drift and looked upon his surroundings with disgust. Lights twinkled in every
window, doors were decorated with greenly life. It was sickening.
“Grazakradi,” the God called forth his first general, “tell the legions to fan
out. Find him.”
The hulking shade nodded and, with one elongated tendril, raised up every
shadow cast by moon and man. Within minutes, the darkness spread and cut itself into millions of stick-like figures.
Nahflegaz watched as his newly-recruited soldiers spread out while he sharpened his icy blade. He set off, covering miles with a single lurch. He followed the cold and drifted North, skirting over oceans and plains. He was going to the top of the world.
He spent hours searching for the earthly God, the one who stole his offerings and admirers... the fat, old man of the North. Long after the estimated time, Nahflegaz waited for any flash of red or sound of horrid bells.
"The people who worship him will pay,” Nahflegaz said, “as soon as I slay that