His name is like a wall of flame, devouring all — a force that, in elder ages, cast entire kingdoms into dread and ruin. Xaroth is no mortal being, no creature of flesh and blood. He is darkness made living, born of the deepest shadows of the soul-realm.
He is the embodiment of tyranny, enslavement, and ruin. Where he walks, dominion follows. Cities fall, kings kneel, and even light itself seems to wither. His title, the World-Burner, is no legend, but a mark of flames unleashed in damnation. They devour not only the bodies of the living, but the essence of their souls. Nothing remains.”
He glanced briefly at Raynarus and Elvoran and drew a long breath, then continued:
“Xaroth is invincible. His existence cannot be extinguished. It is said that even his summoning is enough to twist the will and dreams of those who call him. His words are a poison — slow, corrosive — that eats at the soul.”
He paused. The gravity in his voice left no doubt. Then he went on:
“The rites of summoning are lost — or hidden. It is believed that only through a ritual of immense precision could Xaroth be drawn into this world. And even then, no binding is known. He cannot be destroyed — only driven back.”
His voice dropped into thought.
“I cannot say this with certainty. But the danger I feel is real.