The air grew heavy and there was a foulness in the wind. As forces gathered in the darkness and light, there was a crack of thunder and lightning in the sky. The blood of all those slain, from folk both foul and noble, drained upward into the night sky in a quintet of ichorous streams. As the lighting flashes faded, the Daring Friends gazed up to see that the blood had gathered above the horde and morphed into a massive, shifting image that morphed from a five-headed terror, into a single head with hellish eyes, and finally settled into a mortal portrait of a scaled hobgoblin, crowned with horns. The massive figure in the sky looked down, a sneer of triumph on its face. It was the face of Azarr Kul, warlord and high Wyrmlord of the Red Hand. It’s voice echoed through the night.
