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The rumble of thunder beats with the hard drum of war. Shattered earth burns and chokes the sky with its clouds of smoke and fire. The clashing blades and flashing steel form the gnashing teeth of man's war host. Those that flee too late are stricken down by steel rain. Their rolling juggernauts crush house and bone. People flee heedlessly into the arms of waiting raiders, their hands of sharp steel and the unquenchable fire of rage. Crushed, burned, slashed and impaled, many fall before them, age and gender have no bearing on their lack of mercy.

But some escape, taking to what cover the forest can offer and the clasping bowl of hills that cradle the slaughter. They run, away from home and the safety it once promised. Their flight causes the creatures to take flight, running, swimming, ascending to the heavens; all flee before chaos. The unfeeling hammer of the juggernaut's judgment falls upon the surrounding trees, coveting the woods in a blaze of mast that cries with creaks and falls burning to the floor. The juggernaut's minions run from around its galvanized hammer, its arm cocking back to bring another head of fire into the defiant wilderness that dares slow its advancement with wooden giants.

The wildlings scatter, the darkness of the canopy is robbed from them when the gods of industry show their path to illumination with scorching hail. Its scorn burns all those touched by its light and the conflagration spreads to purge all who stand before their god's might. Those unfortunate enough to fall are trampled, those too slow are pushed aside, the disoriented are lost and the weak are torched.

The others break through, the fires of war gnashing at their heels, the fortunate never see family fall, while the unfortunate watch them die in their hands. Tears streak down their eyes from the choking smoke and the tightening heart. The roar of fire carries the cries of the living and their final throws as the consuming flames claim them for the industrial lords. The shadows cast by the lights only cause the displaced to curse the apathy of the fire's masters.

The beast that flee ahead of the chaos do not stop to watch danger's pursuit, for they have grown used to losing territory before the flames of human ambition and the cold steel shell around their hearts. Long have they fled from one territory to another, away from those who wouldn't just devour them, but rend their skin from flesh, mutilate their bodies or exterminate them with such fervor and abandon that it becomes a mere game. But they can't complain because that is a way of life; all they knew about humans was their atrocities.

But today something has changed; they can feel in the fire storm. It wasn't from the violence and malice the invaders who brought upon them; a raw power that hides inside of it. It causes the flames to move with sentience through the woods, actively choosing targets to cut off in the confusion. They see creatures that would've been engulfed by the flames be spared when it turns away from them; others that are ahead of the flight are chased by tails of fire leaving immolation in their wake.

It chooses the creatures to consume, villager and wildling alike, chasing and striking them down with the fervor of a mad hunting beast. They become aware of its malevolent sentience immediately. They also realize that as long as they're inside of the forest they're trapped.

This violent cleansing was necessary. It's clearing the way for them to wake a powerful secret that pumps through Allorus veins. That's what he thought behind that full helm bearing a dragon's with a permanent snarl and exhaling flame. A plume of that glows with the orange and red of fire hangs from the back of his skull, settling along a protruding spine. Two women drape their arms around a blazing star at the breast of his full plate. His gauntlets and grieves are fashioned into the dragon's claws but drip with a black ooze that cooks the ground where it falls. Black baggy leggings were almost out of place, their length covering the shins of his plate boots, but when the ooze falls on them, they sup the icor like a fresh wine, leaving no burns or stains to blemish it. Despite his armor's formidable visage, it's because of his weapon, a shield with where the spoke and boss hides a flamethrower and his coiling gold blade, in which he got the nickname, "Hellash."

His men march in formation, their boots trampling the bloody broken townsfolk; their bodies pave the road for his steam engines. Their tracks clammer and clank, masking the crack of bodies that lie under them. Claws cover the front of those monsters, extending their arms and pulling aside debris that stood in their way. Before them the men burn and cut away brush, their heads covered in a fire beast mask, their armor appears lighter than their commander's but they also bear the claws of fire beast. Their red skirts shimmer and thrive in the dense heat of the pyre.

This was a slaughter, something to whet their appetite before they taste the real battle. He knew it wouldn't be long before the Sonter Empire moves to intercept them before they threaten larger towns with his army. He wanted this war, his men wanted this war; the souls of his juggernauts wanted this war. They are adamant that he set them loose; to show their commander that his time invested in creating them was worth it. They were his children and they wanted to please their father, so he lets them run amuck through the homes of his newly sworn enemy. They're impressive, sewing precise destruction, weaving through the woods and coordinating their attacks to isolate vital targets.

He also saw their childish nature play out when the creatures began chasing wildlife, cornering deer, mice, coyote, turkeys and grouse. Some of his troops throw corpses into a wagon; he doesn't deter his men from collecting some potentially well done meat from the fire. He does however keep them from breaking off to pursue any survivors they may encounter. His children will catch them; they love to play with their prey.

Night will fall, but it burns with the morning glory of his flares ascending like spears of sunlight hurled to the sky and slowly falling to the ground. Every spear is followed by the crackle of thunder and scorching red storm. His men were tired of the slaughter, but their machines never tire. Some recline on the back of their juggernauts and launch a ball of immolating bramble. Destroying their shelter becomes a casual affair now; the flame has already taken hold and his 'children' keeps it burning until nothing remains of the woods surrounding the old hamlet.

While they are enjoying themselves, he was gathering the excavators. The ruins are smashed and pushed aside by his machinations. Drills pierce the ebon soil, twisting their bits into the earth. The roar of the engines will drive the men idling around away from the village center. He stands in silence while his machines work their bitter teeth into the crust. Engineers move about the jungle of excavators, checking pressure gauges, adjusting speed to avoid overheating and delaying their already tight schedule. Standing atop the chaos he wrought, Hellash watches them undertake the grim task of depositing bodies into the furnace that fuels their dig.

"Look at what we've made. Our juggernauts crush their brittle brick, wood and straw houses, the people who lived in this small town fuel their engines, their petty lives that are beneath the notice of the kingdom high lords are now put to use in feeding our soulless constructs; things that could tell no difference between master and fodder. We so easily discard life in favor of our lifeless tools, and they show no appreciation of it. Destroying them would not be murder, it would not serve our survival, yet we treat them better than we do life itself." Hellash, with a deep and solemn voice addresses his lieutenant without even favoring him with a glance. "Do you know why we cast aside something that lives a short life and breaks so easily?" His officer shakes his head.

"Is it because they're easy to replace?" His lieutenant says. Hellash grunts.

"Just the opposite; you simply don't bed some wench and a few months later you'll have a child. You pray you're not sterile, there are no complications and the bitch doesn't get sick. Then you spend several years raising the whelp until it's strong enough to actually do heavy labor. Even capturing slaves is costly in either lives or resources. You'd have to make sure they survive the raid, they're clothed and fed, suppress any desire for rebellion and keep them watched at all hours. The same goes for some beast too, and if they break they're nearly useless until they recover or you roast them for evening supper."

"The reason we cast aside people and creatures, while favoring our hollow inventions, is because they're weak, and happen to be in our way. Raising young is difficult but reasoning people is worse! They already have opinions on how much their items are worth, they try underhanded tactics to minimize their losses and will treat their men worse than reavers. Why reason for resources you need when you can just kill them and take what you need? The more people you have the more it takes to keep them fed, healthy and maintain their moral; reasoning with people becomes a chore that waste time. At this point we're not able to take extra people, we need resources to build our might to conquer stronger nations and sustain ourselves for more than a few months; and that we will find in this focal point.

"When we reach it, the expendable nature of our people will be changed. No longer throw away grunts, thugs and mercenaries; we'll cast a shadow over the most renowned knights and generals. Legends will pale in comparison to the power we yield. No longer will our machines be soulless, our ways be viewed as barbaric destruction, but we'll give birth to a new form of creation. There are many beasts that leave their mark upon this world for no force is capable of toppling them. We shall overcome them, and become a force that even the elder dragon Arddose will find worthy of respect!"

The ground trembles, a resounding thud echoes through the bowl of desolate cliffs and the city of dauntless metal. The air becomes heavy, hard to breathe from a sudden increase in pressure that weighs upon all creatures for the raiders awaken a powerful force. All can feel it; see its glow, light green and blue, rising from the crust and into the sky covering the air around them. Hellash's engineers run to the breach with an opaque white shard, hovering above a small pool of black liquid housed in a box of steel and glass. When they hold this divining crystal over the venting energy, the crystal glows a bright green. This light brought a resounding cheer throughout the ranks of Hellash's engineers, which meant only good news for the horde of troops serving them. They drink, they sing, they fire their rifles to the air and shout obscenities to whatever gods they've forsaken in this search for power. They were a step closer to the same dream as their overlord, immortality and freedom from the unadulterated rule of the Scions.

This celebration however is short lived. The crystal that illuminates their blood and soot covered armor, changes from green to a sinister purple before crumbling away into the black pool it hovered over. The energy that radiates from the breach changes from green to purple and black, lashing out in tendrils, breaching their liberators' chest. A sickly sucking noise could be heard through the armor of the engineers gathered around the dig site, their eyes bulge and their bodies twitch. Their blood turns from red to black; their flesh convulses, pulses, and grows like a rampant tumor. They assimilate the metal armor they wore; their wails of pain are carried above the cries of fear and disgust. Four, eight, sixteen, more are taken. The weaving plague of corruption spreads, a symbiotic plague grips the war host. Hellash's eyes are filled with a familiar fear that struck him before he formed his band of warriors and made his pact with the fire spirits; a fear of dark creatures and the unknown, a fear of something he can't contain and understand.

"Burn it! Burn it all!" He shouts above the panic. "Set it ablaze and fall back!" Those that weren't scattering in fear follow his command, setting fire to the center of their drilling metropolis. Cries of pain are turn to cries of anger. They watch the men they set ablaze stand, turn and march through the conflagration. The march turns into a trot. The trot turns to running. Before they can run away from the madness that seep into their dying companions, their mutated bodies were breaking the fire line with fist and claws of jagged bleeding steel. Their faces are crushed and disfigured by their helms, bodies overwrought with muscle squeeze through the metal meant to preserve it. Chaos falls, blades are drawn, and those that aren't still burning or slicing their foes went to conventional weapons.

"Get the juggernauts turned on the center! Purge this madness!" The titans of human engineering try turning their payload onto the heart they were meant to preserve, but they're much too slow. The creeping tendrils of madness pierce the metal and pumps its' ichor into their systems. The machine, whose form was supposed to be so stable and indomitable, creaks, squeals and contorts into shapes not meant to be taken. Parts burst, but instead of scattering to the ground, they dangle above it, held by a thick tar like goo. It doesn't just hold the shrapnel from the mutilated juggernaut, but the bodies of their crew lie on the surface, paralyzed with fear, choking on their last gasp of life, before they too are assimilated into its mass.

Ean, Flalgra, Coarar! Return to me for an enemy is upon us! Hellash calls to the fire spirits who graced his men with their destructive power. The spirits he thought of as his children, and see him as a father figure, retreat to their 'sire', burning a trail through the wreckage before him and evading the grasp of the madness that took his men and machines. If things weren't so dire he would not call them to his side, for he doubts even they were safe. He draws his lashing sword and raises the flame spitting shield. It vomits gouts of fire, desperately burning the black tendrils that wrap around his juggernaut. His thumb holds down a trigger, his lashing sword vibrates. The blade whips around, resonating through the air, cleaving mutated flesh and bone with every swipe. His weapon, which emboldened the horde and grants his namesake, cuts down the very people who looked to it for inspiration. This merciless flail rends metal as easily as it rends flesh. The scars it leaves on the juggernaut are still less than the contusions that mar it with corrupt powers.

The children return to their father, surrounded in the wreckage of the empire he sought to build and in his most desperate hour. They grant him their fire; it orbits his form and burns away the tendrils that sought to meld with him. The men that his children once supported are repelled by the fires that protect Hellash. Those that stand aren't afforded the protection the spirits give their adopted father, and so they're forced to retreat or fall themselves.

"I cannot hold here children, the enemy is too many and powerful." He addresses the fire spirits. The dancing lights and flame starts to disengage from their dragon armored nucleus, searing those who barred his path with a flurry of burning light. Hellash follows their trail to its end. The corruption will have no more of it.

The juggernaut rises. The twisted heap of destruction rolls its head to the man who scales off its back. A melting claw slams before his path and swipes at the man who wanted to be a deity. The warlord displays a feat of agility that only comes from someone with years of acrobatic training with light armor; he vaults over the slashing arm. Its arm slams into another metal giant. Hellash's concern for his own safety was not lost on the monster of bubbling ichor. It was after he evades another arm that he realizes that the spirits who safeguarded him, that attacked on his command and displayed their fury to all that stood before his army, are no longer there. Their presence is missing. There is a silent room in his soul, one that he filled with their whispers, curiosity and vigor. Now it's vacant, and when preservation had once burned so brightly, his sense of it dims.

A third arm shoots from the juggernaut's elbow, he does not evade it. The ooze crushes his body. He doesn't get to scream. The weapons of a once proud warlord fall, his old body no longer able to bear their burden. The ambitions of his legion are crushed, and like Hellash himself, assimilated into the mind of madness.

The sound of battle, the cries of the defeated, the familiar tone of destruction; all of this is not lost on those who survived the attack of the flaming legion. Five people sought shelter in an alcove shielded by a cleaved boulder facing the high hills; shelter from the burning men and their war machines. With the cries that come now, they are not sure any shelter will save them.

A young woman, covered in amulets of six elements, prays. Her rosary clutched tightly in her hands.

Sickly mother of creation's past

We long for the day your sickness pass

Fever madness doth you dream

Terror becomes a loving thing

Do not look upon us sick mother

Your children are helpless before your scream

"Sorry, mommy sees you." That voice is grating steel and hoarse with pain. The screams are that of their terrible mother and the children she brings into the arms of agony.

None escape, much like the fires that scorched the land, this madness doesn't discriminate on age, sex or species. It spreads, assimilating all things into it. The dead lands writhe in pain, new things grow that can be indistinguishable from animal, plant or machine. Tormented creatures roam the land hunting down all who seek to hide from its conquest. The monstrosities knew nothing of rest, nothing of celebration, the ravagers who burned down the forest and slaughtered all before it were merciful compared to the misery wrought by the servants of this madness. Screaming, clawing, fighting with everything they could muster, the abominations took those who don't fall to the slaughter to a pit with a great maw. From there they saw the dreams of corruption, assimilating the remnants of the planet to become one with hellish entities that merged with stone and steel, life and death. The mother of monsters looks upon her children wandering their home, doing their mother's bidding. But before she would have them reclaim those that were once hers, her new children needed a name.

Denkaro. That is what they will be known as.

The corruption grows, it spreads beyond the mountains that cupped it and overflows into towns. People evacuate, the military prepares for a retaliatory strike. But though war was often humanity's domain, these creatures fought with the mind of an immortal that possesses its own knowledge of the game, and whatever this immortal failed to think of on its own the assimilated Hellash will teach it many new tricks. But they weren't necessary, her own monsters are more than enough for the organized forces that try to subdue them, their physiological make up so erratic that their men aren't capable of adapting to the more versatile enemy. Those that aren't slain outright in battle are corrupted by the growing influence of their mother's madness.

For years this corruption spread, igniting confrontation in every land they encroach upon, forcing all manner of creature to run for their lives or become another part of its mutated horde. For years all one can do is watch with dread as this darkness that devours darkness creeps across the land, transfiguring all in its path and forcing even a mighty empire to run for its life. They sought all manners of sorcery to contain this sinister plague, but every attempt to stop this insanity ends with the sorcerer dead or driven insane; the madness grabbing hold of their mind when attempting to draw energy from the mana lines. Before the end corruption claims an empire.

Then, after claiming thousands of lives, after ruining an entire civilization, after consuming a sixth of the continent, it stops. The onslaught of chaos, the spread of tainted ground, could go no farther. But its creatures linger on, abominations of flesh and metal, writhing in pain and with a hunger of their own; the denkaro are not bound in the same way as the land. They disperse under cover of night, spreading throughout the land as nameless horrors. Soldiers who grew tired of retreating are now reluctantly standing their ground, fighting the grotesque creatures that stalk the woods and roads at night.

It isn't a battle against a foe so much as it's a struggle to survive. The darkness favors their enemy and the screams deny the most stalwart soldier sleep. There are no veterans made from these battles and the destruction is as much psychological as it is physical. Heroes are not born from the turmoil; none felt pride in the prestige pressed upon them. Some wonder if they're better off retreating from the chaos as they did before, but they know that eventually there will be no place to fall back to. The bloody attacks persist in shadow until people are only a shadow of themselves.

It wasn't just the towns that felt the menacing presence of these fell creatures and the torment they wrought. None of them care for the creatures that dwell in the wilderness. Why should they? The wolves were wary, always moving in the day and gather around their dens at night with one or two runners risking their lives to lure the monsters away from their young. Bears that were proud and formidable things were always looking over their shoulder, until they're forced to form groups just to hold their own against the madness. The deer tire from ceaseless flight, many are found dead from exertion. Rodents that are once prevalent find their own preying upon them in the darkness, a litter of shadow and mutant madness that would find its way into their dens and feed off nursing mothers first before spreading to the young. Events similar to these become common place among the wilds, among the civilized people, and they spread throughout the continent over the great seas.

The plight of people and wildlings soon takes an unexpected change. A violent thrashing in the air and a flurry of wings scatter from the mountain tops, like a swarm of bats. They form several clusters in an organized pattern, their formations like small clouds descending upon the land. The people and wildlings know this to be dragons.

The dragons, once they were the only creature all everyone feared. Their size, their power and their wisdom made them the trickiest race for the human nations to understand, yet now, as those who dwelled in the lowlands face extinction, they choose to appear. The dragons, their mighty claws rend the monstrous denkaro's metal hide, their flames melt flesh and metal alike, and a will that doesn't bend or break, are as steady as time itself. Their forces take the land, the legends of their ferocity is like comparing a candle to the sun. The denkaro that fought are overcome by ancient stewards of the mountain. Unlike other foes the dragons fought, the denkaro do not know fear. When they go down, others don't feel sorrow or fear, they feel anger and a hunger. They ignore the fallen and to devour all foes that stand in their path. For weeks the denkaro and dragons engaged in combat. For weeks the lowlanders support the creatures that saved them.

Their war didn't end until the dragons slay every last denkaro leading to the uncorrupted lands. However they cannot break through the forces that guard them there. Should they fly above the lands of bubbling tar it comes alive and to snatch them from the sky and the ravenous earth devours them. Like the sorcerers before them, they try to overcome the power that corrupts the land and fail. It comes as a shock to both the dragons and the creatures who watch them, that this is the only force on Allorus that has stopped them. Reluctantly they're forced to satisfy themselves with holding what land remains from the denkaro.

They honored their fallen, holding solemn vigils over funeral pyres. The only thing they knew that could burn a dragon's flesh was magma, so the dragons hold their funerals inside the darkest reaches of the caves. The people and creatures they saved hold their own silent vigil for their saviors and a world that was restless, learned how to sleep, if only for a short time.

On the third day after victory, the crumbled nation of Sonter is met by an envoy of the dragons. Three great wyrms, their scales adorned in treasures that humble royalty, met with the leaders of the human realm. Their voices are as grand as they are old.

"Lowland leaders of a decimated people, we are the drakat. We have seen the devastation that the creatures know as denkaro left in their wake as your people fled to our lands. It was from sympathy that we did not drive you from this realm as we have many before you. Our intervention in your battle to survive is due to the prolong suffering those corrupt creatures inflicted upon everything under our supervision and its attempts to spread rot through our lands. We have decided that if we allow these monsters to roam our lands we're submitting to their incursion. The denkaro need to know that these lands are ours, and all those who live in them are under our rule. To commemorate this union of your people and ours you will be known as the Oronauc; they who dwell in the mountain's shadow."

A defeated people, after years of displacement and the onslaught of denkaro, submit to the rule of dragons. The ancient ones wouldn't visit the courts of the low lands and they held no demands. The people knew they could do nothing if they decided to take what they desired. Their overlords however weren't unreasonable, often they would patrol their lands, and occasionally some would take cattle or other large animals. The old lords had no claim for land anymore, the dragons appointed their own governors for the different fiefdoms. War had tired the humans who fell under the dragon's rule. An unforeseen consequence for their struggle against an unrelenting foe created a desire to preserve peace. None question how they learned the name of the dark creatures that tormented them they only took solace in drakat rule and their continued protection from a foe that had come close to annihilating their entirely.

The Oronauc were humble and celebrations were held to show their gratitude to the drakat for their rescuing their people. The wildlings however would not see the same protection from the drakat. They would not know that their often overlooked story will soon change due to the threat of the newly formed children of a mad god.