There in the moon light stood the majesty and the might of the storm, his arms across his armored chest, each hand bearing a sword.

“Lyet, to war, we go against the thunder and the wind, to the loser, we give thee to Hell!”

He raised his swords to the storm, the rain pounding his face.

“We march into death, our heads held high, we shall not be defeated! We shall scream our victory to all who shall listen! Turah! Turah! Death to all who shall stand before us!”



He placed his helmet on and mounted his dragon.

She felt him kick into her side, to fly into the storm, his army following him with cheers of death, to honor their predicted victory before the heated battle.

They swore their allegiance to the Goddess of Life as they rained death upon their enemy below.

“Death to the wicked!” J’Kalara screamed and pitched his dragon into a dive, her firey breath spraying forward, catching their enemy in flames, sending them into the after life.

And many went, a fire ball their last vision of this world of life.

The armies swarmed their enemies in shock and awe, the battle a quick victory.

Even the wizards were quickly defused and sent to a fiery end, their magic spells completely made worthless.

Another land destroyed, brought under the control of the Dark Army.

J’Kalara executed the crowned leader of the opposing army, placing his severed head upon a spike which J’Kalara placed on top of the highest point in the land, a reminder to those not to oppose the darkly king.

His soldiers rampaged the land, raped the wives, sisters and daughters of the fallen soliders whose lifeless heads now encircled their leader’s own head.

“Bear witness to defeat from your lifeless eyes, you dogs!” J’Kalara sneered.


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