The void, shadows, a desolate realm, a cursed land.
A ruined body fell onto a throne woven from shadows. His powerful frame was now torn apart, the power that had once ruled the shadows reduced to faint echoes. Golden fissures covered a body that had once been sleek and magnificent, as mighty as an ancient monolith.
"No, no!"
Every inch the Shadowlord, the Dark King, moved forward brought tremendous pain. He laboriously clawed at the floor with his shattered talons, dragging himself along inch by inch. His face had been torn apart, and both his great horns had snapped.
Perhaps a beaten dog was the best description of him now.
But he was still alive.
The Shadowlord Be'lakor dragged his ruined body back to the Shadowfell. The Original Daemon Prince was exceedingly cunning. Before entering the Realms, he had prepared a fallback, carving out a small domain in the Shadowfell in case disaster struck.
Be'lakor's situation was dire. Moradin's thunderous blow had utterly destroyed the Original Daemon Prince's physical body. All that had escaped back to the Shadowfell was a fragile remnant of his soul.
Worse still, his foolish arrogance had allowed Lathander to discover his fleeing soul. In his fury, Lathander had cursed Be'lakor's soul. The curse left Be'lakor distraught, wrapped in sunlight. Within his world, a blazing sun periodically exploded inside his soul, and every explosion weakened it further.
Light was, by its very nature, the enemy of shadows.
Be'lakor was no stranger to curses, but against the curse of a Greater Deity, even he was temporarily helpless.
"Hah... hah... hah..."
Be'lakor's broken soul settled onto his Shadow Throne. Having lost his physical body, he was now nothing but a mass of shadows, pure shadows. This had been a disgraceful defeat, but he would return.
The light of