The Crash of Destruction

The shattering of your bindings does little to ease the rage that boils your blood and thunders within you.

Vengeance isn't a simple quest, reparations not just a matter of heads on pikes and bodies broken on the ramparts.

No, no they must be made to suffer, to burn, for the simple act of defiance. To lock you up, to seal you away? The suffering for that will be a long time coming yet.

So great is your fury, so palpable your animosity, the very air around you seems to shimmer and shift like heat from the desert sands.

From those waves, from the land itself, crimson gates begin to manifest, as though the very earth bleeds in your presence.

Through those openings your forces, long locked away in their own prisons, come screaming back into this world.

Some are clad in blackened, heavy armor, a lattice work of scars and welds silently telling tales of battles and atrocities this world would seek to forget.

Some are all but naked, a simple skin or cloth loosely serving to obscure their genitalia; less out of modesty and more to obfuscate a weakness.

They bear rents and stitches in their flesh. Tattoos, fetishes, markings of an almost unintelligible variety, sigils of glory and scorn for fallen friend and foe alike.

Their armaments are as diverse as their appearance. Some wield clubs and mauls, broken siege weapons and plunder taken from enemies dashed against the battlefield. Others call upon blades of the finest craftsmanship, maintained with care and intensity, the last vestiges of discipline in a sea of depravity. All are designed for melee though, there is no distance for this . To feel the life ebb from their foes, to see it grow cold on the dampened ground, to know the last thing through their minds is hatred and terror, that drive this motley horde almost as much as your will.

Still, as their senses return to them, as the world they've returned to opens up before them, you are aware decisions must be made, actions taken.