Loral was surrounded by the dark ones. Unholy priests, beasts of nightmares and the walking dead of ancients stared at the Kaoa'Dal Cleric. While any one of these beasts could have slain Loral in seconds, it was not them he was afraid of, or even paying attention to.
The lord of Hate, father of lies, god of demons stood in front of Loral, towering over him. He was flanked by the slayer of Loral's father, the Maestro of Rancor, and a charred construction that resembled a female dark elf brandishing the tools of a torturer. Lord Innoruuk smiled at Loral as if welcoming an old friend.
"You have grown mighty, young one. Who would have thought that the simple act of retrieving my hammer could have created such a power as I feel in you." Loral could feel the mockery pouring threw him with every word. "I see you have tossed aside those dry tomes of yours and now brandish a weapon, what a sadness that must be to your Lady, Tunare."
"It is a weapon of my people, Demon. It was wielded by an ancient priest against your minions a thousand years ago. It's name is Kathalo'r. It has slain your children and now it will slay you." Loral said swinging the black battleworn morning star back from underneath his cloak.
"I too have a weapon, young one." Innoruuk spoke, lifting an identical black mourning star into Loral's gaze. As Loral stared into the eternal blackness of the weapon, he felt himself waking from this horrible dream. When his eyes opened, the final words echoed throughout his mind.
"It is called Loral"