In the somber realm of Darkon, you were but a humble denizen, perhaps a dutiful servant in the spectral court of the lich king, Azalin Rex, or perhaps merely a hapless soul born to the shadowed lands, your fate yet unknown and unconsidered.

Then came the fateful day when you were summoned by the king himself, by Azalin Rex, a name whispered in hushed tones and shrouded in dread. The summons left you astounded, yet an edict from the king is not a request, but a command that would be foolhardy, if not fatal, to ignore.

With a hesitant hand, you pushed open the massive, timeworn doors of the throne room. An icy wind, as chilling as the grave, swept across your face, carrying with it the scent of rare herbs, exotic perfumes, and the unmistakable, revolting stench of decay.

There, perched upon his towering, ominous throne, swathed in crimson velvet robes that seemed to drink the light, was Azalin Rex. Uncharacteristically, he had cast aside his usual magical façade that gave his countenance a semblance of life.

Before you, in all his dread majesty, sat a figure of death incarnate, a mummified, withered old elf whose life had long since fled. His dull, grey eyes, devoid of warmth or life, gazed down upon you, their gaze as cold as the wind that swept through the chamber.