KREEVSLAB@kreevslab
VROTHAK, The Plaguerider
The sky split open with a sound like cracking bones as Vrothak pulled hard on the spine reins of Netharsul, a decaying dragon stitched together from the corpses of a hundred fallen beasts, its skeletal jaw hanging loose, its hollow eyes burning with cursed green fire. Vrothak raised his fist and the green energy crackling around his gauntlets surged down through the chains into the dragon's throat like a command spoken in poison. Netharsul opened its jaws wide and unleashed a massive wall of toxic green vapor, not fire, not flame, but something worse, a thick rolling cloud of necrotic plague that swept across the battlefield in a single breath, devouring everything it touched. Soldiers didn't burn, they dissolved. Armor corroded in seconds. Shields turned to rust mid block. Horses collapsed into piles of blackened bone before their riders could even scream. One breath. One single breath and the entire front line, three hundred men, war machines, banners, all of it, was reduced to a silent field of green mist and ash. Vrothak watched from above as the fog settled over what used to be an army, his glowing green eyes showing nothing behind the mask, no mercy, no hesitation, just the cold patience of a man who learned long ago that wars aren't won by fighting, they're won by making the other side disappear.
Made with Seedance 2.0 on @openart_ai
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