At the council chamber of the dwarves, the council of elders gathered, their faces illuminated only by flickering torches on the walls, a sense of foreboding hung heavy in the air. The atmosphere was tense, as though something big was about to happen, something that could change the course of history.

At the head of the council sat Drogath Rambas, the leader of the dwarven kingdom, a short but imposing figure with a cold, calculating tone that sent chills down the spines of his peers. His eyes darted from one council member to the next, gauging their reactions as he spoke.

"We can't allow this young prince to continue his rebellion," Drogath said, his voice low and measured. "The dwarven kingdom must remain strong, and we cannot let these upstarts disrupt our peace."

The council members nodded in apparent agreement, their movements betraying a cautious hesitation. Their eyes darted furtively, glancing at one another with wary expressions, as though grappling with unspoken doubts. It was clear that a shadow of fear hung over them, casting an oppressive atmosphere in the chamber. The weight of Drogath's insatiable thirst for power loomed heavily, infecting their thoughts and stifling their voices.

Whispers of Drogath's ruthless ambitions and cruel machinations had circulated throughout the kingdom, spreading like a poisonous fog. The council members, well aware of his volatile nature, knew the consequences of opposing him. The fear of reprisal and the dread of his wrath kept their tongues in check, masking their true opinions behind a facade of agreement. Their silent hesitation spoke volumes, a testament to the tyranny that gripped the council chambers.

As the council disbanded, each member dispersed with a mix of relief and trepidation. Their movements lacked the usual sense of purpose and confidence, tinged instead with an undercurrent of unease. Their shared apprehension manifested in the way they cast cautious glances over their shoulders, as if expecting Drogath's watchful gaze to pierce through the walls.

Meanwhile, Drogath retreated to his private chambers, seething with a toxic blend of fear and hatred. His plans, meticulously crafted over time, had been derailed by the unexpected arrival of the ” Chosen Hero”, John. The realization that his carefully laid schemes were now in jeopardy gnawed at his consciousness, fueling his fury.

His thoughts spiraled, desperately seeking new avenues to regain control and ensure his dominance. Yet, every path seemed fraught with uncertainty and risk. The “Chosen Hero's” presence disrupted the delicate balance he had manipulated, injecting an unpredictable variable into his grand design.

Amidst the torment of his own doubts, Drogath vowed to reclaim the reins of destiny. The Chosen Hero would not derail his ambitions. No matter the cost, he would adapt, he would recalibrate, and he would ensure that his dark machinations prevailed. The stakes had been raised, and the game had taken an unexpected turn. The battle for power and control had just begun, and Drogath was determined to emerge victorious, no matter the sacrifices required.

He paced around the room, his mind racing with thoughts of revenge. He vowed to make new figure pay for his insolence, but he needed a new strategy. His previous plan had been to wait for King Tholmir to die slowly and take the throne from the young Prince Holymir hands. But “Chosen Hero” arrival had made that plan too risky, and Drogath could not afford to wait any longer.

Plan B was his only choice. The plan was risky, but Drogath was willing to take the chance. He would do whatever it took to achieve his goals and ensure the success of their mission. John had foiled his plans by introducing his presence to the game, but Drogath was determined to come out on top.

Drogath's fingers trembled slightly as they closed around the crystal ball which was his Plan B, his grasp tightening with an unsettling anticipation. The room seemed to respond to his touch, embracing an ominous stillness that hung heavy in the air. Shadows danced along the walls, their movements unnaturally elongated as if they were eager spectators to the forthcoming conversation.

Whispered incantations escaped Drogath's lips, barely audible but potent with arcane power. As the last syllable lingered in the air, the crystal ball pulsated with an otherworldly energy, casting a ghastly glow that cast eerie shadows upon the chamber. The temperature plummeted, causing a shiver to snake its way up Drogath's spine, yet he remained steadfast in his resolve.

Within the depths of the crystal ball, an image coalesced, revealing the visage of Demon General Savon. The sight was both mesmerizing and chilling, as the towering figure loomed with an aura of menace. His ebony skin seemed to absorb the surrounding light, emphasizing the crimson glow that emanated from his piercing eyes. A twisted grin stretched across his face, hinting at a malevolence that lurked beneath the surface.

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Curved horns arched menacingly from his forehead, a testament to his infernal origins. His muscular frame, adorned in hardened leather armor, exuded power and a predatory grace. Each contour of his form bespoke a formidable presence, capable of wreaking havoc upon any who stood in his way.

As Drogath met the gaze of the Demon General within the crystal ball, a sense of trepidation mingled with a perverse exhilaration. The room seemed to hold its breath, as though the very walls had become attentive witnesses to the unfolding conversation. The air grew heavy with an unspoken understanding that every word uttered had profound implications, and any misstep could prove disastrous.

In the momentary silence that enveloped the chamber, Drogath steeled himself. The encounter with Demon General Savon, a twisted alliance born of shared ambitions and mutual benefits, cast an unsettling pall over the chamber.

"Demon General Savon," Drogath began, his voice carrying a weight of authority mingled with a touch of reverence. The crystal ball captured every nuance of his expression, projecting it to the towering figure within. Their conversation unfolded in a delicate balance, a dance of words punctuated by the flickering light of the orb.

Drogath's throat cleared, a brief pause to gather his thoughts. He chose his words with utmost care, fully aware of the profound implications they held. "My lord, I have pressing matters to discuss with your esteemed presence, matters concerning our plans for the kingdom of the dwarves."

Savon's nod was imperceptibly subtle, yet it spoke volumes of his attention and the keen intelligence that burned within his eyes. He leaned closer to the crystal ball, his imposing figure seeming to loom even larger as he anticipated the revelation that would follow. "I am listening," he replied, his voice carrying a sinister undertone that sent shivers down Drogath's spine.

With a mix of trepidation and conviction, Drogath began to unfold his proposal, his words laced with the essence of dark sorcery and forbidden knowledge. He detailed the events that had transpired, recounting the weakened state of King Tholmir and the fragile state of the dwarven kingdom. And then, he broached the audacious idea that had taken root within his twisted mind.

"I propose," Drogath's voice trailed off momentarily, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air, "to turn King Tholmir into a Necromancer of Death."

The crystal ball shimmered with a sinister glow, mirroring the ethereal power that infused Drogath's words. It captured the gravity of the moment, the anticipation that crackled in the air. In that instant, the boundaries of morality and the forces of life and death seemed to blur, as Drogath's proposition wove a tapestry of dark sorcery and macabre ambitions.

The Necromancer of Death, a figure shrouded in whispers and fear, was a being who wielded the darkest arts of necromancy. It was said that their mastery over the forces of death granted them dominion over the souls that lingered between the realms, able to command spectral armies and bend the very fabric of life to their will. They were vessels of darkness, seeking to conquer and subjugate the living and the dead alike.

A twisted smirk curved across Savon's lips, an expression laced with malevolence and wicked intent. The sinister gleam in his eyes affirmed his approval, and he nodded in agreement, a silent affirmation of the macabre plan set into motion. With a wave of his hand, he summoned forth a Death Crystal, a crystalline orb infused with the essence of darkness and decay.

The Death Crystal materialized before Drogath, suspended in mid-air, radiating an eerie luminescence that seemed to originate from the very depths of the netherworld. Its surface shimmered with ethereal wisps of black and purple, swirling in a mesmerizing dance of malefic energies. Each delicate facet of the crystal refracted the ambient light, casting distorted shadows upon the chamber's walls.

Drogath's gaze fixated upon the Death Crystal, a mixture of anticipation and trepidation coursing through his veins. The crystalline sphere pulsed with an otherworldly aura, whispering promises of power and dominion. Its dark allure was undeniable, yet its very existence threatened to unravel the delicate balance of life and death, ushering forth an age of darkness.

With a sinister smile, Savon's voice slithered through the air, laden with the weight of impending doom. "Take this Death Crystal, Drogath," he intoned, his words dripping with maleficent enchantment. "It will serve as the catalyst for the transformation you seek. With it, you shall unlock the forbidden arts of necromancy and unleash a reign of terror upon the unsuspecting dwarves."

The Death Crystal floated closer to Drogath, its presence casting an ominous shadow upon his features. As he reached out, his hand trembling ever so slightly, a surge of both anticipation and apprehension coursed through him. He could feel the tenebrous power pulsating within the crystal, beckoning him to embrace its darkness, promising him mastery over the forces of death itself.

With a resolute yet wavering hand, Drogath grasped the Death Crystal, its cool surface sending a shiver up his spine. As the crystal nestled in his palm, he could almost hear the faint echoes of souls long departed, their whispered cries blending with the malevolent whispers of the crystal's enchantment. It was a moment of profound reckoning, a pact forged between darkness and ambition, with the fate of the dwarven kingdom hanging in the balance.

Savon's wicked smile widened, his eyes gleaming with anticipation as he watched Drogath cradle the Death Crystal. The demon general reveled in the knowledge that the machinations of his dark arts were set in motion, and that the realms of the living and the dead would soon intertwine in a web of terror and despair.

As Drogath closed communication channel of the crystal ball, he felt a sense of excitement and fear coursing through his veins. This plan would not be easy, but he knew that it was the only way to ensure the survival and dominance of the dwarven kingdom. And he was willing to do whatever it took to make it happen.