This war has changed everything. It has brought dishonorable actions, purges, chaos. People have started using the power of the Forgotten Gods. That's why Origon the Denouncer has been summoned. The legendary dragon needs to intervene to prevent bloodshed and disruption of magic. You can be sure, my friend, that Origon will succeed... one way or another.
So you think you can stop me? Many of your kind have tried, and all have failed. They used swords, arrows, silly imitation of magic - all for nothing. I am an avatar of all your fears. I am a fate worse than death... I am Thall the Defiler!
Our reckon unit has been compromised near the Delta point. Last recordings have ensured us that we're dealing with the biggest mutation of this species. It seems like it's... it's a dragon, sir. A huge, terrifying, acid-spitting alien dragon. Remain cautious, the object is extremely fast and dangerous.
She is called the Golden Lord because she lords over the Golden Horde – battalions upon battalions of demons clad in golden armor, much like her own, or rampaging naked and decked out in jewelry unfit for the battlefield.
A terrible gale scours the fields, ruining crops like a huge scythe; a child suffers from a shortness of breath until, a few days later, the whole family is found asphyxiated, their faces blackened as if strangled; a howling wind scours the Hellish Plains, flensing demonic bodies, leaving behind piles of clean, razor-scored bones.
Pyrexia, as the name states, is fever – in the blood, in battle, in abject rage. The dull, fire-blackened iron of the Demon Lord’s body is made up of the spilt, hellforged blood from every battlefield in existence, ever since blood was there to be spilled and soaked into the cracked and ravaged ground.
Deep inside the trenches of her domain’s coppery, sulfuric seas, Voratrix opens the loins at the center of her cephalopod limbs, grinding flesh and bone inside the teethed orifice, receiving pleasure and birthing fearsome, alluring children. For the sons and daughters of the Consuming One are comely indeed – and all share in their mother’s desires.
Unlike other Demon Lords, Yersin is not attached to its physical form, much less toany gender it might develop. His is the flesh that twists, hers is the septic womb that births shambling cancers and gorges itself on any children deemed not terrible enough, its bowels boiling with afflictions to be visited upon humanity or its own adversaries.