The Lord Dreadwing had fallen.
In the center of the devastated crater, the victorious Lord Great Badger stood over the crushed corpse of its rival. It was a complete, horrifying ruin. Half its face was melted down to the gleaming white skull. Its massive neck was laid open, bleeding out from a severed artery, and the towering, sixty-foot phantom armor encasing its body flickered erratically, like a dying lightbulb.
It should have collapsed. It should have allowed its exhausted, battered soul to finally drift into the ambient essence of the Great Orrath.
But as the dying Lord Badger raised its half-melted, ruined head, its one remaining, glowing yellow eye swept across the blood-soaked valley.
It didn't see victory. It saw its kin getting masscared.
