[Amhazair]

The first rays of the morning sun found Cerberos standing on Pythiums city walls, as they had unfailingly done for the last year, ever since old age, diseases, and battlewounds had conspired to make it impossible for him to lead armies in the field any longer. But on this morning the weight of his 43 long, long years seemed to settle down on his shoulders heavier than ever before. Exactly as he did every morning he lifted his face up, letting the sun lend warmth to his old skin. How he longed to see once more, only once, to behold the sun in all it's glory, before lying down for a well-deserved rest.

But alas, it was not to be. His life would soon be ended, in total darkness, and so to would the life of his people end. Swallowed by the eternal darkness of the grave - and the even deeper darkness of eternal toil behind it. No, this was not a morning for happyness. Even though he could not see it, his other senses were more than aware of the vast horde of teeming undead laying siege to the city. The creaking and groaning of bones that should have been laid to rest long ago found their way to his ears from the fields below, the stench of death wafted up on the morning breeze, the very air tasted of death... and a supernatural chill seeped into his bones. Only a few nights ago blizzards had howled against the walls. Blizzards! In the middle of summer! In the heart of Abyssian lands! He should be sweating profusely under his priestly robes, not shivering in a morning chill.

A surer sign of doom there could not be. Even the streams of pure Abysian blood that had drenched the soil beneath the many altars since the starts of the sacrifices only a couple of years ago had apparently not brought them divine favor. Time and again the proud Abysian armies had stood against innumerable undead hordes sending hundreds upon hundreds of the lifeless abominations back to their graves by sword and by fire, only to be halted, turned back, and ultimately defeated by hundred upon hundreds more, supported by the most frightening battlemagics this era had seen. And now there was nothing left. Only one other companion remembered the glorious days of the war against Pythium, or even the first days of the war against Ermor. Just as old and as sick as he was - and only half a dozen Anathemants had stood up to replace the fallen. It was not nearly enough to even slow the tide of death anymore. Only ten! proud warriors still stood ready to defend the high walls of Pythium, most of the length being manned by hideous crossbred monstrosities summoned by blood magic in this hour of dire need.

No, this was not a good time to be alive, and he would gladly lie down on his bed never to rise again - were it not for the fact that after death would not come the blessed heat of the afterlife, but instead the merciless Thaumaturgs of the enemy...

One blessed moment longer he held his face up, drinking up the sun, looking to the host beneath him just as big and strong as ever, but then he turned away and started shuffling down the stairs, leaning heavily on the shoulders of the young kid helping him, tears flowing from his lightless eyes and evaporating upon reaching his cheeks...