Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-28358106-20160714040922/@comment-28358106-20160720151204

Ibrahim says nothing as Hound continues to the front. He watches him turn the corner, Simrit in tow.

Praetor watches the Dracolich approach. Even from this distance, it appears gargantuan. He sees the people still coming down the main pass begin to hurry, scattering every direction. He knows that they can't make it in time, but even still, the soldiers urge them on frantically. The Dwarves, fearless fighters all, are staying in their ranks, but they are clearly terrified. Shouted orders to hold steady resound around the front.

The Herald comes closer, black miasma in its wake. Arcs of darkness from its body rake the sky, tinting the clouds like ink dropped in water. It's too large. Not even a Dragon in its primal form is this large. That's when Praetor realizes something. This Herald is old, far older than the Dragon used as a sacrifice to call it...

It suddenly wheels upward, disappearing into the low, frozen clouds. The soldiers hold their breath, as minutes pass...

Then Praetor's world explodes. Dirt and earth and shattered wood and troops fly everywhere, a maelstrom of disaster as the Herald lands directly on top of them, diving from the clouds. As he comes to, he looks up. Through blurred vision, he sees the rotten jaws. He is jerked to consciousness. Rotten flesh and bile saliva and black blood drip on his armor from teeth that have swallowed the souls of thousands...

And then it looks up and bellows. Black flame, pure wrath, engulfs an entire platoon, turning the earth to unspeakable rot. The troops barely have time to react...

(edited for continuity)