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Description

Warlord Zugen is the First boss encounter for Fog of War (Area: Bronze). As with all bosses, Warlord Zugen can also be battled in a raid with 4 available levels: Normal, Hard, Legendary and Nightmare.



Loot

Name Att Def AV Per Ability Obtained
Essence warlord zugen Warlord Zugen Essence Used to summon Warlord Zugen (Raid) Warlord Zugen quest boss
Mathalas armor scrap 1 Mathala's Armor Scrap 1 Used to craft Mathala's Sabatons Warlord Zugen quest boss
Ring black diamond Black Diamond Ring 200 200 250 275 Death Stone: Chance for bonus damage, based on the Player's Perception Quest: NM Warlord Zugen
Collection iulian relic 1 brown Brown Iulian Relic Used to craft The Emperor's Signet Quest: Warlord Zugen Nightmare
Severed tentacle brown Brown Severed Tentacle Craft x2 Stat Points Fog of War quest drop
Severed tentacle grey Grey Severed Tentacle Craft x2 Stat Points Fog of War quest drop
Severed tentacle green Green Severed Tentacle Craft x2 Stat Points Fog of War quest drop
Severed tentacle blue Blue Severed Tentacle Craft x2 Stat Points Fog of War quest drop
Severed tentacle purple Purple Severed Tentacle Craft x2 Stat Points Fog of War quest drop
Severed tentacle orange Orange Severed Tentacle Craft x2 Stat Points Fog of War quest drop


Lore

Enter Battle

Lore
"They could hide a whole city in there," Teucer said.

"Or an army of dragons," Mina said.

"It's not a bad stratagem," Marcus said. "Better than we're used to seeing from the dragons."

The three of them sat mounted atop a ridge, staring out at endless waves of fog which blanketed the plain.

"But if we can't see them, they won't be able to see us," the bronze man continued. "Not after we take out their eyes."

The three of them craned their necks skyward, where winged forms flew above the billowing ocean. Bat-like beastmen and dragon whelps arced through the air in intersecting circles -- an intricate and artful dance. Their lofty eyes would already have seen the trio. But if they thought it worth descending into the surging mists to report the appearance of three warriors, they made no move to do so.

Marcus waved a gauntleted hand as though hailing his enemies. Several bestial and draconic heads turned to note his strange behavior. But the signal wasn't for them.

The angels were fast. Their wedge-shaped formations shot across the sky like spearheads, piercing the heavens that had been handed to each of them by divine edict. A few of the whelps dropped into the fog to escape. The rest turned this way and that, as though desperate to carry out their duty and take stock of the coming onslaught. Two of them plummeted with angelic arrows in their breasts.

More descended, submerging themselves. The remainder screeched or roared and flew into battle. The angels' swords flashed in the morning light. Blood rained into the mist below, along with tumbling corpses and the screaming wounded -- limbs severed, rent wings crumpling as they sought to catch the air. One angel grappled with a pteropine beastman, and the two spiraled down together until the fog swallowed them. Another plunged with a pair of young drakes latched onto her wings, biting and clawing. But numbers were on the side of the angels. Soon the sky was empty but for them.

Marcus held his breath. Would a new wave of enemies soar from the creeping cloud? Perhaps even dragons? But only a few lone heads poked through the canopy -- spies trying to see what was going on. A few arrows and sword strokes dropped them. Whatever forces lurked in there, marching beneath that eldritch blanket, they didn't intend to join battle with the harrying angels. Not until they knew what else awaited them. Thus they were now blind, each force waiting for the other to enter the fog, neither knowing who held the advantage.

The bronze man gave the next signal. It rippled through the woods behind them.

Zugen bellowed and swung his club. A young dragon threw herself backwards with a sweep of her wings, while beastmen ducked or scampered away -- evading its brutal, unaimed arc.

"Prepare for battle!" he said. He pointed his weapon at a winged beastman. "Get up there and see where our enemies are!"

The beastman hissed, but flapped his wings and took to the air. Within two beats of a heart he was back. Crimson gushed from his split skull.

Warlord Zugen roared. But his face opened in a hideous grin. Xerkara's orders meant nothing now. Combat had found them, and his club would taste blood.

"Dragon!" someone cried. A herald, from the volume of her magically-thrown voice, which rose above the thudding boots and clamoring steel. "Dragon!"

For a split-second Penelope looked around, searching for the draconic foe, before understanding dawned. She was glad her scaled cheeks' couldn't blush as her human ones had. That wasn't an alert -- it was her signal. The purple wyrm swooped towards the vast fog banks. Further along, Solus' smaller azure shape did the same. A tiny part of her mind began to wish they had more drakes with them. But she stifled that voice at once. Penelope knew better than anyone that wishes could be dangerous, and should never be made without due caution. She turned to the matter at hand instead.

The dragon brought her wings down in large, powerful sweeps, keeping her immense body aloft whilst sending gusts of air below. Months ago, it had taken quite some time to get used to having that extra pair of appendages. The initial sensation was not unlike having a perpetual itch. But now she felt a flush of pride at how she handled them. The fog billowed away, falling back before her assault, revealing more and more of the ground. The air-mages and clerics of Rensha were doing their part as well. They rushed forward beneath her advancing shadow, their line interspersed with heavy infantry, and unleashed their magic. Torrents of air blew from their scepters, wands, hands, or even mouths -- clashing with the mist and routing it yard by yard.

It was a veritable ocean, a vast expanse. For an eternity every watchful eye gazed at nothing more than earth and air. When furry shapes appeared at its periphery, and the shouting began, chaos took hold in an instant.

Creatures tore from the fog and charged, howling, roaring. Mages and clerics fell back behind the massing infantry. Pteropine warriors rose through the cloud in a membranous host, a storm of screeching mouths and leathery wings that enveloped the angels in its dark maelstrom.

Penelope was turning to aid them when something shot up towards her -- something far larger than the winged beastmen. Red eyes blazed in its black reptilian face.

"Tarquin."

Sar Velania whispered the word, the name of her mentor and predecessor, as she did before every battle. Even when enmity festered between them, the red knight had never faltered in this. For every time she spoke the name of Sir Tarquin Celwer Bloodwyn she was reminded of memories both bitter and glorious. And of what it meant to be a knight.

One of the dwarven clerics was slow, tripping over the hem of his dark blue robe while he tried to fall back -- his mission accomplished but his life still at risk. A bull-headed beastman bore down on him. The creature's raised axe was big enough to chop him in two, blade a half moon that would sever him with its silvery edge. The cleric babbled a spell. His frantic jaws bit down on his tongue, ruining it. He looked around, blood trickling down his chin, moaning for aid. But the warriors on either side were already locked in combat.

He closed his eyes and prayed. The red knight answered on his goddess' behalf.

Heavy steel cleaved, and clanged against her scarlet shield. It was a powerful blow. But she was a powerful woman. And Sar Velania knew all the steps to the war god's dance. She turned her shield, shifted her body. The beastman fumbled. Her sword did not.

"Ank!" the cleric said, clutching his wounded mouth.

"Go," she said.

She charged into the fray, knowing that six of the finest warriors in Tor'gyyl would be at her back.

"Bronze man!"

Zugen's big iron club crashed against a soldier's breastplate. Armor crumpled, shattering ribs and crushing organs. The human's corpse flew through the air like a broken toy.

"Bronze man! I want the bronze man! Fight me!"

A felpuur lunged at him, shield raised, thrusting with his spear. The ogre's hand swatted the weapon aside and tore the bulwark away -- dragging the feline soldier onto his hands and knees. Zugen's club came down. The felpuur's spine crunched and snapped. He grasped the body, hefting it into the air, brandishing the gristly trophy.

"Where's the bronze man?"

"I'm here."

The warlord tossed the corpse away and bellowed. At last! At long last, in spite of Xerkara's meddling! The human stood before him, clad in his eponymous color, dark face unhelmeted, sword in hand.

Other warriors moved towards him. Their swords rose to aid him, as if the pathetic fools could save him from Zugen's wrath! But the bronze man waved them back. The ogre grinned. It didn't matter -- he would kill the rest afterwards.

He raised his club and charged.

Victory

Lore
"Get off me, you stupid bastard!"

A look that might have been quizzical came over the black dragon's face. Perhaps he'd never heard a drake utter such things in the heat of battle. But he kept biting and clawing, as the two of them whirled through the heavens -- black and purple wings flapping to keep them each aloft.

Penelope pushed him off, slapping at his face with her scaly hands... paws... feet... Whatever she was supposed to call the things at the ends of her arms... forelegs. He hissed and pulled back. His mighty ebon body swung away, leathery wings grabbing the air.

"Yeah! Run! Next time I'll... Oh."

His flight curved round in a graceful arc. He wasn't fleeing. He was building momentum.

Penelope gulped.

The black dragon's jaws opened, howling bloodlust, promising death.

Her eyes flashed. She hadn't been in this body as long as her enemy had been in his. Draconic combat was still alien to her, and she was no match for a wyrm who'd been born to it. But Penelope had grown up in an orphanage. She knew how to fight.

The dark drake came at her -- claws extended, maw gaping.

She jabbed two fingers into his eyes. From his reaction, it's possible that was a new experience for him. He wailed. Scaly black mitts went to shield his face, to guard them against another vicious attack. She threw her arm around his neck and locked her hands. The two of them pirouetted, flapping and falling in turn, as she yanked him around in a headlock, dragging him away from her comrades.

As a girl she'd loved to spin in circles, making herself dizzy. So a crazed part of her laughed while the sky and earth whirled about her in an existential blur. She was still laughing when she let go, and the black wyrm crashed amidst the fog -- throwing billowing clouds back in all directions.

Penelope landed beside him, staggered as the universe continued to spin, tripped over his bulk, and fell on him. Her champing jaws found his throat. She bit down, pulled, and tore. Blood and scales filled her mouth.

She turned around and spat them out. Then she vomited.

"Stupid dragon..."

Marcus threw himself into a roll. The metal club bashed the ground behind him -- battering the world.

"Fight! Why don't you fight?"

The bronze man stood and met the ogre's gaze.

"Because you're already dead," he said.

The ogre blinked. And then the blood spurted from his arm in long red ribbons. He raised the limb and stared at its lumps of boulder-like muscle, as though it were a new and unfathomable object. His brachial artery spat in his face -- expressing its opinion of his stupidity.

Zugen growled, turning his head, blinking away the crimson. His weakening limb flopped and the club fell to the ground. The warlord's body followed it a moment later.

Marcus stepped onto his chest, between the spikes on the ogre's breastplate. Zugen blinked one last time. Then the bronze man's sword plunged through his eye.

"Nord, where's Sir Marcus?"

"What's it to you, southlander?" Aesa turned around. "Oh..."

The woman tapped the royal griffin on her tabard. A flesh and blood version stood a few dozen paces behind her, haughty eagle eyes fastened on Aesa as though to echo the messenger's disapproval.

"He's with the wounded," she said.

"I have an urgent message for him."

"I'll take it."

"No, Nord, you won't. It goes from my hand to his."

The shaman's lip twitched, but she beckoned the messenger to follow and led her through the scattered pockets of warriors -- most of them sitting or reclining upwind of the corpses, resting their weary thews.

They found the bronze man with Machaon. The two of them were kneeling on either side of a wounded Silver Arrow, the knight chatting with the injured archer while the healer's glowing hands tended to him. Marcus glanced up, saw the royal tabard, and stood.

"A message from Sulthus Quent." She held out a scroll.

Marcus took the missive and broke the seal. Its magic gave way with a little scarlet puff, leaving him unharmed -- apparently satisfied with his identity. He unrolled it and read the short message.

"Quent..."

"What is it?" Aesa asked.

"New orders." He looked up at her. "We're to march at once."

Flee/Defeat

Lore
not yet available

hp and max damage

  • Normal - 7,000 hp, 4000 max damage
  • Hard - 7,200 hp, 4000 max damage
  • Legendary - 7,500 hp, 4000 max damage
  • Nightmare - 7,800 hp, 4000 max damage
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