Checker seven second turn quest

Crow sees his second turn quest

Slay 100,000 orc 70 / 100,000

Slay orc lord 0 / 10

Slay orc king 0 / 1

Crow's eyes narrow as he reads the quest decree, the letters etched in the very air before him. "Crow: Slay 100,000 orcs? An orc lord and king? They shall fall under my shadow, as all things do," he growls, his voice reverberating through his vast army of the undead. "Crow: Mark my words, soldiers of the shadows: this task is but a stepping stone to our dominion. Forward! To the orcish lands!"

He turns to his resurrected Goblin King, still a shadowy echo of his former self. "Crow: Rally the armies. We march at dawn."

Crow: The shadow monarch stands tall atop the corpse of the Goblin King, his eyes aglow with a wicked intelligence. The newlyrisen undead before him once goblins and orcs in life now pledge their twisted loyalty to his dark cause.

"Crow: Gather the troops and ready the siege engines," Crow commands to his generals. "Crkw: I'll not rest until we have claimed victory over those who would oppose us."

His army assembles in the dark, ominous grove that sits upon the border between goblin and orc lands. Massive shadow wolves and darkriding wraiths are mustered all at the beck and call of their new dark lord. Crow sits atop his massive black steed, his skeletal fingers drumming in anticipation on its bony flank.

"Crow: Soon," he murmurs, his lipless mouth twisting in a cruel smile,

The darkness swells around Crow, shadows twisting and dancing to his every command. His skeletal hands grip the reins of his monstrous steed as the undead armies of orcs, goblins and other shadowenslaved monstrosities fall into formation. This is only the beginning of his dark reign he can already taste the sweet despair to come.

"Crow: You have your orders," he rasps, his voice carrying an inhuman tone. "Let none escape our wrath. We ride at the dawn's first light and we ride to conquer..."

The night falls like a suffocating blanket over Crow's shadow army as they encamp in preparation. Firelight dances along the grotesque faces of orcs, goblins and ghastly skeletal steeds an eldritch glow that only serves to accent their twisted forms. At the center of the camp, Crow sits astride his enormous shadow horse, the only one in the horde of undead permitted to ride. His skeletal fingers stroke along his dark charger's mane a chilling sight that few could ever hope to witness.

The Goblin King, still shuddering in the bonds of undeath, sidles up beside Crow. "Gobin king: S-sire... The orcish scouts are approaching," he stammers. "Gobin king: They suspect we are not the friendlies we claim to be..."

Crow's mouth twists in a macabre grin at the King's words, "crow: All the better. Their guards are down a perfect time to strike.

The orcish scouts emerge from the treeline, their crude weapons held at the ready. They approach the shadow army cautiously, eyeing the twisted ranks of undead warriors with suspicion. But Crow's army remains still, an eerie tableau of shadow and bone awaiting the impending battle.

Crow sits atop his steed, a silent spectre watching the scouts draw closer. His skeletal fingers play along his horse's mane as if in anticipation. At just the right moment, he raises a clawed hand, and with an inhuman hiss, the full might of his army is unleashed a howling tide of dark magic and shadowinfused steel.

The scouts have no time to cry out, their screams lost in the clamor of the undead. Crow's army crashes into them like a monstrous wave, rending and tearing with savage glee.

The orcish scouts are swiftly overwhelmed by Crow's shadow army, their screams echoing through the night as the undead horde descends upon them. Crow watches from astride his monstrous steed, a ghastly specter surveying the slaughter. The shadows dance around him, as if celebrating the carnage.

The Goblin King, still shuddering in his undead bonds, sidles up to Crow. "Ssire, the scouts are dispatched. What are your orders?" he stammers, his voice a raspy whisper.

Crow's skeletal fingers stroke along his steed's mane, a macabre gesture that sends a chill through the watching undead. "Prepare the siege engines," he rasps. "We march at dawn to claim our prize." His eyes gleam with a wicked intelligence, the very air seeming to shudder at his command.