Knowledge followed experience, like a shadow or a haunting. Such was the nature of things, and Torrent had gained much experience during his travels. From the very edges of the Demon Lords domain, through the snow capped mountains of Delsaldes and the plains of Stof Fror, he had learned much from trial and error. His magic had grown through the years, although it took him time to comprehend the verses of necromancy. 

      After savaging the lands of Stof Fror, and burning the sanctuaries of Abrium to the ground, the half undead necromancer stole the temple histories of Staeca and now traveled to the cold barren north. Many believed these lands to be devoid of anything of worth. He knew better. So too had the Skinks of Staeca, even though they kept that wisdom to themselves. There guardianship had come to a grisly end.

      Torrent sat next to a small shrine nestled along the peak of a snowcapped hill. The effigy was well preserved, and judging by the lack of moss, well taken care of. The Pharine’s worship of their goddess was commendable, but undeserved. What did an old deity have to offer some latent offspring. So what if it had gifted the Pharine’s ancestors with living souls, she had done nothing for them since. 

      Torrent’s razor sharp teeth ached in his jaws, his stomach banged him dearly for lack of nourishment. His vampiric bloodline called to him, and yet there was nothing to eat for now. The Pharines themselves had a distinct flavor. Warm, sweet, with a grainy aftertaste. It reminded him of a fresh vintage, not aged well but still refined just enough to get some level of satisfaction from it.

      The Pharine's tasted better than the humans of Stof Fror, who tasted like mice; scared and scurrying creatures that kept to the shadows. The Elfish folk of Abrium tasted like vipers, venomous and slithering close to the ground. The first bite stung the tongue, and left him feeling unsated. Even the Skinks of Staeca had a more unique flavor than these canine creatures in the cold northlands.

      The freezing winds reminded him of back home, high up in the mountains of Delsaldes. Each lungful of icy wind washed over his lungs, helping him stay alert and focused. His pearly white skin was barely a shade darker than the blanket of snow, although it was shielded by his dark robes.

      Looking down from the peak, Torrent studied the forests below. Luscious red leaves, the color of dark crimson, complimented the snow. They were beautiful, and he liked looking at them even though they made his stomach growl. 

      It would be dark soon, something he waited for eagerly. Watching the leaves sway with the wind, Torrent took a moment to reflect on his desired mission before turning around to look at the army of undead standing silently behind him. There were plenty of body's in the mountains of this dreary isle, and a vast collection of Pharine warrior’s and human mercenaries populated the decaying ranks.

      Their weapons were rusted, their armor clinging to fraying leather straps, and yet they would suite his purpose. Each of the undead suffered grievous wounds, relics of their previous lives, and flesh worms coated there limbs. Despite there decrepit state, his necromancy was sound, making each of the ghoulish monstrosities resilient. It would take more than a simple axe blow to the cranium, or a disemboweling thrust, to break his servants.

Only a few more hours. Torrent just needed a few more hours, and soon the crimson colored Repentou trees would be nourished in a carpet of blood.