Warlock and the Tinheads

He rose from the gore-slick crest of a mountain that should never have borne life, crowned in blood and ruin. Muscles knotted like wrought iron, his body an altar of violence, the war champion hoisted twin blades skyward—one to command, one to damn. His mask, a relic of forgotten tyrants, gaped with the hunger of a thousand silenced voices.

Behind him coiled the Dragonworm, a grotesque godling of flesh and nightmare, its scaled hide wet with the ichor of worlds consumed. Its head split open in a leering rictus, part daemon, part birth-spasm of madness. Its breath did not warm—it infected, whispering horrors into the marrow of time.

Below, the Tinheads swarmed like doomed apostles. Once-men, now shells of agony, their bodies broken by servitude, their skulls entombed in gleaming coffins of rusted metal. They grovelled, they reached, not in worship—but in a fever of memory, as if touching him might rekindle the fire of forgotten humanity.

The sky boiled in apocalyptic hues, a womb of wrath birthing monsters and messiahs. And there, at the heart of this unraveling myth, stood the warbringer—champion, heretic, god—butcher—howling his legend into the veins of a dying realm.

This was not victory.
This was a ritual.
And the world was the offering..

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