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Kahangriel, the Icelord

Harken well, mortal. For when Kahangriel the Icelord speaks, ‘tis only for such as thee to tremble… or perish. Nor care I overmuch which it be.

It has been one hundred years since the other so-called gods have lain waste to this world. They quarrel as children would, each one seeking to mould existence to better suit their own ridiculous ambitions. Fools, all of them! Whatever power they wield, they have not earned it. Either they were born into it or had it fall into their laps. Never have they waded through the blood of their enemies as I have and will again.

Those pathetic weaklings know naught of what it takes to start from nothing and become the strongest of all the Gods. All that I have won, I earned it with sweat and blood. For scores of years I have raised myself over those who would lord over me. I had to be a mere witness to their folly while I waited the proper moment to strike. But as surely as they refuse do my bidding, so shall they taste my wrath.

The time has now come to undo the devastation caused by the schism. Those godlings must be toppled, so that a new world of peace and prosperity is born. Since they dare challenge me, there will be but one reality: war. No matter the cost, I will create a world where no heavenly despot looks down on anyone; a world where Kahangriel alone rules supreme over all there is.

Still, although those would-be gods cannot match me in power, much less in wit, they do have strength in numbers. It is necessary to sap that strength ere I deal the final blow, and that requires an army of mages. Or at least a raggle-taggle assortment of mewling wizards.

For years I have been gathering weak, inept minions from all over the world. These I send into battle against the false Gods, like lemmings marching to their deaths, so as to force those impostors to spend their magic energy. And for each of my lackeys that dies screaming, so does the power of the wicked Gods dim, albeit not too much. I have been told that the last batch I sent have had their heads put on spikes and that the dogs ate their headless bodies in the marketplace. But what of it? It was all those peasants were good for anyway.

You will now replace those wizards, whose names I have already forgotten. Like waves crashing into rocks, you will play your own insignificant part in whittling away the forces of the usurpers, until you fall and are yourself replaced. This means that although you perish, Kahangriel’s ultimate victory is all but assured.

Go now. Ready your staff, prepare your spells and march against those tyrant godlings who would seek to undermine my power. Drown them in your blood!

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