Darkness. Or'do was lost, alone, devoured in shadow. Yet he felt all the same his body moving, striking down those before him.

His fist of iron smashed against sallow flesh, crunched against pitted bone, grated against steel and burst on through. Again they struck, yet this time, he parried their blows upon nothing more than an upraised arm. He was a whirlwind of shadow and light, his fists silvered meteors that with celestial force smote the twisted kin of Darkness.

Long, wordless, wracked with pain and sorrow, his voice rang out as like a dervish of black steel, he surged across the field of battle, his slender frame splattered in blood, his legs slogging through a mire of blood and torn flesh, yet still he did not slow. Vines of blackness erupted from his forearms, slashing through the foes encircling him with little more than a gentle tug, as if it were damp paper through which he passed. Anger drove him on, gave strength to his fading arms, gave power to his once frail limbs.

Their shrieks became a horrid, dissonant melody; a thrumming knell that told of his despair in its sordid notes. His breath misted in black tendrils that veiled his angular features, turning his once kind eyes into pools of molten scarlet whose pale radiance was only intensified by the darkness on which they were cast. He waded onward, slashing wildly, great wings of blackness erupting from his back; knobbed bones across which thin membrane hung, and lashing these, he launched himself into the sky.

Dark fire poured from his jaws, washing over the battlefield as he came down once more, smashing into the sea of limbs and bodies like a stone from space set alight by the force of its entry. Like war-hammers his fists crashed home, tearing flesh and sundering bone into dust. He lunged, his trailing foot vomiting a tidal swell of black fire that devoured those behind him, and with another howl of desperate anger, he slammed into the wall of adversaries.

As if the sun itself were stained black and thrust to the earth, a great orb of fire swelled out from his impact, devouring his foes and leaving nothing but rugged, pitted, forever befouled ruin in its wake. He sagged, crumpling to the earth like a marionette with severed strings, his strength gone alongside his consciousness, yet the Dark had not mercy for him. The chime of bells rang out, and the red moon turned scarlet. From it came a mass of twisted limbs: the One Reborn came forth in a spray of foul liquid, its many limbs thrashing with eagerness and lust.