It was done.
Finished.
Tycondrius was feeling rather pleased with himself... though he remained a bit uncertain about the future.
He emerged from the Heart of the Dragon... on the broken and burning streets of Whitehearth.
The Dragon God's avatar laid behind him, its form beginning to dissipate into thick clouds of mana dust that rose up into the clear, sunny skies.
Oh.
The roads were covered in a thin film of the black water. It looked cursed.
However, he floated slightly above it, as was consistent of his angelic form.
...He looked around to check if anyone saw his unprofessional bout of panic.
Those that yet lived were focused on the fact that a dead god laid in the middle of the city.
That was good. Tycon had to keep up his angelic appearance. That's what angels did.
He joined his friends and allies in admiring the righteous kill.
Finally... he was free.
