Smell of Dragonfire

Enough waiting, mortal.

That Skardyn filth cowers below, his claws sunk deep into the earth's veins, poisoning all he touches. His wards may be strong?but not against the fire you now carry. Let my fallen kin's fury be the spark that burns his defenses to cinders.

Then take his head. Cleanly. Let his blood be the last corruption he spills.

But do not be a fool. Walk in alone, and you will be just another corpse in his collection. Bring warriors. Bring steel. Bring enough rage to match his treachery.

Now go. And do not disappoint me.

Time is of the essence.

At last... the taint lifts.

<His wings flex slightly as the oppressive weight of dark magic dissipates, the air itself seeming to sigh in relief. The swamp's murky waters ripple as if awakening from a long nightmare.>

Grim Hollow will mend. The earth remembers how to heal... given time.

Yet this victory is but one ember plucked from a wildfire. The Skardyn do not act alone?they are rats fleeing a sinking nest. Grim Batol has spat out more of their kind, scattered like rot across Khaz Modan.

And worst of all... they scurry with purpose. This was no mere exile. They serve something. Something old. Something hungry.

Mark my words, mortal?this is not over. Whatever they plan... we must find it before it finds us.

And next time... the fire we bring may not be enough.