Drockta

In the shadowy realm of the Godlands, where a permanent twilight cloaked the jagged peaks and churning mists, Drockta reigned with an iron fist. His obsidian throne, forged from the bones of fallen deities, sat atop a mound of charred earth, a throne that reeked of ancient curses and the blood of the vanquished. Dark clouds swirled above like sentient storms, crackling with malevolence as they heralded his approach. Drockta’s form was a nightmarish spectacle, draped in robes of swirling darkness that seemed to absorb light itself. His eyes, two burning embers of crimson, pierced the hearts of the timid, instilling a primal fear that made even the bravest of warriors tremble. With each step, the ground shuddered beneath him, as if the very earth recoiled from his presence, aware of the death and despair that followed in his wake. The land of Tenndari, bathed in sunlight and vibrancy, lay before him, a tantalizing prize ripe for the taking. Fields of golden wheat bowed to the wind, while villages thrummed with laughter and life. But Drockta saw only weakness; he relished the thought of their screams, the taste of their defeat. As he unleashed his army of shadows, a relentless tide of darkness surged forth, engulfing the peaceful valleys in a cloak of terror. Flames roared to life in the village squares, the scent of smoke and sorrow mingling with the sweet air, painting a grim tapestry of chaos that marked the beginning of his conquest. In this dance of death, Drockta would not rest until Tenndari was nothing but a memory, a hollow echo of his dark dominion.