411 Patron

The Undead stationed at The Pit's entrance reported no strangers in the vicinity. Doevm glanced at the entrance for the fifth time, then once more. Had to be sure. "Again," he ordered.

Owen rose from his limp state: "There will be a new god. The prophecy has been broken. Prepare, my master."

"Still no changes," Doevm muttered. He rubbed his eyes, which grew heavier each night. It wasn't as if he chose not to sleep. He couldn't. Fifteen years of preparation, in order to challenge the hero, had built up an anticipation so momentous that sitting still became impossible. Owen's words, however, infected him with a weary dread.

Doevm slapped himself awake. There was one more thing to take care of: "What do you want?"

Turning around, he spotted the ever-radiant figure of Maker, who chuckled: "No hello?"

"I think I would prefer to say goodbye," Doevm said as he stepped back and examined her.