“Be careful in there,” came the final warning. “The death count is very high.”

Behind the ivory doors was a throne made of bloodstone, in a pool of light dripping from cold moonstone shards weeping from above. On the throne was perched Lord Mortus, the death count. He had one leg looped over the arm of his throne, and was slouched forward looking intensely at his pale bony hands.

“Duuude,” he said. “Dude.”

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