It was unholy.
Disgusting even Morthor.
It wasn't meant to be, and had been created from the darkest magics born from the deepest crevasses by the most inhuman creatures ever born from the lands.
Morthor stood at the rotting door frame to the dim, dingy, high roofed room which smelled of congealed blood and rotting flesh... human flesh.
The huge beast which sat in the midst of the room, writhing in it's rusting chains, roaring, was impossible, but it was there. It was the Straith.
And it was hungry.