[Aethyr]

The Master strode to the top of the hill that overlooked the dark castle.

The field that lay before it was littered with the shredded bodies of Bakemono warriors. In some places the bodies lay in smoking mounds mangled flesh and bone, a testimony to the power of the living statues bound into service by the one-eyed ones.

The scouting reports had been wrong. These Agarthans had not been easy foes, their weapons of arcane flame proving to be a match even for the Dia Bakemono. But, finally their fat prophet and his cohort of Oracles was no more. Deprived of their support the warriors were no match for the Master’s swarming hordes, and their little godling had been crushed beneath the Master’s own heel.

Yes, the castle still stood, and undoubtedly there were still more of the Oracles and their stone servants to slay. No matter—the Bakemono were many. Summoning more hordes to replace the fallen, the Master marched forward to claim his dark prize.