Greyhollow Island appeared to be aptly named. It was cold and dreary, with a seemingly constant drizzle, and the crashing of waves against the jagged rocks that made up its shores. Wreckages made the foreboding coastline that much more menacing.
"No wonder so many boats go missing!" Tyrael shouting over the howling wind. "They're here, smashed across the rocks!" The remnants of them could easily be picked out among the rock, for they were the only things that did not appear to have been sapped of all color.
Rathma's tail snapped once, a clear sign that he had heard. The nephalem was preoccupied searching for a spot to land. Murmuring to Syr'Val, he took them into a low circle about the island. It was not encouraging; jagged trees, sharp rock, and...he thought he could see movement down below, although the rain made it difficult to really tell. Reaching out with his senses, he could feel the warmth of life, though it was a strange, unearthly life.
They flew on, and suddenly the remnants of civilization began to come into view. Old, dilapidated bridges connected parts of the island. While they were seemingly clear of too much debris, he doubted they could hold the dragon's weight. As he scanned, something else stood out, jutting above the rest of the island; a massive monolith, reaching into the sky as though trying to escape its wretched home.
"There were people here…" Rathma mumbled to himself. But who? And when? Something about the tower put him on edge, and made his skin crawl. The architecture was familiar. Too familiar for comfort.
Whatever was here may have been much older, and much more powerful than he'd anticipated.
"Look there! What's that glow?" Tyrael was hollering, and Rathma turned to look where he pointed. Something gleamed an arcane blue through the trees.
"Va cirlé." He murmured, and Syr'Val let out a growl as it turned to glide towards the glow.
"Is that...a waypoint?" Tyrael asked, incredulous. It was a pleasant surprise, but a surprise nonetheless. Rathma was much distracted by something else down beside the waypoint.
"Syr'Val, dać!" The beast obeyed it's master's command, and down down to land in the slight clearing. His claws crushed branches and dug gouges into the mud when he landed. The trees almost seemed to hiss, and the winds grew harsher, at the sudden uninvited presence upon the island.
Rathma wasted no time hauling himself down, leaving Tyrael to sputter and scramble after him. He paid his uncle no mind, far more concerned with the dying man who lay before them.
Kneeling before the man, the nephalem placed a gentle hand on one frigid shoulder. Looking him over, Rathma's mouth pressed into a grim line; there was too much blood. He could not save this man. At the least, he would be able to send his soul on it's way.
The man stirred, awoken by the touch. Glazed eyes stared up at the King of Necromancy, and they turned pleading. Rathma gently cupped his cheek, and held his gaze.
"I did not believe the legends—all true!" He suddenly gasped, blood on his lips. "This island, it rots you from within. We never should have come here..." A cough wracked his frame, and one hand feebly grasped for the nephalem before him. Rathma caught the hand, held it as he died.
"My crew- we thought! We thought…" There were tears in his eyes, and despite his growing weakness he pressed on. "We thought, and we came, and we died...all dead… all gone."
Suddenly, he looked up at Rathma, alarmed clarity on his face. "You're not- you're no human… you've- I can feel my death coming!" His voiced cracked, and tears flowed freely now. "I I can see what you are...maybe you can kill him. Maybe you can do it. Please." His hand convulsed around Rathma's. "I couldn't end him, much as I- ...much as I tried. Maybe you can."
Rathma held him as he died, and felt his soul beginning to depart. He mumbled a few words of comfort, to encourage the soul on it's way. The relief of death was palpable, and he let it fill him with resolve.
Tyrael stood behind him, watching, silent and concerned. Watched as Rathma stood, and instructed Syr'Val to take the body, keep it safe for return to Westmarch. His face was devoid of any emotion, save a bit of grim determination.
"Something killed this man." He spoke evenly to his uncle. "Now we must kill it."