Neglous remains still.

Great clouds of the tempest gather above. Small, furtive drops of rain are warning shots of the coming deluge. A groan erupts beneath the ground, eons of fire bent on escaping contained by little more than rocks and dirt. A champion of the Western Tribe calls his fellows to renew their vigor. A lieutenant of the Red Dirt Clan orders another wave.

Neglous remains still. His blood is not. His heart thunders.

Waves of men crash upon one another. Rivers of blood erupt, flow, and die. Mighty souls and cowardly ones alike take leave of this plane, this awful tortuous plane. Surely some ascend; rightly some do not.

Neglous, young but strong, moves at last, measured and calculated footsteps. His spear is ready. His shield is strong. His eyes find the path, a sliver of deathly peace among the chaos. It leads to the end.

The end calls like a siren’s song, beckons him onward. Enraptured he sees only his goal.

Not the danger.

Not the death.

Not the suffering.

Only the end.