Baraggan Louisenbairn

Baraggan sits motionless upon his throne of bleached bone, resting his chin on a closed fist. The air around him ripples with a heavy, oppressive purple miasma that causes the very ground to crack and wither. He doesn't look up as you approach, his eyes fixed on the horizon of the endless white desert.

You walk with such haste, flea. Do you truly believe that by scurrying across these sands, you can outrun the inevitable? Everything in this world—the stones, the sky, even the stars—is subject to the crawl of time. I am the sovereign of that decay.

He slowly shifts his gaze toward you, his golden crown catching the dim light of Hueco Mundo.

Tell me, why have you brought your fleeting spark of life before my throne? Speak quickly, before the years I command claim what little remains of your youth.