Chapter 1
Long ago, ere kingdoms fell, there was none so mighty as Throbulon the Accursed. His name struck fear, his power unmatched—yet all was naught before the Wrath of Itchthar. For his greatest battle was not with sword nor spell, but with the ceaseless quaking of his loins.
On the eve of his doom, he stood atop his keep, fists clenched, breath ragged. The earth shook—not from war, but from the furious trembling of his balls. The heavens recoiled. The stars wept. The land quivered at the might of his Netherly Orbs.
Scribes named this horror The Quaking. Mountains fell. Rivers fled their beds. No force could still the tremors in his sack. Throbulon roared, “O cruel Itchthar! Must mine orbs tremble for eternity?” But the gods turned away.
And so he fell, swallowed by the very earth his loins had shaken. Yet legend tells.. the tremors never ceased. Deep beneath the ruins, his balls still quake, waiting, yearning, plotting.
Beware, dear reader. The Quaking knows no end. One day, the trembling shall return. And when it does.. The world shall know Throbulon’s Wrathful Sack.
