Surprisingly, death nearly claimed Mog-Mog. A beast – the Moodies know nothing of its origins, and even under the most stringent of agonies they refused to give it a name – sensed his power and sought him out as prey.
Mog-Mog accepted the thing’s challenge. He sent his tribe to fight it, but they were effortlessly annihilated in waves by this greatest of foes.
Finally came Mog-Mog himself, his staff lifted in anger, the stuttering words of his primitive tongue voicing curses that would have
sundered the spirit of a lesser being. But not this… thing… this enemy the Moodies fear even more than they fear me.
Once again, Mog-Mog died. His body was broken, his mask was cracked, and his soul was wracked and ravaged. It seemed the end had finally come for him…