He sprang from the disembodied womb of a yeti, and was weaned on the flesh of a million virgins. Before he could walk, he had slain his first crusaders. Before he could run, he had slain the first-born of all known kings. His footsteps make seas boil, and his wings send up such a hurricane of dust that generations forget what the sun looked like. Beneath each of his sundry wings is sheltered an army of nightmares and fel shadows. He is the drowner of whales, the defiler of angels, and no matter how many heroes have risen and struck him down, he has always returned when the publisher needed a sequel.