A sickness has burned deep within the heart of Dendara. Feverish nightmares plagued her once dreamless sleep as the guardians within turned into monstrosities; twisted, pained aberrations that strained against their earthly bonds and turned on the primordial desmesne.

Valakris, the Bellower was one such monstrosity. The gargantuan wyrm erupted from the depths of the Kalydian Forest, empowered by the disease and blight of the aged wood that cradled him in a fetid husk. Rot and corruption streamed from his vast form, spreading its filth wherever he tread in a twisted pall. With a shriveled belly and mind blotted with only a gnawing hunger that could not be sated, he descended on Sapience. The hunger screamed within, clawed at his belly and drove him further into madness. Valakris was a winged nightmare that plucked his prey from the ground with only a tell-tale shadow to precede his strike.

It was hunger that drove him downward for a final attack. He had glutted himself for months, his belly fit to burst with the dead of Sapience. The hunger that roared within his mind even as the durdalis shattered his bones and crushed his great wings. The hunger that even as he was consumed within the fires of the core of the Great Oak, screamed within his mind, begging for more.

A whisper of gratitude; a final susurration as the remains were consumed in the fires, casting his spirit to the skies. Release at last. The wyrm was reborn, spirit borne to Dendara once again, and the wood shuddered with its passage.


Penned by my hand on the 23rd of Variach, in the year 422 MA.