Orellion’s image descended into the midst of the crowd facing the Duke. Covered in fur clothe that from a bear’s hide no less, with galvanized steel pauldrens about his shoulders and hanging from the specter’s back the fabled Scarlet Cleaver, the great war axe forged by his father, the High God Tal-Renda, from the fires of Mount Hexellar and quenched in the mythical springs of the Tearsore Isles. And Lord Orellion cast his gaze o’er the multitude and then fixed his gleaming eyes upon the countenance of the Duke. Undeterred, the Duke bowed in submission and raised his voice unto his King.
“O, my Lord Orellion, Keeper of the Southern Gate of Heav’n, we bid thy grace upon us. What is it you would have us do?”
And Orellion’s lustrous visage flickered with a deep fire that burned them, yea all those where they stood, unable to move for it surrounded and encompassed them completely. He spoke not yet all who stood heard and obeyed, even the Duke did question his orders naught and thusly they descended from the mound and the flowers upon which where scorched black.
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