Death Llamas

Dreams of Blood and Fire

As you drift off to sleep, you notice a strange mist washing over your campsite. It swirls about you, blocking your vision. Even the echos of battle outside the temple seem muffled. As quickly as the mist comes, though, it disappears, and you find yourself sitting in a decrepit cathedral. Atop an altar of skulls and bone stands a dark elf, his hair matted with dried blood. In his left hand, he holds a jagged greatsword of enormous size. In his right, a chalice of thick red liquid. He stares at you as the mist clears, fangs bared in something resembling a smile.

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Trokair

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