Pyrros, Lord of Flame

I would be doing my pilgrimage injustice by not starting with the God-King, Pyrros. Settling in the depths of Mt. Askara the King spared no expense in providing his children a massive city of wonder, and they have thrived. The city is a haven of arts, and craftsmen of all mediums litter every alley way. You couldn't get far without running into a young child selling wooden dolls or hear the local smithy argue over the latest quality of silver shipments. The largest constructed building in the region was The Avenshentar, a massive arena. Fren'Dreasta served as the gladiatorial, succession and criminal justice combat capital of the world. My fresh feet would soon be tired as I gazed at the 30,000 steps to the crest of Mt. Askara. My gaze peering through the sulfurous fumes I saw him, the Lord of Flame; Pyrros. Cloaked in ruby red scales and talons of polished silver. The Craftsman king chuckled at my entry to his throne.

"Go home gnat. There is no place in my realm for a Zennon."

"Lord of the blade, father of weaponry, I ask you. The Old one has set me on a task to recount your tale for the history of not just my people. But the history of all Dreagasian."

"I care not your task, gnat. I have commanded, and you shall obey."

"I will not mi'lord." Though I cannot say what had possessed me in this moment to defy a literal God.

What ensued was a battle of wills. A hint that I could expect a test from every Lord on my journey. A deep intuition within in me forbade me from breaking ground by a step.

When the Lord or Valor's face was centimeters way from mine he burst into a rumbling laughter. I feared that this lords joy would cause Mt. Askara to erupt…and the last thing this age needs is yet another Pyrrocian crusade.

"A Zenon with some heart! Well met pilgrim. I cannot have the history of my deeds being told by a grey scaled coward. I shall tell you."

"I am firstborn of Basalisk, it was I whom burrowed the hole in my fathers side, no longer willing to be trapped by his domain.

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