"Even after two thousand years, I can't break these binds?!" Adelram, in his dragon form, roared in anger.
He tried to burn the black smoke and rip it apart, but nothing seemed to work.
'This brings back bad memories!'
…
Old World, thousands of years ago.
At the tall, high-end throne, Alastor lazily sat with his legs dangling over the edge.
With a look of boredom, he looked at the warlords that were bound by the black smoke. They sat silently with their heads hanging low as if they were seeking forgiveness.
"You had one thing to do." Alastor said lazily. "To destroy that mortal resistance. Yet, you failed to accomplish such a simple task."
"The resistance have a special kind of mortal among them." Adelram said. "That mortal managed to teleport everyone to safety. We couldn't do anything to stop that."
"Excuses, and excuses."
Alastor tightened the black smoke bounds, and the warlords started to scream in pain.