In dark, destitute, and forgotten halls deep within the Dwarven necropolis of Stonehell, The Dark One strode steadily toward a sullen spectacle. Before him lie the broken form of a man he once called his son. Not by blood, but by choice, this man had been selected to be his heir apparent - his successor to all things kin to the flow of power and might.
Drogo ...
Through his claim upon this man, his memory would march triumphantly onward to immortality. Indeed, without a castle or land to call his own, the fallen prince mocked the desperate warlord before the eyes of destiny. His failures dashed all hopes of remembrance for the Dark One's decrepit deeds.
Through Drogo ...
He cradled his limp son, that offspring of another man's lusts ... molded in his dark viseage. Anger swelled within the Dark One. All those years, which seemed like eons ago, preparing the boy for a birthright of conquest - dashed upon the bloodied stoney floor of a forgotten dwarfish prison.
... Such disappointments, such failings. Those clumsy aspirations of power, not yet fully taught or rightfully deserved. This time, events would be more desired. This time, he would stare back at destiny and unflinchingly claim his prize. This time, the reigns of power would be fully grasped and secured.
The Dark One, Voltan, could almost feel the pulse of ambition in the lifeless corpse of his bastard as he bore his encumbrance back to the day-lit world beyond the fabled Denwar prison of the dead. Through the Wizard's unfathomable power, his son would live again ...
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