Thoren was examining the boot with a leg when the situation around the massive skeletal jaw changed.
The ash tide appeared behind him.
It made no noise. It gave no warning.
There was no shift in the air, no change in the light, no distant rumble to herald its coming.
It was simply there.
As if it had stepped out of the void itself. As if it had been waiting for him to stop, to lower his guard, to believe for one foolish moment that he was safe.
It was right on his heel.
Thoren's terror was absolute.
His heart slammed against his ribs. Every hair on his body stood on end.
A cold shock raced down his spine, and for a single, terrible moment, he could not move.
The ash tide loomed behind him, a wall of churning gray death, its tendrils reaching for him, its howl rising from a whisper to a roar.
He did not think.
He ran.
He raced toward his mount, the undead Sanguine Vulture, with all his might. His boots pounded against the ash-crusted ground. His lungs burned.
