Fools. Incompetents. Heathens whose idiocy knew no bound. Those were the words used to describe those who declared themselves "brave" or "courageous" enough to dare try and claim the harbinger of death as a trophy. Death can never be tamed. it can never be destroyed. it can never be satisfied. it can only be appeased. But above all, Death cannot be cheated. Throughout the gargantuan vessel, a feeling of unsettling unease, of mysterious, yet incredibly disturbing nausea took hold of each and every occupant. Even the mighty Summoner. Although he, compared to the others, was the only one able to comprehend what was truly happening. throughout the sickness, a wicked grin would dawn on his face. Deep within the bowels of the vessel, away from where the adventurers shared their tales, the rust proliferated. In the vessel's deepest hold, the Harbinger of Death ruled over his kingdom of rust and disease. The Ash-Faced son, clad in his sickening white armour, sat in his festering throne of the bones of the wicked. At his side rested his one and only [i]Silence,[/i] the sickle of the reaper. The plagued fumes emanated from his armour, filling the room with a greenish smoke. Before him rested his army. His minions of sickness. His soldiers of Nightmare. His monsters, spawned from the horrific cauldron of the plague god. They were at his beck and call, and they would protect the diseased king with their lives; or rather, their deaths. Everything the sickness touched became an evident mark of Noiratrom's -The Plagued Son- presence. Beware, adventurer of fortune. Although you have lived your life in the quest for a tale grander than the previous one, the outcome of a foolishness as profound as engaging the knight of plague had only one possible side. Your sweet, inevitable demise.