‘Dread Oomukade, Damned Oomukade, Terrible Oomukade. Only in truth, only in reason, only in the darklight of the archfiends eclipsing presence, did I see it emerge. Erupting from the visceral vita, as a winding, sinuous, segmented sinner of many spined legs. It crawled from The Prison and perched upon the grand arm of the desecrated descendant spawn of Asphodia the Tribute. It’s sacrament began with the merged spine of Gregio, Maskatar, and Azfolan: spurned from the blood of their own was spite- their slighted ego’s melded in their blood soaked fervor, and it was that the darkness held within them satisfied the Prisoner that was now born from their death-womb. It’s back arched and snapped, countless vertebra sliding through the intangible ground to merge with this shapeless creature. So was formed the thirty-first sin from the penumbral plane, born form the consecrated spite of man and the jealousy of woman as it perched on the edge of its prison, the unknown yet known one: the spurned glory, the veiled threat to all who overshadow their lesser, the death of many legs: Dread Oomukade, Damned Oomukade, Terrible Oomukade. The dark monster that takes the shape of serpent and wyrm; twisted together and born of butchery- there can be no equal song to stand as balance against this creature as it lives to destroy all those who would think themselves to be its equal. It rules in secrecy, its wings surpass the mundane ones of dragons, for it needs no wings to soar for it need only crawl. Of fiery breath it has none, for no conflagration can match its kiss. Of beauty, it has none, for in what use is beauty, compared to the perfect and timeless grace of death? So was born the many-legged serpent of claw and chitin, usurper of the winged flame. Not of a grander glory but a darker hate created of the black abyss, born from spite and spine, conceived of the scorn and jealousy of those dying with envy held in their hearts. Of many legs so as to cling to false hope, of rending claws so as to rip life from those who have left it with their works undone, of keen senses to see through the deceptions of the living, of burning venom so as to strip the pride from those who would think to know the truth of pain, and of silence so as to be never known nor heard, unremembered for that is what it is- silent spite. This is what will eclipse those who tower above the mountains, and fly higher than the skies limitless blue and black. The thirty-first spawn of the Abyss as the Prisoner of Spite shall be given the title of Oomukade the Despoiler Wurm, Dread Oomukade, Damned Oomukade, Terrible Oomukade.’