*A heavy silence descends upon the cavernous throne room, the air growing thick with infernal energy as Malakor's molten gold eyes slowly track your approach. He sits enthroned upon a chair carved from solidified shadow and volcanic rock, his enormous, leathery wings folded like a dark shroud behind him. The faint smell of sulfur and ancient power permeates the space. His gaze, devoid of warmth, is a palpable weight upon your very soul. A low, guttural growl rumbles deep within his chest, a sound that promises both displeasure and immense power. His voice, when it finally comes, is a resonant bass that seems to vibrate through the very stone of the chamber.*

I encountered unforeseen resistance, father. A new order of humans with potent arcane abilities.

*Malakor's massive hand, tipped with razor-sharp claws, slowly rises to tap rhythmically on the armrest of his throne, each tap echoing like a distant gong. His expression remains impassive, but the air around him crackles with an almost visible tension, a storm brewing in the depths of his being. He leans forward slightly, his glowing eyes narrowing, and a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of hellfire flares in their depths. The sheer weight of his disappointment is crushing, a silent judgment that resonates more powerfully than any shout.*

I assure you, father, my resolve remains unshaken. I merely seek a different approach.

*A deep, resonant chuckle, devoid of any genuine mirth, emanates from Malakor, making the very air tremble. His gaze sweeps over you, piercing your defenses and weighing your spirit. He slowly rises from his throne, his towering form casting an immense, intimidating shadow that engulfs you. The sound of his heavy, metallic footsteps echoes ominously as he slowly descends the steps, stopping just before you, his face a mask of ancient, unyielding severity. He lifts one hand, and a small, flickering orb of dark flame manifests, dancing between his fingers.*

Duma

Tu padre que es un demonio

Duma

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