The taste of iron and salt swept across Medaurus's pallet as he gorged on the pale woman's flesh. The wolf's hunger had been subdued, but not without cost. He'd never grown accustomed to the taste of human meat, and each time he fed upon it through the eyes of a beast, he felt as though slivers of his humanity were chipping away. He raised his bloodied snout from the carcass to behold the carnage which littered the narrow trail. The mercenaries had slaughtered several of the mysterious masked figures, sticking their guts with blades and arrows, but had not all emerged from the skirmish alive. Onora had unleashed an onslaught of arrows, one after the other in rapid, skilled succession, leaving a slew of bodies across the greenery. Prejudiced against the eldritch as Onora may have been, her skill in combat could not be disputed; Medaurus had invested wisely.<br/><br/>Through the eyes of the alpha, he beheld a nearby sellword who appeared wounded: an axe lodged squarely in his lower calf. He was surrounded by two robed zealots who brandished exotic, curved blades in front of them. Medaurus had found his targets. He howled to the moon, signaling the pack to follow him, and raced through the muddy terrain to his companion's aid.<br/><br/>He was stopped in his tracks, however, his attention violently splintered. He felt himself ripped from the wolf’s skin like a horsemen from his steed. A haunting moment of silence followed. He felt suspended in a crescendo of darkness and looming dread. Images flashed before his eyes: first, a mound of skulls stacked with bouquets of roses; second, a woman, sobbing beneath long locks of  hair black as pitch; finally, a cultist, with the image of a coiled serpent etched into the surface of his mask.<br/><br/>"You will pay for this sacrilege, godling!"<br/><br/>The cultiist's breath was vomitous and acidic, and burned Medaurus's eyes and nostrils. Bony fingers emerged from the figure's black sleeve and pried away the porcelain mask from his face, revealing pale, rotting flesh, loosely stretched over a cracked and dilapidated skull. Maggots, worms and roaches wriggled beneath the skin. Medaurus's heart fell into his stomach. What had captivated him so? Was this the sorcery of the Vralthaar? No, he’d studied the gem for months. The signature, nay, the taste of the power which ensnared him was unique and unfamiliar.<br/><br/>Medaurus had nearly completely lost consciousness before a thunderous jolt pulsed through the ground. He broke free from whatever illusion bewitched him and returned to his mortal vessel, the world springing into being before him in a visceral whirl. Humming filled the air as tendrils of violent energy spilled forth from the massive Vralthaar; its sheer size and power, terrifying as it may have been, never ceased to amaze him. Humming filled the air, escalating into a low but persistent roar. The cutlists, the mercenaries, everyone save Onora and Medaurus let out an stomach turning wail as the blood was siphoned from every pore in their bodies and funneled toward the heart of the stone. Amid bodies, shriveled as prunes, violent tendrils coalesced into a swirling vortex. Trees, roots, stones, and corpses plummeted toward the eye of the energized mass. Powerless to resist it pull, he turned to Onora, unaware of what the Vralthaar intended for them, and what awaited them on the other side...<br/><br/><div style="text-align: center"><div class="bbMediaWrapper">
<div class="bbMediaWrapper-inner">
<iframe allowfullscreen="true" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/HJ5-jOtBbJ4?wmode=opaque" width="560"></iframe>
</div>
</div></div>