An agonizing wail shattered the silence of Neverlight Woods at the frontier of Eternal Night's domain.
"By the gods, where have my Magma Titans vanished to?"
Auburn locks framing his dismayed visage, the stripling stood, adrift in incredulity.
He was the progeny of Ignis, patriarch of the Lava Kindred. In an unfathomable twist of fate, his quartet of majestic Magma Titans had degenerated into humble mucus serpents.
If not for the evidence before his very eyes, he would dismiss such a fantastical occurrence as fable.
These were his lifeblood, creatures nurtured through labors untold. Ignoring his own shrine's ascension, he had poured every ounce of his essence into these Magma Titans, his own might no more than a mere wisp of Black Iron.
"Curse this accursed fate!
How has this befallen us?"
"A blight within the ether, it can only be!"
In haste, he sought solace in the Lava Kin's convocation, scouring for any semblance of insight.
Within the sanctum of cyber echoes, tranquility prevailed—none had borne witness to such calamity.
With a heavy heart, he cast his plea into the convocation, beseeching any soul privy to enlightenment to herald their knowledge forthwith.
In the shadowed sanctum of the Netherkin, within the expanse known as the Vale of Shadows, an elder enshrouded in night's embrace stood with countenance dimmed by the unforeseen.
Her eyes, mirrors of oblivion, reflected the phantasmal Lizard Colossi that now occupied the sacred grounds.
Her wards, the progeny of shadows she had so tenderly reared—the Netherbeasts—had succumbed to an inexplicable metamorphosis into Lizard Colossi.
In the wake of a transient gleam, change had swept through the temple.
Though the newfound strength of these Lizard Colossi did not falter against their Netherbeast forebears—perhaps even surpassing them by the slimmest of margins—she scorned the enigma that now enveloped her beings.
The ambiguity of it gnawed at her spirit; a fear that destiny may once more toy with the fabric of existence, rendering her nurturing of Netherbeasts a fool's errand.
This curious malaise had spread across myriad clans, blessing some with serendipity while leaving others to lament their misfortune...
The beneficiaries of chance were those whose lesser beings ascended the hierarchy, whereas those who rued the day had beheld their elite legion metamorphose into lesser shadows of their former glory.
"Curse it!" he bellowed. "My once formidable Steelclad Beast has inexplicably vanished into thin air, leaving behind naught but inferior weaklings in its wake?"
"Foul luck! Where art my cherished Doran Beast? And what be these pathetic creatures?"
A storm of befuddlement and ire took hold of the Avalon Continent chat forum. "Blast, the Black Iron Seven-Star Voodoo Warrior that I painstakingly elevated to celestial heights—vanished! Who dares engineer such treachery? Beware the day I unveil the culprit!"
"The Voodoo Warrior—you claim it resides with you?" "By the stars, 'twas you, scoundrel! Mark my words, vengeance awaits!"
The once verbose victim, now silenced, felt the sting of tears; wronged without a cause. "I, too, bear the marks of this calamity!" he eventually mustered in reply, after what seemed an eternity within the chat's digital realm.
The one bathed in dire misfortune—the original possessor of the Skeleton Warrior—revealed not a trace of sorrow, but instead, a countenance glowing with unexpected bliss. "By the gods, fortune smiles upon me this day, for these stalwart Skeleton Warriors are a force far surpassing the crudely bespelled goblins of yore!" A jovial youth, amply curved in form, exuded elation. He had envisioned doom, yet salvation came in the form of these timely skeletal guardians. "Alas, a lament—their valorous strength demands rebirth, an ascent anew from the chasms of infancy!" The youth expressed, his brow furrowed in contemplative resolve.
Within the hallowed halls of the Arcane Warrior Academy, the astute Ethan was steeped in devising schemes of grand ambition. In the midst of his profound deliberations, the Avalon Continent chat group's icon began to dance with urgent flashes.
"And what curious herald is this?" pondered Ethan, reluctantly engaging with the flurry of messages that lately flourished with abnormal vigor. "An enigma, a glitch unsolvable—this kind of bewilderment, unheard of! 'Such fate has befallen me as well, drawing forth tears of defeat...' 'Our warriors, replaced? Is this naught but an elaborate farce?'"
With a bewildered gaze, Ethan sealed away the portal to the discussion. "Verily, this uproar is of considerable measure; henceforth, vigilance shall be my guide," Ethan mused silently. His heart harbored no desire for the masses to discern his unparalleled mastery over the arcane art of troop transmutation.
In the shadow of the Ars Mountains, just a stone's throw, eighty li from the hallowed Sanctuary of Divine Flight, a seeress of advanced years materialized out of the ethers. She was a portrait of indifference, her very aura cloaked in the folds of a billowing green robe. Accompanying her were two somber zombies, their faces devoid of emotion. Her gaze, steeped in malevolence, was cast towards the distant behemoth—a sentinel in the land, the 'Sanctuary of Divine Flight.' It was there that its sovereign had vanquished her one true love, the venerable Sebastian... Both hailing from the line of Necros, she was the holder of a might greater still. Her essence now thrummed with the power of a Bronze One-Star, mirrored by her two revenant compatriots.
"By the spirits, your end shall find you bereft of earth to cradle your bones!" the ancient crone declared, her eyes a swirl of vengeful shadows. Now, as the novice moon dipped towards its final arc, the eve's approach was all she awaited. But in that slender slice of twilight, there came a voice, sultry and deliberate. "Common foes do make for strange bedfellows, yet why not make a pact? The architect of your woes shall meet his demise by your hand, while the riches of his rule—the sacred temple and the legions that bow before it—shall ascend to mine." "Speak, phantom!" She recoiled, wide-eyed, as she whirled to scan her proximity, unearthing none who could have closed distance without a whisper of their approach. Alertness cast its spell over her, even the undead under her charge primed for immediate battle. But the sight met only a lone red pig, nonchalantly foraging, with no other living soul in sight. Had her senses abandoned her? Confusion clouded the crone's weathered visage. But no—her conviction stood; the voice was crystalline in its clarity, fraught with no mistake.
"Step forth from the shadows, ye trickster, and bear your visage to mine eyes! Reveal thine true self if courage flows through thy veins!" The crone's countenance solidified into an edifice of solemn resolve. To so evade her perception was a testament to a spectral proficiency in stealth, often the harbinger of a fearsome entity. "This scion of shadows is ever elusive, yet omnipresent before thine own gaze!" The red pig behind her scoffed, its utterance reverberating like a tempest through her being. She could scarce believe it; the pig before her was the orator.
"What say you? Doest the accord find favor in thine eyes?" the porcine being prodded, displaying a twinge of annoyance. A pig that converses? A spectrum of emotions flickered across the crone's visage—from shock to a disdain deep-rooted. What mattered the ability to parlay words? It remained but a beast. The mere thought of conjunction with a pig sending tremors of laughter through her tribe's foundational beliefs.
"For nigh on two days, sustenance has eluded me, yet upon thee—a creature so fleshy—it might well serve as banquet for days to come," she mocked, scorn dripping from her tongue. Absurd that this pig should entertain notions of fellowship with her essence. "What drivel spillest thou, o swine, about the stature of thy superiors?" The red pig was taken aback, uncertain of its own ears. "Ha Yi, Ha Er, set the pyre. This red swine shall soon dance upon the flames," the crone commanded with a frost that could quell the sun, patently intent on a feast of flame-kissed pork. "Thou provoketh thy doom!" This time, the comprehension in the pig's eyes was marked—a mortal gamble laid bare. It had held hope for a shared defense against temple's inevitable assault, such naivety...
"Ha! Dares't thy piteous kind to dream of alliance with me? A treasury of worth is requisite for such communion..." mocked the crone, her eyes narrowing coldly as she signaled her ghastly sentinels, "Strike at once, for I can bear this anticipation no longer." "Meet thy end, interloper!" The red pig, unable to cloak its disquietude any longer, flung open its cavernous maw and, in a swift act of predation, swallowed the zombie whole, its jaws a crucible of death.