“Zerstoren!” rumbled a sepulchral voice outside the Mages’ Tower.  “Come forth and face your doom!”

Zerstoren looked around the table at the gathered circle of archmages, each the head of one of the Orders of Magi that made their home in the tower, and they stared back.

“Problem, Pyromancer?” asked the Evoker.

“I’ve no idea,” Zerstoren replied.  He rose from the table and wandered to the window.  Outside, at the towers’ base, stood a massive, dragon-shaped pile of rotting flesh and bone covered in clinging hanks of shredded grey hide.

“Trampus, Fallen Lord of the Skies, is come, mortal,” the dracolich hissed.  It turned the empty sockets of its monstrous, fire-blackened skull upward to glare directly at the Pyromancer.  “And I will have my revenge,” it declared.

Murmuring arose from the archmages seated behind Zerstoren.  “That certainly sounds like a problem,” said Belly the Chaosmage.

“Unlikely,” Zerstoren said.  He idly gestured out the window at the animate heap of putrefying dragon, and a blinding white column of fire descended from the firmament to immolate the beast, instantly reducing it to drifting ash.

Zerstoren returned to his seat.

“What was that all about?” Pelostar the Hydromancer asked.

Zerstoren shrugged.  “Who cares?”


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