With an army arrayed before him, one might assume he had a plan, some hidden scheme, or a trump card to sway the tide of war. But simply observing the figure floating above the battlefield told a different story.
He looked like a ghost of his former self, frail and pallid, a sickly shadow clinging to borrowed power.
It was the older deplorable, the one now ominously known as the Blood Deplorable.
He hovered above the battlefield like a harbinger of dread. Though his form was suspended in the sky, his body trembled faintly under the sun's gaze. His complexion was sickly pale, marred with black veins crawling beneath the skin. Still, despite the clear signs of decay, none could forget the truth: he remained a 7th star.
The ranks of the allied forces—Darkan and the Church—released an involuntary breath of relief. Their leaders, who had spent sleepless nights drafting the most meticulous of plans, silently thanked the heavens. If he was sick, he would be weaker, wouldn't he?
