We now descend into the darker ages of humanity. Where cruelty, strife, and persecution run rampant.
It is a billowing column of smoke that announces the presence of the next member of our little corner. Rushing across through a forest of evergreens, we come upon that of a burning village. The flames of what had once been homes roaring vengefully towards the sky as the glisten of steel draped in blood gives away our next friend. Valoraxe. With a lust for battle that has no compare, one could compare him to the berserkers of legend. Charging headfirst into the fray against anyone who might prove to be a challenge, whether it be friend or foe, it matters not. All that matters is that he receives the satisfaction of cleaving and crushing flesh, bone, and sinew with his Axe; which howls like a rabid wolf whenever it tastes blood. The only thing to subdue him for moments of time so that he may write for us is a poison akin to thirty-year-old scotch. Which calms his bloodlust just long enough to write for us, which is transcribed upon the walls of his cavern home with the blackened texture of charcoal.