As if the Spellweaver were the Timeless One himself, a black smokey mist begins to billow from the pores of the ground. It grows into a vast cloud of living shadow that eventually takes the form of the black leviathan everyone had been whispering of moments prior. His tattered wings fold in smugly at his sides, and he sits in the center of the three remaining Aspects as if he was born to be there.

Lava oozes painfully from his scales and sizzles as it connects with the ground. The fresh metal mantle grafted to his body reflects off of it and the sunlight from above. Deathwing's great head only rests on Ysera and Nozdormu for but a moment before he turns to Alexstrasza, gutteral voice working against ancient vocal chords.

"I hope I'm not interrupting, Dragon Queen," Deathwing offers snidely, raising his metal chin proudly. "After all, you spent so much effort pulling me from my duties."