(Silver/Shadow Wyrm)
A bombastic voice fills the room, reciting the spell in a sing-song fashion. Adrian's illusory script bobbles in time with an unheard beat.
The tale of Rhyacian, The Beautiful Silver, The Shadow Of Light, The Form of Perfection, is one that you, dear listener, are not prepared for.
A tale told only in the finest halls of the finest gods. A tale that they themselves cry tears of joy for, cries of ecstasy, and lamentations of despair!
His Lightning Silver Form is a trick to the eyes. A Light that exists in Shadow, and a Shadow that exists in Light. A sight of beauty, elegance, and cruelty.
His prowess in the art of the dance is uncomparable. The dances of death, of speech, of art, of love. He has conquered them all.
His victims lay strewn about the lands, their souls cursed with the knowledge of their defeat. His songs echo through valleys eternally. Uplifting tunes in the bleakest of realms, and wailing despair in the most prosperous of kingdoms. His artwork hangs in the great studies of scholar-deities, above their beds, and among their galleries. No mortal can comprehend the technique behind his brushstrokes. His descendants spread across the planes. Noble warriors, powerful magicians, corrupting witches, knights of dread. He has sired many, and one and all their deeds are truly that of legend.
The tale of Rhyacian is the greatest tale ever told. Who can fully tell it, but the Minstrel himself?
