A Prophecy Of Destiny

"You're going to die," Korgarth Thornheart sneered, winking up at Osman Spar as he did so.

The dwarf's foul words echoed throughout the dungeon lord's mind like some kind of bad omen. Korgarth was a shadow cleric, and Osman immediately wondered if his words were more than just a mere statement meant to unnerve him. Perhaps they were some dark magic spell designed to rile up his very psyche.

The two of them were all alone now, deep down under the earth, in the cavernous Starter Room of Osman's dungeon. And, needless to say, the tension between them was pretty thick.

Plex was still passed out on the cold stone floor from drinking the elderberry spirits, leaving Osman to question the dwarf on his own.

The little cretin's wrists were still bound behind his back, of course. And his ankles were still shackled too. But — Osman knew from recent experience — that it was Korgarth's tongue that posed the biggest threat to his well-being.

"Don't speak," he told the shadow cleric then. "If you speak again, I'll put this gag back in your mouth and leave you bound like that for another day or two."

"Hmmmm ... hmmmm ... hmm-hmm-hmm," the old dwarf snickered, looking a bit like Charles Manson. He grinned and screwed up one of his rheumy eyes, then made a series of sinister murder hobo faces before going as silent as a mime.

It was creepier than hell.

But at least Osman had gotten the dwarf to shut up.

He wondered again if the shadow cleric had used some sort of infernal spell to generate that echo effect in his mind, or if that chilling reverberation was just one more symptom of his own nearly-fractured soul?

Osman didn't know.

Wasn't sure.