[GSM]

The Owldrake was gone.
Replaced with a Demon King.
Na'Ria had shed its skin, and become Imperfect.

So rapturous did the lesser demons and spectres fight on behalf of their Ascendant that it was starting to seem an impossibility to get closer.
The danger that the sons of man faced had only increased to a ravenous degree.
There was a warning, warbled through the mind and echoing out through the camps of those who wished to bring about the destruction of the Obelisk of the End.
The words of the Demon King need not be spoken, but they were.

"If it is by my hands you wish to die, then die by them.

I no longer hold mercy in my hearts for any of you.

For too long have I been soft.

I will sing your stories.

The younglings that you are, would you continue to charge at me blindly,

will surely meet your Ends at the behest of Storyteller.

Because mine story has only just begun."

The pulsing of Grey, the festering of Hel, would now linger with a stronger malefic odor upon the lands of Grimjhall's foot.
Spiraling. Seething. Scouring.

Time was up.