...until the Crown of Karnnath is shattered...
Not everyone who Howls at the Moon is touched by Lycanthropy. The Elf, Korhil, exists in two realities at once. If the grimness of the armor clad Glaive weren’t enough, the proximity of the Shadow Plane reveals something else entirely. Graying and purple flesh, pulsing with the tainted realm, manifests in the monstrosity that reveals itself.
The vampire stands nearly eight feet tall at full height. Even the graceful elven blade Korhil wears in memorial is transformed in the Revenant’s hands, now double edged and cascading with shadow and flame as bony teeth protrude from both sides.
“Kaius! You can’t hide from me!” The creature bellowed his taunt through the ghoul filled streets. The nearest humanoid seems to think the fight a possibility and bounds towards the Revenant as his allies skirt towards a nearby blockade. Korhil catches the ghoul up mid leap, irradiated talons clawing wildly at the vampire’s outstretched arm. He pauses for a moment, considering the creature dangling above the ground.
“How many of your hounds must I lay low!?!” Contempt contorts his face further as a well muscled claw reduces the creature’s head to a piece of rotten fruit. Its body collapses in a heap as the vampire’s purple tongue grooms his hand.
“Mortals?” They look undead. But the Revenant has never encountered the irradiated before.
Another ghoul hacked in twain and still another impaled, twitching reflexively upon the outstretched blade. A flick of his wrist sends the body down to the pavement as his allies finish off the remainder of the pack. Korhil sees Slag through a screen of visceral haze, but the Revenant knows nothing of the Beastmaster. Memories of grappling an ogre swell up inside of him at the familiar sight and the next swing sends Slag reeling in a desperate effort to dodge.
He can see the shadowy hands reaching out at him again… no, not hands… there are faces too. He needs blood. Blood will send the phantoms back into the darkness… back where they belong… The next attack is underway as he’s jolted back by the sound of a familiar tune. The whistling rises and the grasping hands begin to blur.
It was summer when they came for the keep. Damn it all if the Spring didn’t promise peace but they’d come on anyway. The legions looked to him; they needed him. Damn it… where am I? As the tune concluded, he felt himself strapped down again, saw the King standing over the table breathing fury and reprimanding the mages… Still, that crown was always the last thing he saw before he went away again.
The one armed elf took an exhausted knee, sheathing Requiem. So that was the sword’s name. He looked around at the uncertain faces of his companions and knew he’d lost control again.
There’s a weight lifted from the mind, even as anguish wracks it with the truth. The connection strengthened, however, and the well of violence was infinitely deep. The creature struggled to maintain itself, to launch itself against a world defiled. The promise of pain was a tremendous motivator, but not enough now. Requiem’s dancing light dwindled as Korhil’s good arm rammed it home. He let the song carry him away. He was driven to save so many at the risk of himself. In that moment, however, looking through filthy glass at the Megamart, he knew that if he let the hunger consume him, he’d happily kill them all to satiate it.