Topic of the Month: The Heroes' Challenge
By Christopher Dove.
I am here to write and testify what I have seen happening on the
23rd of Flaurmont AC 1016, in the region known as the Great Forest
of Geffron, on the Denagothian Plateau. I am writing this to tale
how the brave champions of the elven crusaders fought valiantly for
a good cause... and woe to us all, they lost.
The duel was called upon by the evil forces of the Shadow Lord just
the day before, and the elves had no real time to prepare
themselves for the battle. Nevertheless they accepted the
challenge, for the elven General Durifern Widefarer knew that this
was perhaps the only way to end an otherwise never-ending war
without losing more troops. General Widefarer solemnly addressed
the crusaders calling upon their loyalty, braveness and trust in
the power of the Elven Immortals, and I must admit that his words
touched my heart as well, even though I am neither warrior nor
believer at all. General Beasthunter himself volunteered in front
of his troops as the first among the elven heroes, who would have
confronted the enemy's champions the day after. His deed
immediately caused many elves to volunteer as well to be part of
the chosen few, then the highest officers of the army scrutinised
the volunteers for the whole night, choosing only the best five
before the break of dawn.
The enemies arrived timely and took place in the opening in front
of the gates of Drax Tallen, and the elven champions entered the
arena a few minutes after them. The air was as still as in an
ancient mausoleum, with chilling tendrils of fog bathing the woods
in an eerie aura of death. The sounds appeared muffled, almost
distant, as if we were watching at something that was happening
miles and miles away. Yet we all knew in our hearts that down
there, in that clearing in front of our keep, the fate of all our
lives was being decided.
The enemy champions showed no trace of fear, rage or any other
emotion. It was like staring at white marble statues made by an
unskilled sculptor: their pale visages conveyed no feelings, only a
wearing feeling of alienation. It was as if they were not risking
their lives, as if they were only performing some dull duty they
couldn't care for. Clad in blue and red shining, spiked armours,
with a blue tabard and a green cloak bearing the crest of their
lord, a black dragon-like beast (Idris' symbol, without doubts),
they were an imposing and frightening sight to behold. Their
weapons, edged and piercing tools of pain and death, were a perfect
match: just as deadly, cold and unforgiving as their wielders.
Our champions never trembled in front of their adversaries. They
donned shining magical armours that were the pride and joy of the
best elven smiths. Their weapons were works of art more than tools
of destruction, and each of the elven champions wielded them with
such a grace and mastery that few can attain in their whole life.
Their colours were gold and green, except for the black suit of the
vampire lord Sylarion, who had lastly chosen to enter the fray with
his living allies. Our champions were not frightened by the
challenge, either by their enemies or by death. They showed their
courage from the beginning to the end of the contest, and I must
say each of them, even the creature of the night that bears the
name of Sylarion, fought to the last drop of his blood and with the
utmost dedication to our cause. Unfortunately, this didn't suffice
to beat the minions of Evil, for it seems that Evil is far more
powerful here, in the Denagothian Plateau.
The Dragon Knights, so they call themselves, revealed unknown and
unsuspected abilities that put our heroes to test. Besides being
accomplished butchers with their weapons, deadly swift in melee
combat and incredibly resistant to the elves' blows, these knights
showed powers that no human has ever mastered. They are no
spellcasters, this was quite obvious by their fighting prowess and
by their appearance, but they exhibited powers that are commonly
associated only with magic users. They are able to fly using
bat-like wings that sprout from their backs, and with this tactic
they kept the elves to distance when the fight began to take the
wrong side. Then they all unleashed a long breath of fire and acid
upon the unsuspecting elves, who managed to survive but were
severely hindered by this trick. Their claws and their teeth rent
the elves' skin and armours, as if these knights were real dragons,
yet we know they were no polymorphed wyrms, because the
spells used to dispel any possible magic upon them didn't
turn them into dragons. Some of them even began regenerating their
wounds at an alarming speed, much like Sylarion's ability, and this
clearly showed us that we were battling an hitherto unknown kind of
enemy.
And so they won. Three of them remained alive at the end of the
duel, while only two of our champions stood there still breathing.
We lost, and we had to respect the agreements taken by the elven
generals before the duel. We were then forced to leave Drax Tallen
to the Shadow Army and to trace back our steps to Wendar,
abandoning the quest forever. I am writing this on our trip back to
the valley of Genalleth, hoping we get there alive. Our morale has
never been so low, our souls have been broken by these Dragon
Knights come from Idris' Hell. We mourn for the lost companions
who sacrificed their lives for the good cause. We mourn for all
those souls we promised to save, and for all those souls we lost
trying. But what else can be done when everything seems against you
and when the same land where you dwell generates living nightmares
that will never leave us? If I believed in Immortals, I could beg
them to lend us a hand now. Unfortunately, I don't believe in
higher powers; but then, would that really be so different if I
did?