Pain.
It was the only thing Durin felt. The Ocean of Rot over him was like a conceptual plague.
It didn't just burn his skin, oh no it did much more than that
It was eating his sanity, his will, even the mana in his veins, turning his legendary dwarven vitality into grey slush.
His warhammer was gone. His armor was a pool of molten slag around his knees.
The High Priest of Rot floated closer, raising the Scythe of Decay.
"Look at you," the Priest gurgled.
"The Great King Durin. Just a piece of rusted iron waiting for the scrap heap."
Durin stared at his own hand. The skin was bubbling, revealing the muscle beneath.
'Rusted...' Durin thought. 'Is that what I am?'
For three hundred years, he had been the Master Smith. He stood behind the anvil.
He held the hammer constantly shaping metal. He believed his strength came from what he could create: the cannons, the golems, the armor.
But now, his creations were dissolving.
