A Radiant Shield
Amongst the clouds, you watch as darkness falls over the city of Avraathe. Echoing around you, thunder rolls softly as a precursor for a gathering storm. This is not the Avraathe you know, something tells you. A younger Avraathe. The obelisk to Bahamut which you walked past each day in the Temple’s Ward is but an empty corner. The mural painted in celebration of the Thousand Year’s Feast is but a blank wall. Suddenly, you descend beneath the clouds, floating parallel to the central spire of the Temple of Bahamut.
The streets are empty, Talons patrolling in uniform circles. A lone figure, a blue dragonborn, thin, with his hood drawn, creeps through alleyways and backstreets north. You watch with interest as the figure darts in and out of the light cast by the Augery’s magic, always watching to see if his presence is detected. As he passes the Barracks, he slows his pace, careful not to alert any guards recently off-patrol. The hooded figure then moves past the stronghold into the Craftsmen Corner, now walking more naturally, in a direct path towards his destination. As you follow at a distance, you see the hooded dragonborn disappear from view as he cuts behind what appears to be a blacksmith’s forge.
As you approach the building, the heat radiates from work which has carried late into the evening. The crashing pulse of hammer against metal echoes into the lonely evening. Drawing closer, thunder rolls over head booming in rhythm with the hammer strikes until finally crescendoing into a cacophony of sparks and hammer strikes when a single voice calls out in an ancient draconic tongue and swirls in your ears reverberating endlessly. Above, a single bolt of lightning crashes down from the heavens, striking the ventilation of the blacksmith. The door bursting open, you cover your eyes against the sudden brightness. Through the gaps between your fingers, you watch the hooded figure and an older blue dragonborn who must be the blacksmith both pushed back from the anvil, landing with thuds and groans against the far wall.
On the anvil rests a radiant platinum shield depicting the profile of the Platinum Dragon, somehow undamaged even as smoke rises from the shield and lightning continues to crackle through its frame. As the brightness of the shield radiates in your vision all you see glows white and as you wake, the ancient words repeat in your mind.
Gaeth Gri, Lau Rho, Dru Urak, Taz Qwen, Ild Reth, Para Thrax.
A Meeting in the Wooded Glade
As sleep takes you, darkness fades into an autumn evening under a crescent moon, the only source of light. The woods of the Moonpass Valley stretch out below like a cozy blanket over the gently rolling hills beneath you.
Drifting closer towards the surface, the constant howl of the wind is interrupted by the drumroll of galloping hooves. Through a clearing a singular figure charges forth on a horse painted almost entirely white with splashes of black hide on its hind legs.
Eventually your incorporeal form moves near enough to make out the details of the swift-moving rider. Cloaked in a nondescript cowl and simple tan linen clothing, the blue Dragonborn woman leads her mare with an effortless elegance, her small gestures guiding the horse over roots and around tree trunks gracefully with a noted familiarity of the winding path.
After traversing through the dense woods, the woman signals her horse to a trot as she draws closer to a clearing. The hanging moon reflects glimmers of light from a small brook of clear water trickling southward.
"Voronelle, your timing impeccable as always. I have just finished our dinner's preparations. Come, sit with me. Let this warm meal sooth you and the bubbling brook wash away your concerns for the precious hours we share."
A burly and muscular blue dragonborn tends a crackling fire which licks against a perfectly crisped cut of wild game. Just beyond, a set of polished platinum armor rests stacked neatly, reflecting the ember's glow. The dragonborn's bursts into a giddy, childlike grin and his callused hands clasp tightly an arrangement of freshly picked wildflowers, dirt still clinging to the exposed roots beneath his grip.
Though this must be a decade before your first memories, the figure standing before you is unmistakably Parathraaj. Jarring to say the least, you are shocked to see this man not only personable but in such a overt, even goofy display of emotion. Parathraaj shuffles nervously as Voronelle dismounts her mare and walks gracefully towards him and unknowingly towards you as well.
Taking a closer look at the mother you've never known, you immediately recognize the fierce will in her bright sapphire eyes, for it is the same you have seen in the mirror on your lifelong quest for truth and power. You notice her sharp jawline and angular nose, both of which you and Parathrax share in common with her. She takes each step with a certainty seemingly born from carrying duty and freewill in equal measure. She smiles wide, dimples forming in her deep blue scaled cheeks. She is certainly lovely, though it is evident her confidence and presence far outshine any single physical feature.
"You are a welcome sight, as is this meal you have prepared. These last tendays have been far too long."
The two dragonborn embrace. Your mother whispers something to Parathraaj as they separate and the two burst out in laughter which echoes off the gentle stream. The two then share the prepared meal, speaking hastily and with joy in each exchange to fill one another in on the stories of the recent events they've each experienced. Following their dinner, the two rest in a comfortable and intimate silence before the light of dawn breaks across the eastern peaks.
"Were but it that these eves could last an eternity each, but alas, obligation summons us both, does it not?" Parathraaj's voice speaks, barely above a whisper to Voronelle, whose head rests on his chest.
"You've been reading too much poetry again." your mother quips dryly, but a smirk quickly belies her enjoyment.
The two dragonborn break the small camp together before embracing again and each mounting their horses and departing in opposite directions. As you drift alone in the clearing where grass still lies bent in the outline of the two resting companions, the sky brightens softly with the rising sun and you wake once more.
Parathorn's Last Stand
Drifting through the dense clouds of a moon-shroud eve, you hover above a small hamlet tucked away among the foothills of the Nether Mountains. Looking over the region, its as if you stare into the dark night pierced with distant starlight, but the flicker of the flame belies the source as dozens of torches spread across the valley floor.
A guttural bellow booms beyond the village's meager defenses, followed by a resonant, rhythmic roar and the striking of metal against stone. The cacophony of chanting crescendos, filling the night sky with the chaotic war cries of hundreds of orcs preparing to pillage and decimate the community huddled behind their walls in desperation.
Then, a sudden flash of light charges forth beyond the wall. Reflecting the surrounding torchlight, a radiant platinum shield slices through the darkness, plunging into the horde of orcs. The chanting breaks off abruptly, replaced with shouting commands. Sparks fly as the crude orcish blades meet the readied shields of the Platinum Order.
As you drift closer to the battle, you notice subtle movements leading away from the battle. Those who wear common cloth and carry children and and armed with gardening equipment slip off into the night, darting between small homes along dirt alleyways. As they make their cautious way, their defenders push forward with reckless abandon in equal measure.
The roars of dragonborn, though few in number and certainly outmatched by the legion of enemies before them, carries defiantly over the clanging of swords and armored march ever surrounding them. In the midst of the chaos, the same radiant, flawless shield rises to meet countless attacks. The wielder turns and feints and strikes fluidly before darting backwards. The figure rolls behind a well for cover then spins to the opposite side, catching a blade intended for a wounded ally. Turning on his heel, the warrior finds himself increasingly swarmed by the unremitting black horde, but fights on undeterred.
As the battle rages on, the escaping shadows opposite the fight grow fainter, more distant. As they begin the long trek to the city of Avraathe for refuge, they will carry the tales of the brave and selfless Platinum Order members who purchased their lives with a final and doomed last stand at the gates of Rauvincross.
Beneath the gate, the orcs prove to be too numerous, too relentless, as the members of the Platinum Order find themselves separated from one another, each in their own whirlpool of orcish blades and spears. As the first hint of morning light begins to difuse the darkness overhead, only the radiant shield and its bearer remain before the monstrous armies. As the clouds around you begin to blur your vision, you watch as this warrior too is eventually lost from your sight beneath the chaos of his enemies descending upon him in overwhelming victory.
Comments