of hysteria. "They dodge so well…you would assume they were all rogues at heart," He points forward, at the field. "Look, the mages jump back and forth like they have practiced this before. I wonder if they had to avoid the same massive objects I have picked for them."

His eyes peer forth, letting the monstrous creations tear the green ground to a dark pulp. The large tentacle spikes protrude upward two, three, even four at a time, and as quickly as they emerge, they strike the soil, shattering everything where they land. Then, in a flash, the nasty limbs shoot back down, disappearing only to return moments later.

The world seems to shake while we stand here, upon the hill overlooking most of the dreaded land. To our rights, the undead bastion of Tarren Mill rests with its unliving inhabitants. To our left, the abandoned human town of South Shore—where our friends departed from—is left untouched.

To our fronts, the large field leading to the town of Hillsbrad is churned as Dalaray has his way with the remaining fleers. Flying to the sky, another surge of spikes bear forth their might, sending the individuals scurrying to and fro in dire attempts at life. Most of them seem to very able, getting out of the destroyer's path with minimal ease.

To my left, Dalaray's chuckles quiet a bit, but the chuckles from our third part continue to erupt forward, burning my ears as it does. Yes, him, I do not care much of him. The man is the only survivor of the four whom summoned the power into Dalaray. They were all supposed to carry on after his rebirth, but something went wrong.

Instead of getting the power flowing from the master himself, it backfired, ravaging their bodies and possibly their souls; except this one didn't burn, die in the surge of energy that recoiled into the others. Instead, his body became twisted – or more twisted than it already was—bearing the power he was promised.

But he was not left unscarred.

The elements that he gained damaged his appearance; the fire eats part of his being, dripping bits of burnt flesh, and, other remnants as it slowly spreads from numerous locations across his body, namely his face. Blood does not seep from the open scars, no, fire spirals its way from the disgusting soars. It is almost unbearable to look at.

Another quake in the ground almost draws my attention forward, but it no longer keeps my attention. No longer entertains me the way it does them. The way it brings a bleak smile to Dalaray's face, and a horrific smirk to him…

He was there, along side us the entire time. Every fight, he stood amongst us. We even celebrated victory with this same person, but never…never did he appear to be like this. He always seemed like a kind person, just there to take part in endeavors never done before. Once, his name was Henrow, the soldier of the field. Once, his name was father, bearing many sons. Once, he was a man, honorable to his existence.

Now, he is Naros Bearer of the Elements.

Dalaray gave him his name…after Naros stepped from the ruins, puking molten death from pours on his body. Tunnels of wind shot from his hands, tearing apart anything in his path. The ground moved to his presence, shifting to feet as he walked. My friend found him found him necessary to be part of the Great Path.

So he stands beside us, only half-smiling now. Just looking at him makes my stomach churn, yet I cannot figure out why. Something about him just does not sit right with me. Something about him…

A heavy force rocks my shoulder. Dalaray's hand rests upon me, and he looks in my direction. My gaze instantly breaks from the other person here, and drifts to my old friend's.

"Voat, good sir, does this not amuse you?"

Chilling air seeps from my nostrils, drowning all emotion in its cool bath. But it is not this that destroys my excitement. No, the lack of it bears that burden. "Sorry to disappoint, Dalaray, but this does not bring spirit to this damned body. Torture was not a source of entertainment in my previous life, nor shall it be in this one."

He frowns. "Aww, my friend, your new demeanor sours even my cheer." His head turns to the field again, "But I guess you are right, this truly has lost its flavor that it once had. I grow bored."

Naros chuckles loudly. "I too must admit that this has become quite dull. The blasted spikes, no matter how hard you try, have mauled not one of them. What a shame, I was hoping one would get careless or at least unlucky."

Dalaray shakes his head. "Yes, it would have been far better if one of these nuisances would have died, so that my heart would feel a bit more revealed. One less Kirin Tor scum roaming the lands, hunting for more victims to pillage their life from."

At that, he raises his right hand into the air. Tilting his head slightly back, he chants to the figures in the distance. "Feel the ground beneath you, my enemies." All of the gray objects vanish into the ground, "Let the calm silence bask you in the comfort of victory." Nothing moves. "Relax in the strength of your fellow heroes." Nothing happens.

Suddenly, Dalaray's hand tensions, his fingers seem to lock inward. Shaking, everything shaking. Before us the field rumbles, moves to the unknown thoughts of the power behind this lone man. His other hand slowly rises, matching the other.

The roar, the roar is so great. Screams of shattering dirt fill the air, echoing in my mind, driving imbalance into my being. My feet skid down the sides of the hill, barely catching a patch of ground to stabilize myself upon.

The sight is marvelous. Ripping from their cover, one, another, a third fourth, a dozen, so many appear. It is unbelievable. Dalaray had simply been toying with them, letting them live for as long as he desired. Remarkable power is held within him, guiding his presence to the greatness he seeks.

Inching forward, his hands move parallel to one another, fingers pointing at each, palms facing each other. They shake while they hover in front of him, controlling what we see, controlling the destiny of few.

"Bask in the glory that is your end! Fall now, servants of the foolish Wizards, fall now, so that the thousands can tell of your tale. Spread the fear with your deaths!"

Slap.

Flesh slapping fills my ears. Both his hands rest together, no more space between them. Then the rumbling returns, but this time, it is just the opposite. Falling downward, the at least dozen tentacles drive themselves into the soil. The entire field bursts into a cloud of destruction, dirt blocking the view. More and more fall, more and more darkness rises.

Silence.

Only a few moments later, it is over, the cloud reaches into the sky, blocking all sight. But one does not need to see what lies ahead to know what is there. One does not need to actually take vision of the horror that was just brought. One already knows the fate and the end of few.

"Perfect…my Lord, perfect." Naros claps at the recent event.

"Thank you, my loyal soldier, thank you."

Bowing, Naros gives credit to his master. Dalaray nods, and ruffles the man's hair. "Your applause is highly noted."

Again, a heavy force rests upon my shoulder. "Voat, your expression speaks a story unsaid. It was indeed a glorious end to the few who boldly stood. But justice has been dealt, and fate choose their end to be upon the field at the hands of the powerful."

After he gives me a shake, he jumps forward, sliding down the side of the small mound. My body still feels as if it shaking, as if the field still shifts. A voice calls up to me.

"Come, my General, let us head forward! We have more work to do before we can truly call today a victory!"

I sigh, the chilling air drives its way out my mouth, tingling the few nerves that still feel. A small cloud of frozen air forms in front of me and quickly warms into nonexistence.

So cold.

Looking down, I look at my hand, grasping the sword. I do not know if it is the plate upon my flesh that is cold to touch or if it is myself that brings a layer of frost to the darkened armored.

"Voat! Get moving!"

Gazing back up, they move quickly. I too must get going now I must get on the move.

For my lich commands.