Pharika
(#134)
Level 7 Imperial
Familiar
Plague Sprite
Click or tap to view this dragon in Predict Morphology.
Energy: 0/50
This dragon’s natural inborn element is Plague.
Female Imperial
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Personal Style
Apparel
Skin
Scene
Measurements
Length
24.9 m
Wingspan
20.24 m
Weight
6954.33 kg
Genetics
Midnight
Basic
Basic
Avocado
Basic
Basic
Purple
Basic
Basic
Hatchday
Breed
Eye Type
Level 7 Imperial
EXP: 6493 / 11881
STR
5
AGI
5
DEF
14
QCK
6
INT
30
VIT
20
MND
13
Biography
"Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be baptized in blood and fear."
Pharika is Plague.
She is all that Plague is. Disease drips from the mutated flesh that clings to her bony jowls and bubbles in bloody pustules across the span of her ragged wings. Virulent rot seeps through the thick ropes of her veins and sings in the depths of her skull, echoing in the basins of the bones bound to her waist and wings. Parasites make their home in her mane and swim in the open sores that burn through the thin membranes of her flesh - a byproduct of attempting to contain so much of Mother’s essence within a mortal frame...
Pharika is P̷lague͟.
Whatever came before was burned out of her when she first drank deep of the Wyrmwound and gave herself to the Bringer of all that is disease and pestilence. Once, she was Nature and green and light, but then she was forgotten - abandoned! - left on the edges of the Scarred Wastelands, small and mewling. Plague kept her when Nature forgot her. Plague made her strong when Nature turned its back on her. Nature created her and Plague destroyed her and made her anew. Nature broke her wings and Plague rotted them so they showed bone and sinew. Nature polished her scales and Plague tore them away in flaking chunks, so that her blistering skin could feel the heat of Plague’s touch. Nature loved her once, but Plague loved her more, and when she found the boiling cauldron that was the aching, infested wound of the land, she dipped claws that were more bone than fingers into the flow that bubbled under Mother’s blessing and drank deep. Viscous yellow liquid oozed from the holes in her jowls and dribbled potent strains of deadly disease down the slope of her long throat, leaving blistering boils in its wake. Plague swam into her and burned away what once was Nature in a wave of toxic heat and blight, and the last of what was once her mind splintered before the terrible blight that was her new Mother’s blessing, mutated like the rest of her into something that was no longer green and light but instead red and diseased.
Pharika is P͏̷l͞a̧͟g̢uę͜.̴
Whatever once was Nature in her has been eradicated, by her own claws and by the Wyrmwound’s terrifying potency. With Plaguebringer’s blessing still festering in her remade flesh, she hunted down and found those that had forgotten her and punished them for their sins, tearing out their scales as hers had once been torn, choking them with pestilence and searing them with her own diseased caress. They wailed apologies, they promised they had looked! But these were lies, and she was no longer the precious daughter they had once loved and then left behind. Their skulls and bones made pretty adornments for the skirt she made from their skins, and she carries them with her so that she is not alone. They cannot leave her again, and now they are as dedicated to the Plaguemother as she is.
Pharika is̛͜ ̶͠P̡͏ĺ̴agu̵͜͝e.͘
All that she does is for Her who gave her life. She is one of the few to have survived the unbearable burn of the Wyrmwound’s brew, and she uses that to her advantage. Her claws are teeming with mutagens, and she drags them down the skin of her test subjects. Their screams are her lullabies, and the horror that is her experimentations she knows is beauty in her Mother’s eyes - and thus in hers as well. Those who fall victim to her wily traps rarely last more than a week, for few can survive the mating process that Pharika inflicts upon males and she has yet to find an animal that can stand the way she twists their innards to test their strengths. Her lair is littered with eggs that have been injected with infectious diseases and half-mutated hatchlings that barely managed to breathe the fetid air before falling into the clutches of death. Her decor comes from the skin of her playthings and the bones of her creations, and the walls are forever painted with blood and gore.
P͏̡̧h̵̷a͡ri҉͟k҉̀à͟ ͡í̢̕s̸̵̕ ̨̧P͝là́͜g͝u̶e.͜
There is no other with the dedication she has. The other dragons of the Scarred Wasteland call her Monster and she calls them weak, when she bothers to call them anything at all. The Wyrmwound is there for all to brave and so few do, and she scorns them all. Why do they dismiss the Plaguebringer’s blessing when it’s there, roiling in the center of the Land, for all to taste and touch? Why are her other Flight members so short-sighted? There are few who share her vision, and it breaks what little heart she has left, but she doesn’t let it dampen her spirits. For every dragon unwilling to truly devote themselves to Mother’s desires, she can make a dozen experiments and test a hundred new diseases. All she has to do is trap them - and that is never hard. She’s ruthless and deranged, and she will stop at nothing.
Pharika is Plague. She is nightmare made flesh and laced with deadly infestations, contagion contained in a bony structure and under rotting skin. She is her Mother’s disciple, and her own body is a breeding ground for parasitic bacterium and fungus that eats away at her very hide. She is every fetid infectionist’s dream, and someday she will nurture the perfect virus in her diseased womb and birth the destruction of the land, to fuel the Plaguebringer’s quest and the whole of Sornieth will fall before Her.
P̶̶̛͠h̵͘͢͏͢a҉̶͘͢r̵̨͘̕i͠͝k̡̢͘͢͠a͏̴͘͢͢ ̴̢́i͏̴͠s͏̛ ̷̴̸̨̕P̧̕̕͢l̸̛̕͜a̶̛͞g͏̨̨u̡͢e̸̡.̨̛͡͞
Someday, so will we all.
.̶̴̨̛͙̫̙̹͖̪̜̫̳̳̣̙ͧ̿ͣͯ͊ͨ̃̿ͤ̃ͤͭ̓.̊̌͌̽̅̓̿̒̏͆ͤ͞͠͏̤͔͇̳͔͝.̡͉͇̟̲̩͉̹̜͈̠̬̮͎̬̳̲͍̖̭͛̈ͨͩ̽̔͑̇̑͋̑ͣ͜.̧̬̝̞̭̥̹̼̱͙̠̼̠̥̞̪̜̂̿͒̅̒̌̅͂̄ͭ̐̌̒ͤͧ̒ͦ̆̚͜͞ͅ.̢̧̛̭̮̼̖̠̟̯̜̼̝̮̄͐̋̽͒ͮ͛̄ͤ̓͟.̍ͬ̋ͧ͊̋͏̷̵̮̱͕̤̰̥̞́͘.̴̶̹̳͍̘̥̩̻̠͉̠̤͖͇̗̪̱̮͕ͨ̽ͦ̈̒ͧ̋̔͛ͦ͒̐ͦ̀̉͜.̵̡̤̙̟͛ͬͣ̊ͭͩ͑͑̃͌̌̈́̚͝h̵̭͖͉͖͌̏͒̽̋̉͐̏̿̇̄ͭ̄̕͝͠ąͬ́̊̉̒́҉̠̟̤͈̦̣̬̤͔̼̦̲͚̠h̘͇̜͓̥̻͈̭̬̗̩̟͇̗͗ͪ̅̉̄͊̂̓ͯ͌ͬ̚͟͞a̓̋͌͆̿̿̀ͩͦ̈́̑̏͗͑̈́́͞҉̹̪̙͎͔͖͍̝̰͔̣̟̖͔͘͡Ḩ̡̢̼͙͉̖͚͎̇͂̊ͯ̌̇̇̄ͥ́͠a̢͈͔̗͎̤̽̈́͒̿͋̊ͩͤ̀ͤͩ̽̐́ͮ̂͜͜͡͡H̶̨̟̭͕̜̜̹̩̙̜̗͉̏ͫͯ͊ͮ̓ͯ͜͠aͣ͑̎͑́̏̆̓̋ͬ̉ͪͫ̌͒͛̾҉̶͇̙͎̬̻̰̞̞̮̪̖̯̪̭̫̭̼͕͈̕H̶̶̘̪̹͎̪̯̗͎̟̞̘̭͖̖̲̣̪͇̅ͪ͛͆͂̓ͪͧͦ̒̅ͬ̃̄̕a̶̧̭͙̯̻̟̲͍̒ͭͩͮ̿ͫ̍ͦͅH̛̹̺͈͈̒̒ͦ̓̃́̃̌͋ͪ̋̽̂ͧͩͫ́ͤ́͢͜a̶̗͙̰̙̤̖͚̜̰͉͎̘̩̫ͮ̐̌̽͛̉̌̌͑ͦ̈ͫ̇ͯ͠H̵̛̩̬̞͚̣̝̳̝͉̪̘̞͇̭ͤ͂̒̎̓̅̿͗͌̍ͤͣ̾̑̊͜͝͠A̩̱͓̞̤̟͚̍͂́̓ͤ͟͠H̶̠͍̳͔̙̺̖̠̘̤̹̜̖̲̣̱̲̝͕͌̔̇̒́̅͋̊͜͜͞Ă̴̢̆ͯ̇͐́̊ͣ̒́ͨͨ̍ͧ̚̚҉͉̤̘̪͕̤̭̙͎H̍͂ͤ̊ͣ͏̨̤̬̳͢͟͢A̢͆̐̎̇̀̈̇̃̏̚҉̸̗͍͔̜̭̲̟̳̰H͚͖͕̲͍̙̠̬͈̳͖̥̰̪̮̺͈̫̰́́ͪ̔̽ͣͤ̑̀͑̈ͮ̂͒ͨ̌̀A̶̢ͫ̓̍ͪ̓ͣͩ̆ͯ҉͉̙̥̞̩̞̲̯͓͇͉H̵̡̙̬̙̮̬̻̰̻͓̃͒ͥ̕͟ͅĀ̍̓̔̎̂ͥͬͫ͗ͫͪ̂ͩ̌̃ͪ̀҉̶̳̜̳͈̹̞̕h̴̛̼͖̬̣̻̲̹̘̯̮̹̺͍̪̙̊ͣͪͭ̈́ͧ͋̏̊̽̒ͣ̅̊̽͒͗͠A̸̴̧̛̞̗̥̠̗̘̱̠̺̪̳̞̪͔̜͓̓ͧ̊̃̀̆̒̿̽͊ͧ̽̆͞ḩ̸̵̭̗̖̮͒̒̂̀̒ͩͣȦ̛̠̮̰̤̝͎͍͍̳͚͕ͩ͋͌ͥ̂̀̐͊͛̒ͫ͗̿͆̚h̷̫͚͖̹̞̥̩̹̘̯̫̼͒ͬ̒̉̋̓̓̌͘͡ͅĄ̬̝͍̭̟̭̬̦̳̊̽̌ͥ̈͛̋̄̇̐͋̓ͭ̊͛͗̏̅́́̚h̄̐ͭ̂ͯ̚҉̸̨̡̗̺̪̠̙̭̭̀a̛̖̥̞͓̤̱͙̺͖̰̮̖̲̙̲̱̘͐͐͐̑͆̇̋͆͒̐͂̊ͯ̊̕͜ͅͅh̵̸̼̼̘̯̰̠̻̺͇͎̫̯̘̬̗̰̳̟ͤ̔͌̽̌̄̒͛̄͊ͬͧ͘ą̺͖̟͕̙̮͈̮̬̜̼̬̜̭̈́̔̈́͛ͨ̐͋ͬ̄̐͒ͬ̑̑ͥ̍̐͘.̡͖̖͖̭̦̩̣͖͚̥͉̖ͪ̇ͦ̉ͫ͟͟͡.̸͂̈ͣͮ̿̏̃̐͌̈́̀͂̄͗ͤ͏̞̠̮̺̭̲̳̦̜̮̦͙͝͝.̨̗͖̟̙͖̱̳̥̰̻̟̋̎̽͐̔͆ͬ͜͝.̵̢̰͇̣͕̬̬̗̰̩̐͛̿̈́ͨ̀̒̓̄̅̈́ͮͯͯͤͧͭͣ͢͜͞.̧͛̽̑͐͆͞͏͈̳̯̰.̸̧̺̠͓̩̝̲̖͍̤̤̭̇͒͆ͪ̃̆͊̂͒ͫ͆ͫ͑̇̔̈̚͟͢͝.̨͕̬͚̺͓̜̒ͨͩ̎ͨͧͤͬ̀́́͠.̧̛̛̗͈͍̝̥͓̮̟̭͕̝̱̙̼̻̺̍ͨͭ̔̓̌́ͩ̿ͦ͘͡ͅ.̵̧̙͎̻̖̝̗̼̲͚̝̀̾ͤ̇ͬ̀̏ͬ͋ͯ̃̌̿.̮̘̬̮̲̗̪̟̑ͭ̎ͮ͘͡.ͭ̐̆́͐̄͌̃͐̿͑͌͐̾̑ͫ̚͏̸̨̡̹̠̩̕
Pharika is Plague.
She is all that Plague is. Disease drips from the mutated flesh that clings to her bony jowls and bubbles in bloody pustules across the span of her ragged wings. Virulent rot seeps through the thick ropes of her veins and sings in the depths of her skull, echoing in the basins of the bones bound to her waist and wings. Parasites make their home in her mane and swim in the open sores that burn through the thin membranes of her flesh - a byproduct of attempting to contain so much of Mother’s essence within a mortal frame...
Pharika is P̷lague͟.
Whatever came before was burned out of her when she first drank deep of the Wyrmwound and gave herself to the Bringer of all that is disease and pestilence. Once, she was Nature and green and light, but then she was forgotten - abandoned! - left on the edges of the Scarred Wastelands, small and mewling. Plague kept her when Nature forgot her. Plague made her strong when Nature turned its back on her. Nature created her and Plague destroyed her and made her anew. Nature broke her wings and Plague rotted them so they showed bone and sinew. Nature polished her scales and Plague tore them away in flaking chunks, so that her blistering skin could feel the heat of Plague’s touch. Nature loved her once, but Plague loved her more, and when she found the boiling cauldron that was the aching, infested wound of the land, she dipped claws that were more bone than fingers into the flow that bubbled under Mother’s blessing and drank deep. Viscous yellow liquid oozed from the holes in her jowls and dribbled potent strains of deadly disease down the slope of her long throat, leaving blistering boils in its wake. Plague swam into her and burned away what once was Nature in a wave of toxic heat and blight, and the last of what was once her mind splintered before the terrible blight that was her new Mother’s blessing, mutated like the rest of her into something that was no longer green and light but instead red and diseased.
Pharika is P͏̷l͞a̧͟g̢uę͜.̴
Whatever once was Nature in her has been eradicated, by her own claws and by the Wyrmwound’s terrifying potency. With Plaguebringer’s blessing still festering in her remade flesh, she hunted down and found those that had forgotten her and punished them for their sins, tearing out their scales as hers had once been torn, choking them with pestilence and searing them with her own diseased caress. They wailed apologies, they promised they had looked! But these were lies, and she was no longer the precious daughter they had once loved and then left behind. Their skulls and bones made pretty adornments for the skirt she made from their skins, and she carries them with her so that she is not alone. They cannot leave her again, and now they are as dedicated to the Plaguemother as she is.
Pharika is̛͜ ̶͠P̡͏ĺ̴agu̵͜͝e.͘
All that she does is for Her who gave her life. She is one of the few to have survived the unbearable burn of the Wyrmwound’s brew, and she uses that to her advantage. Her claws are teeming with mutagens, and she drags them down the skin of her test subjects. Their screams are her lullabies, and the horror that is her experimentations she knows is beauty in her Mother’s eyes - and thus in hers as well. Those who fall victim to her wily traps rarely last more than a week, for few can survive the mating process that Pharika inflicts upon males and she has yet to find an animal that can stand the way she twists their innards to test their strengths. Her lair is littered with eggs that have been injected with infectious diseases and half-mutated hatchlings that barely managed to breathe the fetid air before falling into the clutches of death. Her decor comes from the skin of her playthings and the bones of her creations, and the walls are forever painted with blood and gore.
P͏̡̧h̵̷a͡ri҉͟k҉̀à͟ ͡í̢̕s̸̵̕ ̨̧P͝là́͜g͝u̶e.͜
There is no other with the dedication she has. The other dragons of the Scarred Wasteland call her Monster and she calls them weak, when she bothers to call them anything at all. The Wyrmwound is there for all to brave and so few do, and she scorns them all. Why do they dismiss the Plaguebringer’s blessing when it’s there, roiling in the center of the Land, for all to taste and touch? Why are her other Flight members so short-sighted? There are few who share her vision, and it breaks what little heart she has left, but she doesn’t let it dampen her spirits. For every dragon unwilling to truly devote themselves to Mother’s desires, she can make a dozen experiments and test a hundred new diseases. All she has to do is trap them - and that is never hard. She’s ruthless and deranged, and she will stop at nothing.
Pharika is Plague. She is nightmare made flesh and laced with deadly infestations, contagion contained in a bony structure and under rotting skin. She is her Mother’s disciple, and her own body is a breeding ground for parasitic bacterium and fungus that eats away at her very hide. She is every fetid infectionist’s dream, and someday she will nurture the perfect virus in her diseased womb and birth the destruction of the land, to fuel the Plaguebringer’s quest and the whole of Sornieth will fall before Her.
P̶̶̛͠h̵͘͢͏͢a҉̶͘͢r̵̨͘̕i͠͝k̡̢͘͢͠a͏̴͘͢͢ ̴̢́i͏̴͠s͏̛ ̷̴̸̨̕P̧̕̕͢l̸̛̕͜a̶̛͞g͏̨̨u̡͢e̸̡.̨̛͡͞
Someday, so will we all.
.̶̴̨̛͙̫̙̹͖̪̜̫̳̳̣̙ͧ̿ͣͯ͊ͨ̃̿ͤ̃ͤͭ̓.̊̌͌̽̅̓̿̒̏͆ͤ͞͠͏̤͔͇̳͔͝.̡͉͇̟̲̩͉̹̜͈̠̬̮͎̬̳̲͍̖̭͛̈ͨͩ̽̔͑̇̑͋̑ͣ͜.̧̬̝̞̭̥̹̼̱͙̠̼̠̥̞̪̜̂̿͒̅̒̌̅͂̄ͭ̐̌̒ͤͧ̒ͦ̆̚͜͞ͅ.̢̧̛̭̮̼̖̠̟̯̜̼̝̮̄͐̋̽͒ͮ͛̄ͤ̓͟.̍ͬ̋ͧ͊̋͏̷̵̮̱͕̤̰̥̞́͘.̴̶̹̳͍̘̥̩̻̠͉̠̤͖͇̗̪̱̮͕ͨ̽ͦ̈̒ͧ̋̔͛ͦ͒̐ͦ̀̉͜.̵̡̤̙̟͛ͬͣ̊ͭͩ͑͑̃͌̌̈́̚͝h̵̭͖͉͖͌̏͒̽̋̉͐̏̿̇̄ͭ̄̕͝͠ąͬ́̊̉̒́҉̠̟̤͈̦̣̬̤͔̼̦̲͚̠h̘͇̜͓̥̻͈̭̬̗̩̟͇̗͗ͪ̅̉̄͊̂̓ͯ͌ͬ̚͟͞a̓̋͌͆̿̿̀ͩͦ̈́̑̏͗͑̈́́͞҉̹̪̙͎͔͖͍̝̰͔̣̟̖͔͘͡Ḩ̡̢̼͙͉̖͚͎̇͂̊ͯ̌̇̇̄ͥ́͠a̢͈͔̗͎̤̽̈́͒̿͋̊ͩͤ̀ͤͩ̽̐́ͮ̂͜͜͡͡H̶̨̟̭͕̜̜̹̩̙̜̗͉̏ͫͯ͊ͮ̓ͯ͜͠aͣ͑̎͑́̏̆̓̋ͬ̉ͪͫ̌͒͛̾҉̶͇̙͎̬̻̰̞̞̮̪̖̯̪̭̫̭̼͕͈̕H̶̶̘̪̹͎̪̯̗͎̟̞̘̭͖̖̲̣̪͇̅ͪ͛͆͂̓ͪͧͦ̒̅ͬ̃̄̕a̶̧̭͙̯̻̟̲͍̒ͭͩͮ̿ͫ̍ͦͅH̛̹̺͈͈̒̒ͦ̓̃́̃̌͋ͪ̋̽̂ͧͩͫ́ͤ́͢͜a̶̗͙̰̙̤̖͚̜̰͉͎̘̩̫ͮ̐̌̽͛̉̌̌͑ͦ̈ͫ̇ͯ͠H̵̛̩̬̞͚̣̝̳̝͉̪̘̞͇̭ͤ͂̒̎̓̅̿͗͌̍ͤͣ̾̑̊͜͝͠A̩̱͓̞̤̟͚̍͂́̓ͤ͟͠H̶̠͍̳͔̙̺̖̠̘̤̹̜̖̲̣̱̲̝͕͌̔̇̒́̅͋̊͜͜͞Ă̴̢̆ͯ̇͐́̊ͣ̒́ͨͨ̍ͧ̚̚҉͉̤̘̪͕̤̭̙͎H̍͂ͤ̊ͣ͏̨̤̬̳͢͟͢A̢͆̐̎̇̀̈̇̃̏̚҉̸̗͍͔̜̭̲̟̳̰H͚͖͕̲͍̙̠̬͈̳͖̥̰̪̮̺͈̫̰́́ͪ̔̽ͣͤ̑̀͑̈ͮ̂͒ͨ̌̀A̶̢ͫ̓̍ͪ̓ͣͩ̆ͯ҉͉̙̥̞̩̞̲̯͓͇͉H̵̡̙̬̙̮̬̻̰̻͓̃͒ͥ̕͟ͅĀ̍̓̔̎̂ͥͬͫ͗ͫͪ̂ͩ̌̃ͪ̀҉̶̳̜̳͈̹̞̕h̴̛̼͖̬̣̻̲̹̘̯̮̹̺͍̪̙̊ͣͪͭ̈́ͧ͋̏̊̽̒ͣ̅̊̽͒͗͠A̸̴̧̛̞̗̥̠̗̘̱̠̺̪̳̞̪͔̜͓̓ͧ̊̃̀̆̒̿̽͊ͧ̽̆͞ḩ̸̵̭̗̖̮͒̒̂̀̒ͩͣȦ̛̠̮̰̤̝͎͍͍̳͚͕ͩ͋͌ͥ̂̀̐͊͛̒ͫ͗̿͆̚h̷̫͚͖̹̞̥̩̹̘̯̫̼͒ͬ̒̉̋̓̓̌͘͡ͅĄ̬̝͍̭̟̭̬̦̳̊̽̌ͥ̈͛̋̄̇̐͋̓ͭ̊͛͗̏̅́́̚h̄̐ͭ̂ͯ̚҉̸̨̡̗̺̪̠̙̭̭̀a̛̖̥̞͓̤̱͙̺͖̰̮̖̲̙̲̱̘͐͐͐̑͆̇̋͆͒̐͂̊ͯ̊̕͜ͅͅh̵̸̼̼̘̯̰̠̻̺͇͎̫̯̘̬̗̰̳̟ͤ̔͌̽̌̄̒͛̄͊ͬͧ͘ą̺͖̟͕̙̮͈̮̬̜̼̬̜̭̈́̔̈́͛ͨ̐͋ͬ̄̐͒ͬ̑̑ͥ̍̐͘.̡͖̖͖̭̦̩̣͖͚̥͉̖ͪ̇ͦ̉ͫ͟͟͡.̸͂̈ͣͮ̿̏̃̐͌̈́̀͂̄͗ͤ͏̞̠̮̺̭̲̳̦̜̮̦͙͝͝.̨̗͖̟̙͖̱̳̥̰̻̟̋̎̽͐̔͆ͬ͜͝.̵̢̰͇̣͕̬̬̗̰̩̐͛̿̈́ͨ̀̒̓̄̅̈́ͮͯͯͤͧͭͣ͢͜͞.̧͛̽̑͐͆͞͏͈̳̯̰.̸̧̺̠͓̩̝̲̖͍̤̤̭̇͒͆ͪ̃̆͊̂͒ͫ͆ͫ͑̇̔̈̚͟͢͝.̨͕̬͚̺͓̜̒ͨͩ̎ͨͧͤͬ̀́́͠.̧̛̛̗͈͍̝̥͓̮̟̭͕̝̱̙̼̻̺̍ͨͭ̔̓̌́ͩ̿ͦ͘͡ͅ.̵̧̙͎̻̖̝̗̼̲͚̝̀̾ͤ̇ͬ̀̏ͬ͋ͯ̃̌̿.̮̘̬̮̲̗̪̟̑ͭ̎ͮ͘͡.ͭ̐̆́͐̄͌̃͐̿͑͌͐̾̑ͫ̚͏̸̨̡̹̠̩̕
Click or tap a food type to individually feed this dragon only. The other dragons in your lair will not have their energy replenished.
Insect stocks are currently depleted.
Meat stocks are currently depleted.
Feed this dragon Seafood.
Feed this dragon Plants.
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Exalting Pharika to the service of the Plaguebringer will remove them from your lair forever. They will leave behind a small sum of riches that they have accumulated. This action is irreversible.
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