Ton . Danny ' s Works

A grotesque titan forged from bone and sulfur, Bargluzad towers over a forest of twisted, screaming trees. His head is split vertically, revealing a gaping maw that never closes, from which a howl of annihilation echoes without end. Jagged ribs pierce through his charred flesh like fangs, and his arms are bound in chains made from the oaths of dying gods. Each step leaves behind a crater of despair, and with a guttural roar, he summons a storm of wailing skulls that rain down like burning ash.

Suspended above a crumbling altar by chains of crystallized sorrow, the Saint Corpse Maiden offers endless prayers through tears of living blood. Her body is wrapped in sacred funeral veils stitched from centuries of grief, and her hollow eyes glow like twilight stars extinguishing one by one. Below her, a congregation of the dead silently weep, bathing in the divine blood that drips from her feet. Each drop births a new wraith, doomed to worship her eternally.

Bound by runic chains atop a black monolith, Al-Myurvas is a divine beast covered in white, corpse-like fur stained by age-old grief. Its multiple heads each sing a different funeral dirge, their haunting harmonies echoing through the ashen silence. Worshipped by blind monks who burn out their tongues, the beast’s cries bring both peace and obliteration. To hear its full requiem is to forget your own name… and your soul. Around the monolith lies a scorched sanctum carved into a crater of obsidian and bone—what once may have been a sacred temple, now defiled by time and despair. Ruined archways jut from the cracked earth like skeletal ribs, and rusted bells hang from broken pillars, tolling without wind. The ground is littered with offerings of withered flowers and blood-writ prayers, long abandoned. From every direction, glowing glyphs and sigils pulse faintly across the stone walls, not with reverence—but warning. Above, the sky is hollow and colorless, pierced by streaks of red lightning as if the heavens themselves recoil from the beast’s presence.

Within a temple of inverted gravity, Harva-Narg dwells inside a massive obsidian mirror, his body visible only as a flickering reflection of fear. His true form is unknown, only glimpsed in the nightmares of those who stare too long. Around the temple, statues of those who looked into the mirror stand frozen in agony, their mouths open in silent screams. When summoned, Harva-Narg emerges as a shattering illusion—half spectral flame, half glass splinter—and tears the future from fate itself.

“Atop a spire of bleeding stone rising from a sea of sulfur, the Bloodchant Priest chants from an ancient tome bound in cursed flesh. His horned mask leaks black ichor, and the crimson runes carved across his exposed ribs glow with pulsing light as each syllable escapes his mouth. A flayed cloak, stitched from the skin of martyrs, whips in the infernal wind behind him. Around the base of the tower, chained penitents claw at the stone, their mouths forced open by rusted devices as they echo his blood-curse in tortured unison. The sky roils with clouds shaped like screaming faces, raining embers that never fade.”

“In a courtyard of scorched justice, the Inquisitorial Effigy stands silent—an ironbound abomination shaped like a judge’s gavel twisted into grotesque humanoid form. Shackled souls are embedded into its ribcage, their eyes open in endless judgment. Flames of damnation pour from the cracks in its rusted plating, and a guillotine-shaped arm swings with silent purpose. Its head, a blindfolded mask of black iron, bears the seal of infernal law. As it moves, the air around it becomes heavy with guilt and terror, and each step leaves behind a burned sigil of punishment upon the blackened floor.”

“Hung upside-down by burning chains from the shattered ceiling of a blasphemous cathedral, the Blazebound False Seraph embodies corrupted sanctity incarnate. Six scorched wings writhe in torment, their feathers reduced to trails of blue hellfire that coil like smoke across the dark. A shattered seraphic mask conceals its face, from which white ash bleeds like tears—each flake transforming mid-air into shimmering blades. Its upper body is skeletal, robed in tattered vestments and crowned with inverted halos forged of rusted gold and thorns. Ancient relics, desecrated and fused into its ribcage, pulse with false divinity. Below the waist, its form mutates grotesquely into the massive, quadrupedal body of a demonic griffon: leonine in muscle but lupine in gait, with taloned paws etched with infernal sigils. The beast’s fur is matted with soot and ashes, while its back bristles with relic-fragments and ceremonial fetishes, each one swaying like pendulums of judgment. Its forelimbs—both angelic and bestial—lurch downward in a feral pounce, claws spread wide to grasp souls in mid-scream. The shattered cathedral is filled with spectral light, as flaming stained glass flickers with the last memory of heaven. Beneath, the abyss yawns open. And from above, the False Seraph does not descend. It hunts..”

“A towering empress, bound within a mobile cage-throne forged of scorched bone and rusted iron, glides solemnly across a field of silent, charred corpses. Her body is shackled by ceremonial brands, glowing faintly with red-hot script that spells ancient grief. Her face is hidden beneath a veil of ash-stained silk, from which trails of glowing embers cascade like falling tears. Dozens of skeletal handmaidens pull the throne by chains of molten silver, each dragging a broken bell that rings with every tortured step. Her silence resounds louder than screams—the sorrow of one who watches empires burn forever.”

“In the silent ruins of a sunken furnace temple, an enormous iron effigy kneels in eternal penance. Its body, forged from scorched steel and adorned with chains soaked in molten ash, is half-buried in a sea of rusted swords and broken halos. From its eyeless helm drips glowing cinders, and a faint breath of heat escapes from vents etched into its ribcage. Bound to its back are broken furnace doors that swing like wings of judgment. At its feet, long-forgotten offerings of charred bone and cracked icons rest untouched. It does not move, yet its presence bends the air with heavy absolution.”

“Standing beneath a sky of blackened fire, the Burnt-Robe Pontiff raises his molten scepter high. His regal robe, once white, is now permanently charred—its sacred embroidery burned into patterns resembling flayed scripture. His face, obscured by a crown of fused halos, radiates no light—only shadow. Behind him, seven monolithic pillars crack and bleed molten stone with every chant he utters. As he preaches in a voice of ash, cursed ash rains upon the faithful—faceless husks who writhe in agony, bound by belief. He is not salvation. He is sacrament by flame.”