The Rookery: Sacred Woe of Absconding Rot

Dusk Caste Deathknight in employee of Salvation


You spy a ruined corspe standing upon a rugged bluff, embers of a raid whipping by as stilted wind exits the chattering skull, words shrouded amid the rasps and wheezing, “A man never stops fighting.”

Gazing on the rotted form with it’s heaving, weeping lungs you see hints of it’s lineage. The elaborate sash recounting a hundred generations, nearly as many feet long, winding around waist and disappearing beneath armor. The armor itself is bedecked in polished ivory and blood red rubies, worth of any king you have known. The speech too carries a regal air, even if all accent is lost to the ruination of the beings lips. It straightens, a mammoth even burned as it is, “She bleeds and the people are her blood, but she has not lost me. She will never lose me.”

It dead eyes sweep over the destruction visited by the murder of birdmen, “Other armies with crash upon your shores and scour invaders all. They owe me this…”


The Rookery: Sacred Woe of Absconding Rot

Lakes of Blood and Ash Nehebkau