This is a tightly sealed underground hall. The large hole in the corner, still emitting dust, is proof of the Undead Tribe's violent, uninvited entry.
Standing with the Undead Tribe, looking down at the obsidian coffin in the center of the hall, inlaid with countless jewels and engraved with a complex magic array, Mirimum's transparent dragon face showed a serious expression mixed with hatred.
"Mirimum." Snow Cloud Peak asked cheerfully from the side, "Do you still want to reminisce about your life? Or perhaps miss that Archmage Tors who died in such a creative way?
But the top has already started to collapse! I'm afraid there's no time left, should we get started?"
The Specter Dragon stiffened, his tone was indescribably stiff: "Don't talk nonsense! I... just... take a look, you all, start quickly!"
The Specter Dragon helplessly moved away from the coffin: being sentimental with the Undead Tribe is the most useless emotion, always replaced by a smile that can't be helped.
