Culling the Damned

“The cave beyond was swarming with Cult atrocities. There is only one way to deal with such creatures. You know what to do.”

I knew.

The Burning Depths Necromancers were the true architects of this corruption. Not the sniveling necrolytes from outside, but actual casters, channeling power from the stolen dragon bones.

The Smoldering Constructs were walking furnaces of charred flesh and molten metal, assembled from the pieces of things that should have stayed dead. Each blow I landed sent fire lashing back at me, their bodies designed to punish attackers. I learned to strike hard and move, crack them open before the heat could accumulate.

Then came the Geists. They clung to walls and ceilings, launching themselves in packs, their shrieks echoing off the volcanic stone. Fast where the constructs were slow, frenzied where the necromancers were calculating. I sent them tumbling broken into the magma below.

“I cannot help but wonder whether they are naive enough to think that I will abide this, or if they are simply suicidal. Hearing their screams… watching the last life fade from their wretched bodies… it’s invigorating, is it not?” Serinar smiled. “I relish it.”

Only Rothin was left at the back of the Maw and one more weapon on offer, which is Neltharion’s Flame itself.