75 HP
MAX HP
100 EN
MAX EN
They had scattered to the winds, leaving the Velten alone in their odd crowd of voices and the faint pulse of magic under their skin. A shame. She had spoken of demons and creatures beyond even their ilk and Rook had hungered to see them. To taste the power they offered and measure it against that of the patrons. There was nothing for it, however. They were gone like the Falderens who had called the castle home, but unlike them there would be no return. There was only Rook now and the other lives that flickered by them like fireflies. Ultimately useless, if entertaining to watch.
There had been many a talk of the Ancient Vampire Wurm's brood still writhing beneath the castle and rewards offered for help clearing them all out. Rook could do that, could get the extra wind in their sails before they moved on. So the mage descended with others and drew forth the deck of cards that bent and twisted under their hold like the bodies of the wurms they were to face. They were hungry. They were starved for the gate through to this world to be able to act. Nothing was so tempting a thing as being trapped in one plane, but being dangerous in another. To otherworldly, godly might entertained a few of them. The Inkwell most of all.
Nine of Swords. The Tower.
Despair. Disaster.
As the beginnings of the weaker horde in the lower levels rose to face them, the card pulled from the deck at the behest of their Astramancy. Two cards that whispered The Sunken Serpent's choice. And so it acted, the cards fell apart like a time lapse of submerged paper before they fell apart and faded. The flesh of the wurms nearby began to weaken and rot, falling away into nothingness like the cards. Malefimancy's patron did not know any mercy, but visiting death upon those it faced and in this moment had none to space.
