And those who yet doubt the work of black sorcery in humanity's midst should recall the boast of the vile warlock Simeon D'Arcade, who, when brought to bay by the 666th Battle-Brethren Legion, laughed into the faces of his accusers, and even under the strappado's kiss remained defiant.
"O ye fools," he cried, "thy doom is upon thee, and upon all denizens of thy pawkish sphere, even unto the labor-racked mother who, prompted by the midwife, drank of the cooling Avernian Springs, or the children who innocently splashed in the bay of the Spav."
And it was so, for D'Arcade had trucked long thence with legions of invisible demons, and had bid them enter into the planet's water, yea, from expansive ocean to tiny cistern. And at his inaudible beck they burbled forth in the form of the Argent Contagion, and all of that unlucky world's denizens dropped like sacks of grain, faces withering and bodies cocooned in slimy silvery membranes. And thus did the entire planet of Xylloth become Simeon D'Arcade's necropolis.
