When Vulkan silently repeated hope for the seventh time, the air around him warped.
A figure had appeared beside Vulkan, though he had no idea when.
It was an old man.
An exceedingly ancient man, so old that the dust of time seemed to have hardened into a shell upon him.
He shuffled along, each step treading the boundary between reality and illusion, soundless yet carrying an unsettling sense of sluggish resistance.
He muttered under his breath, his voice low and indistinct, as though humming a requiem forgotten for a thousand years, or speaking quietly to some unseen presence.
His figure looked translucent amid the spreading green poisonous miasma, like a ghost that had not fully coalesced, its edges giving off a faint, greasy glow.
He wore a moth-eaten robe riddled with holes. Its original color was impossible to discern; now it was a filthy blend of moldy green, dirty yellow, and old bloodstains.
Dried strands of some unknown mucus clung to the edges of the holes. In his hands, as withered as birds' claws, he gripped a strangely shaped glass bottle.
The bottle was covered in scratches and grime, and held a bizarre mixture that slowly writhed, its murky colors constantly shifting.
As he shuffled forward, the liquid swayed gently, and the bottle knocked against the many other oddly shaped bottles and jars hanging from his belt, producing a series of faint yet unnerving sounds.
Without any warning, he had appeared less than ten paces in front of Vulkan.
Vulkan's pupils abruptly contracted. His muscles tensed in an instant, and his fingers tightened slightly around Dawnbringer.
The Flame Guard moved almost simultaneously, silently placing themselves between Vulkan and the old man. The low warming hum of Power Weapons sounded through the deathly still camp.
The old man paid no