He, his name be damned, returneth yet again.
With army of not men, but monstrosities,
Each bearing its own dread, its own curse.
In the ruins of his wake, some find meaning.
So they speak of him:
HE WHO MAKES ALIVE
He calleth the fallen to stand once more. By some foul ordinance, he joins soul unto soul, birthing monsters.
By chance, or by the very nature of souls, he crafts half-living.
With each return, his creations grow stranger, wilder — and unholy beyond judgment.
HE WHO RISES
The ancient writings tell — he cannot be slain in full. They say he bears the memory of ancient souls — wretched, forsaken souls who once fought on his side.
HE WHO KILLS
Men who faced him whisper of his might. Some claim he commandeth a force unknown to man — by which he shifteth the tide of war.
They speak of curses most vile, of bursts of arcane flame — and how he mendeth and shifteth his abominations at will.
Or perhaps it is but a tale,
Whispered by old wives.
Maybe he doth not exist,
And reports are but lies,
Maybe our lords are fools,
Banners Сalled for naught.
Soon, we shall see.
