Outside of the capital only a mile away, a series of events that would change the way people on New Serpentum live was about to conspire. A spark, a small miniscule spark. Invisible to the naked eye, then another, three more. Finally a flame suddenly bursts to life. Burning into the rock itself to find the materials to stay alight. Ashes suddenly form inside the flame, a blade of blood red. The fire licks at the edges of the flames until, the blaze becomes a gastly white, almost as bleached by the sun itself.
Soon the ashes begin to form a humanlike figure, finally, materialised out of flame and fire stands, Jerimiah of Fallen Lords. As if from no were angelic feathers fall upon him basking him in holy energy amd restoring his humanity. The Padalin towers at 7'1" a true warrior. His double headed greataxe shimmers in the sun. A welcoming site to those of holy intentions, the contary for the wicked.
Soon Jerimiah walks across the barren desert stirring up dust with every majesticly lumberous stride. Soon Jerimiah stands at the wall of the capital. Looking up to the turrets on the great wall, he sets an armoured hand onto the dusted barrier.