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The dishonoured niece of the king is decisively laid to rest by her own bite.
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A Karui woman’s place was not the
battlefield, but the hearth.
Hyrri changed all of that.
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Hyrri’s quick thinking led to victory,
but it came at the cost of respect.
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A grove of wooden faces spit fire, a cheap mockery of unimaginable power.
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It is said to make you invisible when the Great Spirit comes to take you on your final journey.
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Flames to guide the Great Spirit to the site of the dead, and smoke to carry them into the sky.
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The rift is torn open, and time’s clasp is twisted.
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“To us mere mortals, time is slippery.
I’m just evening things out.”
Doryani, Queen’s Thaumaturgist
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“Even for the great Magi,
time passes without relent.”
Doryani, Queen’s Thaumaturgist
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Where the river meets the sea, the flames meet winter’s chill, and heated battle sends a shiver down a twisted spine.
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Give of your heated passions.
Give of your cold resolve.
You will be repaid.
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Embrace your burning ambition.
Embrace your frozen heart.
You will be transformed.
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In the beast’s belly, the Inquisitor hunts the dying light.
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“A lick of shadow may ease the petty frictions of one’s life.”
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“A taste of Midnight, and you may never see the dawn.”
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Doom grows at the apex of the pyramid.
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“Toasted or frozen
Or twitching in the light
I’m not fussy
And neither is Death.”
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“The Vaal, a thousand years ago,
came up with more delightful methods of murder
than I could ever wish for.”
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The eager warrior meets the Tyrant in battle. Outmatched and outwitted; he uses his strength to best his foe.
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“Stand steadfast in the face of destruction.
The Council cannot afford to falter.”
Mauritius, the Iron Heart
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The Black Prayer falls silent in the face of the Archbishop’s shimmering devotion.
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“One quick tap is all the persuasion you’ll need.”
Archbishop Geofri of Phrecia Cathedral
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“Confess your sins to me. My god will not be nearly so forgiving.”
Archbishop Geofri of Phrecia Cathedral
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Two sides, light and dark, collide, and leave all but one blind.
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The light that reveals is the glare that blinds.
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By light we are shadowed,
in darkness we are bound.
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The light fades from one source but grows in another, blinding those who approach.
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Every decade, Lunaris devours Solaris
Each time, Solaris emerges from Lunaris, born anew.
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Legend tells of a time when Solaris will burst forth from Lunaris,
and night will be eternally banished.
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The Empyrian faces her dread and perishes; her arc now complete.
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The fastest way to a man’s heart
is through his sternum.
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Make a man hot, and his heart will skip a beat.
Set a man on fire, and his heart will skip all beats.
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Winter weaves the cannibal’s cold fury until his blood boils over.
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Fury fuels defiance.
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Avarice turns the heart as cold as a fragment of Winter itself.
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“You’ll have my riches when you pry them from my cold, dead hands!”
“That’s how I prefer it.”
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“Please, take whatever you want. Just don’t kill me”
“But then I wouldn’t have everything I want, would I?”
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The ruins hide an artist whose own crimson ink coats the stone.
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A tap on the shoulder
A peck on the cheek
A sip of your wine
So red and so sleek
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The night dances on
Wine continues to flow
Your skin looking pale
Your soul letting go
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A soul of steel shatters, and a spinning shard joins the eternal dance.
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Take your partner by the hand,
Keep your steps in time.
Swing together, spin apart,
And dance with death sublime.
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One more partner by the hand,
Let your steps entwine.
Spin together, swing as one,
And dance with death in trine.
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Guided by luck, the fox hunts the spider in absolute shadow.
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To catch an animal, think like an animal.
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Follow your most basic instincts.
The rest will come naturally.
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Where the dead still rest, the defiler’s scream bellows through the tombs before falling eternally silent.
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The mocking wind, a shielding spell,
The haunting screams, a maddening hell.
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An open mouth, a blinding shriek,
Your mind goes dark, your body weak.
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The bell tolls, the people gather, the General is executed.
The militia cries out and charges forth.
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May you never hear it toll.
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May it echo through the halls.
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The king rots in his frozen tomb, atop the island of his own creation.
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When Solaris closes his burning eye
At the end of time,
the world will perish in ice.
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Beneath the frozen eye of Lunaris a new world will be born.
A crystalline, perfectly still utopia.
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The lost lover returns, but faith releases him from his service.
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The faithful may continue to serve, even after death.
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The weight of faith is great yet it is never borne alone.
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Living cinders set the stone alight, a gleaming signal in the blackness where husks are burned.
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Molten feathers, veiled spark,
Hissing arrows from the dark.
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Fire spreads thick and fast.
The first spark is never the last.
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Cold sorrow turns to burning fury that hails across the shattered ship.
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Of ancient giants, none remain,
Their only trace is timeless pain.
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Giant’s blood you cannot tame,
as wild as an unwatched flame.
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Fear is highly infectious.
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Nothing spreads fear faster than the unknown.
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A trap of greed is laid in the Vault, and sprung at its heart by a wonder.
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Wonders abound at death’s door.
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A single taste leaves you wanting more.
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Living stone strides across the field, each step shakes the earth and rattles the soul.
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Hit them hard. Hit them once.
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The largest rock leaves the deepest mark.
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The Master’s blade strikes the ground, and his body briskly follows. The line of the Wild Men ends.
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I carry neither food nor drink.
I rely on the charity of my fellow wayfarers.
Dead men are generous men.
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“Laws are for city folk.
Can’t try a man for murder if you can’t find him.”
Taruk, Last of the Wildmen
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The vile witch whispers words of horror, and sups from the chalice one final time.
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An eye for an eye. A curse for a curse.
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What goes out must come in.
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Thieves camp beneath roadside trees, but it is their leader who falls like the mighty oak.
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From death springs life.
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Even the mightiest tree was once just a sapling.
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A single thorn slips through stretched skin; pain turns to power.
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Lift it lightly, don it slow.
The spikes point out and in, you know.
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Let it pierce you, let blood flow.
Make more room for the soul to grow.
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The pious grow powerful surrounded by a sea of blood and empty husks.
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If it’s worth doing once, it’s worth doing twice.
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No one likes a quiet encore.
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A storm of stone stops when the last of the limbs are severed and blood flows no more.
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Swinging through the air, it sings
of sundered, severed, missing things.
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A burned branch leaks sap no more.
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The Sekhema’s whispers fight back the wind, leaving no mark remaining.
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Asenath’s mind was as quick and nimble as the fingers that drew her bowstring.
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Asenath loosed arrows with almost musical rhythm,
a rhythm matched by her nearly inaudible whispers,
and the crunch of the dead hitting the dust.
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Death’s dance with dawn leads to the midday sun, whose spiteful zenith burns indiscriminately.
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Blazing body, shining bold.
Dance beneath the orb of gold!
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Burning goddess, shine so bright.
Set the world ‘fore you alight.
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The eagle battles the vulture in the shadow of a dying sun, and becomes something greater.
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The eagle knows nothing but the scream and the strike.
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The gryphon knows only the hunt and the flight.
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The archbishop plays witness to his own cold death and cremation.
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“God’s creations always begin and end with flames and ice.
We should count ourselves lucky when we see neither.”
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“The flames are surely coming. I just pray I am long dead before they arrive.”
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The crest becomes a crown when placed upon the Bishop’s brow.
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In the battle for honour, won.
Not so, the battle for survival.
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“Though ‘s beacon was extinguished, his embers may yet light our way.”
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Ezomyte banners flutter through the air as embellished monsters fall, a reenactment of the slave’s final victory.
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Centuries of servitude, a day of glory, an eternity of death.
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A moment of victory may last an eternity in memory.
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The brittle archer’s bow plays a song of death, but the harp sings a sweet masterpiece.
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The mournful music of the strings,
The creaking arch, the arrow sings.
A choking cry, a rattled breath,
The Reaper’s Song, the Harp of Death.
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The overture stretches thin,
The chorus gathers to begin.
Stacatto, drone, a rest drawn long,
Another hears Death’s final song.
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The rhoa’s rage builds and boils over; a feeling of dread envelops the crimson beak.
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As battle calms, blood turns to rust.
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As death arrives, so too does instinct.
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The Vaal’s dark machinery was their greatest triumph, and its destruction another’s destiny.
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“The finest prosperity grows from the direst carnage. Such is the nature of progress.”
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“The most dizzying heights are surrounded by precipitous falls.
Progress cannot be eternal.”
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The Aesthete sustains herself in unnatural ways. When movement fails, energy flows.
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Shavronne raced to Brutus’ side, her last hope against the Karui tide.
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The Karui boats were closing the gap, but Shavronne had laid for them one final trap.
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The boulder is crushed atop the hill, letting the great leader’s people pass.
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Few men cast a longer shadow than the Great Meginord of the North.
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Few men can guide their people like the Great Meginord of the North
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The Eternal servant bathes in his own blood, and a master tactician is born.
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Few men cast a longer shadow than the Great Meginord of the North.
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Few men command an army better than the Great Meginord of the North
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Thaumaturgy and faith clash among giant ruins; a recreation of a long-gone rebellion.
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“Shoot first, ask no questions.”
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For dead men require no answer.
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The Blade King’s blood feeds brambles that grow ever thicker.
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It is safer to be feared than to be loved.
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There is no wall thicker or stronger than fear.
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Madness feeds the King’s fury in the raging mouth of the volcano. His last vision will be a sign.
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A token from the sea.
A sign for Kaom to lead his Karui to Wraeclast.
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Kaom guided his Karui across the sea and spilled their blood on foreign soil
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Silence and darkness harbour growing malevolence as the blood eater meets her maker.
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While Doedre lacked Maligaro’s sense of style, she surpassed her master in pure malevolence.
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It was Doedre who learned that pain is just as much about fear as it is about injury.
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One falls, but another rises to lead.
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You carried me through life,
The least I can do is carry you through death.
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As you guided me, now I guide others.
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A queen of bone raises an army and flees among walls of flesh.
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The nobles wanted to take her throne.
She let the peasants take their wealth.
The peasants wanted to take her wealth.
She let the soldiers take their heads.
The soldiers wanted to take her head.
She sat on her throne and wept.
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The soldiers stormed her throne room.
The guards held them at bay.
The peasants overwhelmed the guards.
The nobles paid for their lives.
The nobles took her throne, and so she fled to the woods.
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The Eater has his final meal, and the Soulless One awakens.
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It was a sliver of Malachai’s soul that animated the first Eternal Guardian.
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There is no cost too great to pay for power.
Merely men who lack the conviction to pay it.
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The ancient queen casts her gaze upon her reflection, and at last the curse is broken.
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“As long as I see death in my mirror, so will Wraeclast.”
Atziri, Queen of the Vaal
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“At last, my beauty is beyond reproach.”
Atziri, Queen of the Vaal
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The Servant’s sacrifice summons a storm in the Prodigy’s soul.
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Centuries of development in steel armoursmithing
turned the armies of the Eternal Empire
into very effective lightning rods.
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Where steel-grey clouds gather and crash together, a storm is sure to follow.
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A thief, bow in hand, flees to the wooded outskirts.
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“The wild takes care of its own.”
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The lone tree grows thickest.
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Cold bones rattle in stone cells, extinguishing all light, all warmth, all hope.
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Cold, miserable and alone… but alive.
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Flesh may freeze and rot,
but the soul remains unbroken.
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Cold ocean winds whip across the sharp stones where two yet battle for control.
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When the storm comes, the safest place to be is the centre.
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You cannot control the storm, but you can utilise it.
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The Imperatrix traps her subjects in the shining sceptre, but it is she who becomes mired.
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You’ve no reason for fear when you’re a root in a fen
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“Cut down the tallest tree, and another becomes the tallest.”
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A mournful hymn, a mournful soul, the chill of death on the wind.
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“The crack of bone, the spray of blood.
Is there sweeter music?”
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The last sweet music to touch Hrimnor’s ears passed right beneath his chin.
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