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My creation lives! It moves, it rends and tears. It is young yet and it craves blood, but I do believe this opens up a most interesting branch of necromancy. Assuming it is Necromancy. Yes, let's say that it is.
There was a time when the shrieks and screams of the people might have bothered me. But their sacrifice and their pain, their rich, warm blood—how can giving my creation life bother me in any way? They are not dead. Not truly. Not while my creature lives. In a sense, they continue to live as well. The time for concern and mercy is long behind me.
Few understand, but few have my power. They have not glimpsed the pulsing heart of Doomcrag. They have not risked all and taken that power within themselves. I pity them. Not for their pain and fear and torn flesh. I pity them their simple lives, their lack of power, their closed minds.
I shall leave this creation with my vampires. They can tend it, nurture it, feed it the flesh of the feral ones. Or the flesh of any survivors—if there are any survivors. When the creature is stronger and larger, they can unleash it on Rivenspire. In the meantime, I will create more such creatures, I will create an army of living flesh!
Let the revolting peasants give themselves to the glory of my creation! All will know my name. Even Montclair and Lleraya will see what I can create, what I can do. Let them wonder what else my power will accomplish. I care less about their petty concerns with every passing day.