The Shadow of Dornogal Dornogal, the last bastion of light on the Isle of Dorn, was a place of strange defiance. Its towering spires of pale stone gleamed despite the perpetual storms that lashed the island. The city’s defenders-elves, humans, and even a handful of stalwart dwarves-had carved out this haven against the darkness that sought to consume the land. But on this day, Dornogal’s walls would tremble. The shadows had come. The Warcaller Blightmaul stood atop a jagged hill overlooking Dornogal. The mark on his arm burned like a fresh wound, its glow pulsing in time with the rhythmic chants of the creatures that surrounded him. They were his army-shattered beings bound by shadow, their forms twisted by the magic of the obelisk. Hulking abominations of fused bone and shadow loomed alongside smaller, skittering horrors that darted restlessly at his feet. The Cartographers’ voices echoed in his mind, cold and distant. “Dornogal must fall. Its light disrupts the balance. Lead our children to cleanse the city.” Blightmaul raised Shadowrend, the blade’s whispers coiling through his thoughts. It thirsted for the battle to come, for the souls that would soon be drawn into its endless hunger. “Go,” he rasped, his voice a dry echo. “Show them the cost of defiance.” The creatures surged forward, their movements a chaotic flood of darkness. They poured down the hillside and toward the city’s gates, their roars and screeches blending into a single, deafening cry. Blightmaul followed, his steps measured and deliberate. The Breach Dornogal’s defenders were ready. Archers lined the walls, their bows singing as arrows rained down on the advancing horde. Mages chanted spells, their hands glowing with light as they hurled searing bolts of energy into the shadows below. The ground shook as dwarven engineers fired heavy ballistae, their massive bolts impaling abominations and pinning them to the ground. But the shadows were relentless. The smaller horrors scrambled up the walls, their claws finding purchase in the smooth stone. The abominations slammed against the gates, their massive fists cracking the reinforced wood. Blightmaul reached the gates as they began to splinter. With a single swing of Shadowrend, the wood shattered, the shadows surging through the breach like a flood. He stepped into the chaos of the city, his blade carving through defenders with ease. Each soul claimed by Shadowrend strengthened him, their screams fueling the whispers in his mind. The Lightbearer Near the heart of Dornogal, a human paladin clad in gleaming silver armor stood amidst the fray. His hammer glowed with radiant light, each swing banishing the shadows around him. His voice was strong and steady as he shouted commands, rallying the city’s defenders. Blightmaul felt the mark on his arm burn hotter as he approached the paladin. This was no ordinary foe-this was a Lightbearer, a champion whose very existence was anathema to the shadows. The paladin turned to face him, his eyes narrowing as he took in the twisted figure before him. “Forsaken,” he spat. “Do you even remember what you were before this madness? Or have you given yourself fully to the dark?” Blightmaul raised Shadowrend, its edge dripping with shadow. “What I was doesn’t matter,” he growled. “What I am is death.” Their clash was a storm of light and shadow. The paladin’s hammer struck with blinding radiance, each blow sending waves of pain through Blightmaul’s corrupted form. But the shadows were unyielding, wrapping around the hammer and dulling its light. Shadowrend lashed out, cutting deep into the paladin’s armor. With a final, desperate strike, Blightmaul drove the blade into the paladin’s chest, the light in his eyes flickering and fading. As the man fell, the shadows surged, consuming his form and silencing his voice forever. The Fall of Dornogal With the Lightbearer gone, the defenders’ morale crumbled. The shadows swept through the city, extinguishing its light piece by piece. Buildings burned, their flames casting eerie green light against the stormy sky. The streets ran slick with blood and shadow, the cries of the dying lost in the roar of the storm. Blightmaul stood at the city’s center, the shattered remnants of its great spire at his feet. The mark on his arm pulsed with satisfaction, the voices of the Cartographers rising in a hymn of triumph. “You have done well, shadowed one,” they said. “Dornogal is no more. The balance is restored.” But as Blightmaul looked out over the ruins, he felt no triumph. The whispers in his mind were louder than ever, their words sharp and biting. “You are nothing but a tool,” they hissed. “A shadow wielded by shadows.” For the first time, doubt crept into Blightmaul’s thoughts. He clenched his fists, his glowing eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the burning city. If Dornogal was only the beginning, what horrors would the shadows demand next?
The Shadow of Dornogal
Dornogal, the last bastion of light on the Isle of Dorn, was a place of strange defiance. Its towering spires of pale stone gleamed despite the perpetual storms that lashed the island. The city’s defenders-elves, humans, and even a handful of stalwart dwarves-had carved out this haven against the darkness that sought to consume the land.
But on this day, Dornogal’s walls would tremble. The shadows had come.
The Warcaller
Blightmaul stood atop a jagged hill overlooking Dornogal. The mark on his arm burned like a fresh wound, its glow pulsing in time with the rhythmic chants of the creatures that surrounded him. They were his army-shattered beings bound by shadow, their forms twisted by the magic of the obelisk. Hulking abominations of fused bone and shadow loomed alongside smaller, skittering horrors that darted restlessly at his feet.
The Cartographers’ voices echoed in his mind, cold and distant. “Dornogal must fall. Its light disrupts the balance. Lead our children to cleanse the city.”
Blightmaul raised Shadowrend, the blade’s whispers coiling through his thoughts. It thirsted for the battle to come, for the souls that would soon be drawn into its endless hunger.
“Go,” he rasped, his voice a dry echo. “Show them the cost of defiance.”
The creatures surged forward, their movements a chaotic flood of darkness. They poured down the hillside and toward the city’s gates, their roars and screeches blending into a single, deafening cry.
Blightmaul followed, his steps measured and deliberate.
The Breach
Dornogal’s defenders were ready. Archers lined the walls, their bows singing as arrows rained down on the advancing horde. Mages chanted spells, their hands glowing with light as they hurled searing bolts of energy into the shadows below. The ground shook as dwarven engineers fired heavy ballistae, their massive bolts impaling abominations and pinning them to the ground.
But the shadows were relentless. The smaller horrors scrambled up the walls, their claws finding purchase in the smooth stone. The abominations slammed against the gates, their massive fists cracking the reinforced wood.
Blightmaul reached the gates as they began to splinter. With a single swing of Shadowrend, the wood shattered, the shadows surging through the breach like a flood.
He stepped into the chaos of the city, his blade carving through defenders with ease. Each soul claimed by Shadowrend strengthened him, their screams fueling the whispers in his mind.
The Lightbearer
Near the heart of Dornogal, a human paladin clad in gleaming silver armor stood amidst the fray. His hammer glowed with radiant light, each swing banishing the shadows around him. His voice was strong and steady as he shouted commands, rallying the city’s defenders.
Blightmaul felt the mark on his arm burn hotter as he approached the paladin. This was no ordinary foe-this was a Lightbearer, a champion whose very existence was anathema to the shadows.
The paladin turned to face him, his eyes narrowing as he took in the twisted figure before him. “Forsaken,” he spat. “Do you even remember what you were before this madness? Or have you given yourself fully to the dark?”
Blightmaul raised Shadowrend, its edge dripping with shadow. “What I was doesn’t matter,” he growled. “What I am is death.”
Their clash was a storm of light and shadow. The paladin’s hammer struck with blinding radiance, each blow sending waves of pain through Blightmaul’s corrupted form. But the shadows were unyielding, wrapping around the hammer and dulling its light.
Shadowrend lashed out, cutting deep into the paladin’s armor. With a final, desperate strike, Blightmaul drove the blade into the paladin’s chest, the light in his eyes flickering and fading. As the man fell, the shadows surged, consuming his form and silencing his voice forever.
The Fall of Dornogal
With the Lightbearer gone, the defenders’ morale crumbled. The shadows swept through the city, extinguishing its light piece by piece. Buildings burned, their flames casting eerie green light against the stormy sky. The streets ran slick with blood and shadow, the cries of the dying lost in the roar of the storm.
Blightmaul stood at the city’s center, the shattered remnants of its great spire at his feet. The mark on his arm pulsed with satisfaction, the voices of the Cartographers rising in a hymn of triumph.
“You have done well, shadowed one,” they said. “Dornogal is no more. The balance is restored.”
But as Blightmaul looked out over the ruins, he felt no triumph. The whispers in his mind were louder than ever, their words sharp and biting.
“You are nothing but a tool,” they hissed. “A shadow wielded by shadows.”
For the first time, doubt crept into Blightmaul’s thoughts. He clenched his fists, his glowing eyes fixed on the horizon beyond the burning city. If Dornogal was only the beginning, what horrors would the shadows demand next?