LORDof the Blood Tides
Hear my call:
Consume this nectar of tears and blood,
and summons the crimson deluge.
Let me pierce the scarlet veil,
Let me follow your bloody trail.
“Deeply disturbing!” Amaro looked up from the crumpled letter. Weeks had passed since Eadric’s stormy departure, and his last words still echoed: “I will leave at once!” A heavy burden weighed on Amaro. It was he who had told her about Torkada’s request. How could I not? Eadric the Exalted was the embodiment of what Torkada sought, a fierce and formidable fighter. Amaro’s worried gaze returned to the blood-stained parchment.
Ruby liquid poured onto my boots, oozing from every pore. I waded into the basin and plunged into a vermilion abyss. And yet I wasn’t drowning, Amaro! I was being reborn. Through a dripping portal, I entered the Hall of Blood. And there was Bloodshade. Again. A creature as unfathomable as what awaits me. A servant? A guide? An intriguer? Never mind.
Here I am, unbreakable, unbreakable.
There are others with me. United in a quiet resolve to purge the festering scourge that torments this once-sacred place. We sail through the four spheres of rotting blood where the twin heralds of decay and dual devourers of light have built their nests.
Like dirty claws, jaded roots cling to the ground and walls. Thus, the frightful beasts we kill scratch at our lives, unleashing dangerous ripples after their death.
The cursed soil boils with rot here. Unbreakable root branches spit out their venom, fed by every grotesque anomaly killed nearby.
Shadowy pillars of basalt tower above us as dark energy seeps into us and eventually discharges like a devastating chain of lightning. How are we supposed to stay together like this?
Deep pits spoil the basalt soil, and the bloodshed has turned them into scarlet lakes. Dark light manifests repeatedly below and behind us, draining us to the core.
Drawing on our strength and experience, we somehow endure the horrors of these ruined corridors, even if only barely. From time to time we stumble upon the battered bodies of fallen rookies. Killed by abominable monsters. Youth infuriates them; The younger their victims are, the more they are stimulated in their cruelty.
What brought those newbies here? The allure of riches? Whispers echo through the halls, of weapons augmented with blood power, some even infused with ichor, the golden nectar of the immortals.
And so we fight our way through the carnage, soaking up the rot to face the desecrator of the desecrator. We will endure his corruptions, we will persist despite Bakragore’s shadow, we will challenge him again and again, feeding him the essence of his family, resisting his wrath to cleanse this realm of his filthy presence.
Cowardice finds no refuge in our hearts. Our missteps will not register defeat.
We are warriors in the midst of the storm. We are crimson crusaders.
Our triumph is engraved on the scrolls of what should be.
