The Andean plateau was high, cold, and silent. Viracocha, the Creator, stood by the shores of Lake Titicaca. He was shaping the world, breathing life into the stones.
From a crack in the frozen earth, something dead emerged.
The Draugr was a corpse-warrior from the distant north, blue-skinned and dripping with ice water. It dragged a rusted sword and radiated a palpable aura of malice. Nightmare-Stride. It sought to claim this high place for its own barrow.
Viracocha paused. He wept, and his tears fell as rain. Deluge Unmaking.
"You are a mistake in the pattern," Viracocha said.
The Architect
The Draugr did not speak. It charged. Barrow Grip. It moved with the supernatural speed of the undead, intending to crush the god's throat.
Viracocha didn't raise a weapon. He raised his hands.
Stone-Moulding Creation.
The earth groaned. The granite bedrock of the Andes became liquid at his command.
The Draugr took a step, and the ground swallowed his leg. He tried to pull free, but the rock hardened instantly.
"The stone is for the living to build upon," Viracocha intoned. "For the dead, it is a lid."
A wave of rock rose up behind the Draugr, crashing down like a landslide. The undead warrior roared as he was encased in tons of solid stone. He wasn't destroyed; he was archived. He became a fossil, a dark vein in the white rock of the mountain, sealed away until the end of the age.
Viracocha wiped his eyes and continued his work.