The otherworld lay in ruin — a wasteland of debris and shifting shadows, where thunder cracked like the roar of an ancient god across a bruised sky. The grand castle that once stood as the Lich King's unyielding fortress was no more; its spires shattered, its halls reduced to dust, and what remained of its master lay scattered — charred limbs and fragments strewn across the ashen battlefield.
From the smoke and ruin, the Crafter of Blight emerged. His cloak, torn and weathered, dragged through the dirt, and the hood hung loose upon his shoulders. Slicked-back strands of black hair framed his pallid, almost corpse-like face, his eyes void of warmth.
Each bare step he took struck the ground with dreadful intent — the earth decayed beneath his feet, stone crumbling to rot and ash. A heavy miasma clung to him, a poison that spread through the air itself, tainting all it touched.
