A few years ago, in the depths of a large vat, the black liquid churned and churned, the mere soul of whoever looked into it devoured in an instant. A small silver ladle stirred the liquid until it began to lather, a black helmet covering the head and eyes of the one who held the ladle.
They wore a royal purple robe, silver and golden threads keeping the fabric together.
�Ruins of the ancient city, glowing brightly through the night. Come together, no more gritty, into the full force of your might.� The voice was soft, and almost feminine as the figure holding the ladle spoke, peering into the cauldron.