Atrunor looked upon all he had wrought since the war began, and while he was satisfied, his sorrow remained. Perhaps this band of survivors would fare better than his last assembly of the chosen. The storm had taken some doing, and he would need to repay Farrag later for that favor, but it had been worth the trouble.
“Still squandering precious divinity on your playthings, brother?”
The presence had been there for a while, but Atrunor had hoped he would simply leave him alone – a fool’s hope, he reminded himself. When it spoke, he turned to address the horrific, blood-soaked figure before him. “I act in accordance with necessity, Maruhe. I would not test our maker’s patience with your superfluous meddling.”
Maruhe canted his helmet, causing a fresh flood of ichor to billow forth from its inscrutable depths. “Meddling? Dear brother, war is the sole lot of this wretched land! Does that not make me its avatar and true inheritor? Are you not, by attempting to end this conflict, struggling against our divine imperative yourself?”
Atrunor tensed, keeping his shield angled toward the savage specter of slaughter before him. He could not refute the fact that war seemed to be Ralczan’s predetermined fate, but he was in no mood to entertain his brother’s twisted rationale. “Divine imperatives can be changed. If it should conflict with the path of the righteous, I will bring my wrath to bear upon Uvast itself.”
“What a curious sentiment,” Maruhe retorted, his disembodied voice betraying a hint of amusement. “Small wonder that we are related after all.”
“Enough! Begone from me, empty beast!” Atrunor reached for the hilt of his blade, but Maruhe was already gone. His suspicions were well-founded: the blast was only a taste of what was to come.