In the ancient, stygian abyss of the illimitable void, the Blood Monarch waits; his blasphemous atrocities surround him, writhing in a damnable mockery of what was once life. The blackness of the void envelops all, stifling even the screams of his latest plaything-some poor soul who delved too deep in the dark secrets of magick.
He is formless; an undulating chaos.
He is merciless; reveling in his victim's pleas for death.
Driven to kill, he waits.
For the day is coming when he will be freed. Freed to pass into our plane of existence. He sees us and waits for the day he can finally play.
He waits, and soon the wait will be over.
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