The dark lord dissipated.
Melted, into liquid stone, into solid smoke.
And began to drift through the moonlit trees.
Their gnarled trunks were no obstacle to him; his gaseous form parted and bubbled around them, gusting over streams, blending with the smoke from the fires that had consumed the prophet.
He had been foolish, to believe that he was a match for Herothi. The dark lord was finally claiming his vengeance, and no one was going to get in his way. And yet they still insisted on calling him the Omen of Death. Herothi boiled, spiralling through the branches. He was not an omen of death, he was the cause of it ...
He arrived at Father Aron's dwelling. Any land dweller would have called it elegant, but to Herothi it was a crude, ramshackle tent compared to the realms of the Underworld, where he had been imprisoned.
It was guarded by several, long-haired centaurs, pikes held in their muscled arms. What futile resistance, when his essence could not be severed by any mortal weapon?
He drifted, unseen, into the tent, to where Father Aron resided. It was time to abolish the last Prophet in Moonlight Forest - and then to destroy their last hope of resistance.