We found Grey Seer Zerrik Warpfang in a place where Ghyran’s green had gone sickly, where sap ran black, and flowers curled like dead spiders. A ruin stood there, half-swallowed by vines, and the air hummed with warpstone’s sweet, poisonous song.
He was already waiting.
A hunched figure in ragged robes, skull-crowned, staff, crackling with green lightning. His eyes were pits of hunger lit from within. Around him, tiny sparks danced and snapped like gnats made of hatred.
Varkh raised his blade. I did not. You do not threaten a Grey Seer unless you want your bones arguing with each other.
Zerrik spoke my name without being told it.
“Molarusss,” he hissed, savoring the syllables like marrow. “War-priest who hides behind voice-words. I smelled you in the tunnels of fate.”
I felt the Great Horned Rat’s mark itch under my skin.
Zerrik offered a bargain, of course. Grey Seers always do. He promised guidance through Ghyran’s living traps, promised warpstone routes, promised spells to sour rivers and rot roots—poison the land, so Order chokes on its own mercy.
In return, he wanted offerings: captured relics of life-magic, seeds blessed by Order, and the right to “study” any enemy hero we dragged back breathing.
Varkh hated it. I saw it. But Varkh is smart enough to know that a blade is useless if the world turns sideways.
So I stepped forward—just a little—and spoke the ritual words that make alliances real:
“By fang, by fear, by the Great Horned Rat’s shadow… we share-share the spoil.”
Zerrik smiled. It was not a friendly smile. It was a hunger wearing teeth.
And just like that, Clan Molarus became a three-headed beast:
My voice to drive the swarm.
Varkh’s iron to break the line.
Zerrik’s sorcery to rot the world.
Tomorrow, we march deeper into Ghyran—into wet forests and holy springs—where Order thinks it can heal.
Let them try.
Everything living can be made to taste like ash.
