The Last of His Kind

[Dreamspeaker]

It will be the night to remember.

The Blue Moon hangs heavy upon the sky.
A haunting elegy, it burns upon my skin with godly wrath.
My skin feels like it could peel off my flesh any moment,
my flesh feels like it could fall from my bones if I dare relax my body just once.
It is a terrible night to survive.
It is a terrible night to be alive.





Once a fearless paragon of the Demonkind, Varrach was seen fleeing west at the conclusion of the ritual by the Vdali-reborn.  
An apex of the Demonkind, the First Imperfect of Meranthe, now reduced to a tortured vessel of agony that he has never known before.
It is not the experience of something as simple as dying; it is the experience of something far more gruelling, far worse.
It is the experience of losing oneself to a force which you can do naught about, a force that would tear you asunder.


There was nothing for me there.
Only death and desolation.
And so for the first time in my life,
I ran with fear in my heart.
I ran for my life.
I knew that if I stopped, 
the accursed witch would take everything from me as well.

I ran to see a visage from my past.
A visage that I must be terrified of,

but strangely, it only gave me comfort,
in these strange, trying times.

Stalking through the night like a thief, the First Imperfect made his way to the statue of the Emperor of Meranthe, Jokul Folhammar.
Weak and frail from the Divine Spell, what felt like air full of poison to him had almost made him waver; lean upon the statue, as if it were the only source of respite.
The Blue Moon was a merciless hunter still, searing the flesh of the Imperfect that was growingly increasingly weaker, as if trying to impose the will of the Goddess.
With all of his might, he resisted. With the strongest conjuration of Death Magic, the incarnation of pure Occult, he tried to ward off this energy.
It was only barely enough to keep him alive- to keep him as it is, but it did nothing to stop the agony of Change.


I will not submit to this.
I will not surrender.
I will not become this lesser version of me.
I will not.

Ruthlessly hunted ever since I was born,

I found a path for each and every one of them.
I found a path after Ragnarök.
I have survived the Shattering.
And I will find a path here.


Though he rests underneath the statue of the greatest Emperor that Meranthe has seen, his thoughts fall to his past lifetime, to his companions.
To the Imperfect whom he called his kin; to the Lich whom he had a close friendship with, to the blood of Giants that has become a Primordial.
To his Undead Champion of the past, to the Sirenian Necromancer of infamy and many other that stood by his side in the past.
This cannot be the end of it all. This cannot be the end of all that he fought for.


You did this to me.
For eighty years, you made me disappear.
And once I've awakened once more,
I had to start from nothing,
again.

Is this how you mock me?
I sought to test humanity,

with the greatest challenge that they've ever seen,
but the only one being tested,
is me.


The Divine Spell of the nascent Primordial ran its course. The poison that once filled his lungs subsided; the Imperfect, though in agony, could feel his strength return.
He was not changed. Adapted, but unbroken, he would rise to his feet once more. It would indeed not be the end of his journey. It is not the end for the First Imperfect.
He promises himself this, for he had no other choice. It is not in the nature of humanity to bend and break, and a part of humanity was imprinted upon him yet.
To break or bend is not in his nature either, and though he must face insurmountable odds, he will fight- for fight he must.

It is not the end for his time, his second lifetime, his second chance.
By any means necessary, he will rise. He will enact his plan of the grand design, and he will have his revenge.
His fate was promised to him,
and he was promised to fate.

He will grasp his destiny yet...