DOOOOOOMMM!
The third toll thundered out. Before it sounded, wooden beams were already trembling and walls were cracking. The resonance of the previous toll had yet to fade, and this new peal only added to the discord.
At the sound of the Skaven artifact, the Doom Bell, some mortals who failed their willpower checks had already descended into madness.
Yet as the bell continued to toll, the beings hidden in the deepest reaches of Baldur's Gate began to emerge.
An unassuming monk stepped out of a collapsed monastery on the edge of the city.
He wore his long hair simply, tied with a red headband, and dressed in the plainest coarse hemp clothes with wraps around his lower legs. He carried no weapons whatsoever. Only two dragon tattoos stretched from his hands up his arms. He looked very young, no more than thirty, and his black hair and black eyes made it obvious he was not a Baldur's Gate native.
The Skaven Clanrats spotted him and surrounded him, but the Monk merely pressed his palms together. Stones, darts, spears, and the cleavers in the Skaven's hands struck him without leaving so much as a ripple.
"Why did you have to shatter this peace, rats?"
With compassion on his face, the Monk held his palms together and surveyed the hundred-odd rats surrounding him. They attacked him in a futile frenzy without harming a single hair on his body. Then he looked at Baldur's Gate, where vast stretches of the city had already been destroyed, and a trace of anger crossed his face.
"All martial arts under heaven originated in Shaolin."
The Monk suddenly kicked, sending the upper halves of several Skaven flying. His arms swept around, and a red divine dragon representing fire and a blue divine dragon representing ice traced