Orion reached out, his left hand closing around the shaft of a blood-red spear. Its tines were slick with a fluid as black as ink—the abyssal ichor of Mokka. He brought the spearhead to his lips.
He licked the black blood, a coppery, alien taste flooding his senses, and swallowed.
Then, like a profane shaman, he began to chant.
"Spectre of Dragons, sleeping in endless night, hear my call! Through this blood, I offer a tribute you hunger for! Descend and claim your prize, O Ghost Dragon!"
In Mokka's disbelieving eyes, a tempest of power—lightning, abyssal energy, and raw vital force—began to swirl within Orion's abdomen. The energies fused, coalescing into a vortex of sanguine, ghostly mist that was both beautiful and terrifying.
It erupted from Orion's core as a low, ancient draconic roar echoed from the depths of reality.
