I will fight your ceaseless war. In this way I shall be punished.
Shamura stands with grim resolve. A shadow appears before them, a Crown upon its head, eyes glowing red. Followers die, devotion surges into them, and they are massive. Boundless. Everything they are, perfected. Well, not quite — even now their head aches — but as close as they possibly can be now. They are not wise anymore. Perhaps they never were.
But the fury of war has never left them. At least they have that, here, at the end.
It happens as it always does. The shadow rushes to meet them as they charge forward. They land two blows and receive four for their troubles. Two daggers punch through their exoskeleton. The burning pain is familiar, as anticipated as the steps of a dance.
I will fight your ceaseless war. In this way I shall be punished.