High above the world, where the air grew thin and the winds howled with primal fury, Jolthar sat in perfect stillness upon what had once been the summit of Mount Kythara. The Chaos Sword hovered before him, its obsidian blade wreathed in silver flames that danced and writhed like living things. The weapon's presence distorted the very air around it, reality bending and warping in ways that defied comprehension.
Six moons had passed since he had begun his vigil here, and the transformation was evident in every line of his form. His face bore a patched beard that spoke of months spent in solitary contemplation, while his dark hair had grown longer, now falling past his shoulders in waves that caught the ethereal light of the floating blade. His clothes, once fine garments befitting a baron, had been worn to practical simplicity by exposure to the elements and the constant pressure of the chaotic energies that surrounded him.
