"The enemy is not nameless. Kryo. That is what it calls itself."

7th of Jirath, 1012 on the War Calander, 1 hour after the events of The Day of Destiny:

A man of Draith skin with an impossibly muscled body hobbled through a wooden hut, his long shoulder-length hair flowing down his shoulders. He wore no shirt revealing large scars adorning his body. His eyes were dreary, barely sane.

He walked over to a mirror hung on the wall and gazed at himself. To his eyes, he looked fake. Even in his own body, he felt out of place in his skin. He was more comfortable in the body of the dying.

He looked at his face and chanted his name. It was a tactic he'd employed to remember who he was. It might have been folly, but 1012 years later, he still remembered.

"I am Dalthor, Arcanum of Thunder!" He bellowed.

Dalthor rose from the mirror, feeling better, though it wasn't to last. His vision started to flicker. One of the people he'd marked was dying. It was time for him to speak to the Cloudsummoner who'd rejected the call.

A wall of white flashed in Dalthor's vision before it calmed into a gold tint.

He lay on a medical mat on a Yjraith Camp, Enjin Gilthar hovering above him. The Cloudsummoner looked from the dying man's eyes. Enjin would see golden mist- Harbinger- flowing from the man's eyes. It was time for Dalthor to speak through the dead.

He didn't cause all insanity speeches; they happened to those who shared his blood, the blood of Zatanria, the offworlders who could peer into the future. The heritage was so faint that none of the abilities seeped into the Kraetezians that had the blood. As far as Dalthor knew he was the last Zatanrian. Well, aside from him, the other enemy; the Dalthor left alone. It was not his fight.

Using their shared blood Dalthor could speak through the dying and give messages, unconsciously moving pawns into the place he wanted them.

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"Enjin Gilthar!" Dalthor bellowed through the dying soldier's mouth.

The Cloudsummoner flinched.

"I am revealing too much...It is fine, I can't hide much longer anyway. The king of Hellfire speaks only truths. The Bleakness is coming; you must join him!"

Dalthor's vision ended, and he returned to his own body.

Dalthor stumbled back into his body. He had been giving so many insanity speeches recently that he barely spent time as himself. That would change. He was close to finding him. The enemy Dalthor fought with burning anger.

A dark mist of grey poured into the room, forming the silhouette of a hooded man of pure black. The enemy. The bringer of the Bleakness.

"You reveal yourself..." He snarled.

"I don't have much time anyway."

The shadow man snickered, "Yes, Salara grows weak. She will die soon."

Dalthor's heart wretched, but he didn't let it show.

"She would never lose to you." And as if on cue, the man of shadows stumbled back as if being punched. He was punched. By Salara in his prison.

The more Dalthor exposed his existence during the speeches, the closer Kryo was to finding him. It had to the Consciousness of the Harbinger; The primordial energy that made up the Arcanes. Conciousness was sort of like the intent imbued into the Harbinger. The Kraetez know a little of its existence, and they used to suppress Devildealing in their slaves.

"Go away." Dalthor commanded of his enemy, "I can't bear to see how far you've fallen, old friend."

"But I don't even know where this is," Kryo responded. He appeared to Dalthor, but the enemy didn't know where he was.

Dalthor extended his hand toward Kryo. Lightning boomed from his fingers, expelling the mist and the man of shadows.

Dalthor sighed and sat down on a wooden chair.

Dalthor's eyes exploded into gold. He wasn't peering into another dead man. He was having a prophecy! Most insanity speeches he doesn't interfere with are meaningless dribble, blended and rearranged bits of maybe futures, but a full-blooded Zatanrian can conjure a full prophecy. He hadn't had one since the fall of Zatanria so many millennia ago.

Dalthor stood, and his mouth moved on his own.

"Once the five rise to face the end of times, The enemy will attack led by a man with a godless shine.

He will turn your friends into enemies and your foes into allies without reason or rhyme.

The vast ocean of red will be our last, Born of Crimson spilled, a single choice to fight; kill or be killed."

Dalthor stumbled back, his eyes no longer glowing, resisting the urge to scream in agony.

The words had seared themselves onto his back in the Zatanrian script.

This was the final sign. It was time that Dalthor revealed himself. He'd placed his pawns, now it was time to finish his last preparations and join the fight himself.

The Arcanum of Thunder was going to return.