- "I should've known better than to thieve while drunk. Bloody stupid thing to do..."
|Moor & Mort | Thief's Work | Traps & Tribulations | Rissa's Way|
|Title||Level 1||Level 2||Level 3||Level 4||Level 5||Level 6||Level 7|
|Woken by Rissa |
(Complete Scrolls of Dahrizon on Nightmare difficulty.)
|1||Moor & Mort||Dahrizon's General|
Dahrizon's General (Raid)
|Kyddin's Signet||Suneate of the Last Emperor||Hauberk of Gold||Gauntlets of the Realm Walker|
|2||Thief's Work||Guardian Golem|
Guardian Golem (Raid)
|3||Traps & Tribulations||Animated Armor|
Animated Armor (Raid)
|4||Rissa's Way||Simulacrum of Dahrizon|
Simulacrum of Dahrizon (Raid)
- Until you defeat Simulacrum of Dahrizon, you can not advance to the next level in this area.
- When passing to the next level, it is mandatory to start from the beginning, "Moor & Mort".
- When you defeat the Simulacrum of Dahrizon, you get a "Legions Tactics" which increases the power of all your legions by 50%. You can get this once per difficulty, up to a total of 200%.
- When you defeat the various quest bosses you'll also receive five "Scroll of Dahrizon" which can be used to craft Dahrizon legendary general, which has a 100% passive legion boost, for a total of 300% with "Legions Tactics".
- While questing in this zone, it is possible to encounter random minibosses, which may drop the Insania Set and Archmage Renoir's Set items.
- Archmage Renoir's gear only drops on Nightmare difficulty.
- Quest bosses have a chance of dropping Samuel the Six-Armed (Normal), Snulgar the Screamer (Hard), Telaria (Legendary), and Rissa D'Tang (Nightmare).
Note: click Show next to each section to view the story/lore
|"It's an unfortunate fact of history that great men and women attract myths like an open honeypot draws flies. Whether through misconceptions, misremembrances, or churlish attempts at deceit, tales cribbed from existing legends or else newly fashioned by inventive and unscrupulous minds latch onto their biographies until truth and falsehood become inextricably woven together.
Hence I cannot say whether the stories about Dahrizon's earliest years, all of which appear to have first reached parchment long after his withdrawal from West Krunan life, are to be relied upon. Scholars exchange black eyes and split lips (both literal and figurative) over their authenticity, and I'm loath to join in that particular intellectual melee. But I shall recount the most significant of them, in the hope of elucidating the reader's understanding of the enigmatic warlord. As a notable man of letters once remarked, even if they lack veracity they nevertheless serve to demonstrate the stories which his nature inspired.
Dahrizon was born in Brierge, a small village nestled in a region of southern Rhynhart best known for its picturesque forests and vineyards. On this at least there's no dispute. Alas, history has ample reason to remember Brierge and its connection with the warlord.
He was the son of a man named Vierre, the village cobbler -- a trade which had been passed down from father to son for generations, as is so often the case among the lower classes. By all accounts Vierre was a skilled and industrious fellow. He spent most of his days making or repairing hardwearing boots for his fellow villagers, and it's said that everyone in Brierge -- from its hoary elders to its young children -- wore his work on their feet. But his abilities had found favor in far loftier quarters as well. Earl Bren De Chauntallion, the nobleman on whose ancestral lands the village stood, was so impressed with the cobbler's wares that he would often commission pairs of riding boots from him.
Today the De Chauntallion family proudly displays a pair of old boots among the various lavish artworks and historical curios which fill their museum. They claim these were made by Vierre, with the assistance of his now famed and infamous son -- fashioned in the days when the boy's young hands aided his father, having not yet been turned to the work of war.
Such mundane items to commemorate a man who led armies, but rather fitting nonetheless. For whatever may have transpired later, the warlord's tale began with those humble origins.
Until his seventh year Dahrizon was a boy like any other. He prowled the forests with his friends, hurling rocks at birds and celebrating those rare occasions when their little hunting expeditions proved successful -- yielding feathered prizes for them to bring home to the cooking pots. Armed with a stick that his childish imagination transformed into a fine sword, he clashed with both comrades and rivals until blood, tears, and the admonishments of nearby adults dispersed the crowd of juvenile warriors.
If the chronicles are to be believed, it was during one or the other of these pursuits that his destiny was shaped.
Some hold that a snake bit him whilst he hunted in the forest, and that the creature's fangs were laden with a venom which didn't slay him on the spot but instead plunged him into the grasp of a brain fever. (A more sensational account claims he was bitten by a basilisk rather than a mere serpent, and another attributes the attack to a demon. But I believe these variations may be safely discounted as the work of poetic delusion or deception).
Rival biographies speak instead of how his skill in boyish swordplay earned him the enmity of a local bully -- a boy older, larger, and stronger than him. This thuggish child was embarrassed and infuriated by Dahrizon's constant victories, so he supposedly seized a much heavier stick than the children were wont to use and struck his younger adversary a vicious blow while his back was turned.
Whichever may have been the case, the tales converge when they tell of Dahrizon lying on his sickbed, murmuring delirious words as his mother wept. Nor do they disagree when they recount how his father mounted a borrowed horse and rode off in search of a cleric.
The village's own priest had died but a few days prior, a happenstance which some have chosen to dwell upon. One particular history declares that Dahrizon had murdered him -- cut the man's throat while he slept, because the priest had chided him for pilfering from the shrine's collection plate. However, that work is hostile to the warlord throughout, and one must therefore regard its claims as suspect. So too might we be dubious about the epic poem which describes the priest being slain by the very same demon which the poet claims afflicted Dahrizon with his malady. Taletellers are fonder of drama than of coincidence, even at the cost of veracity.
What's undisputed is that his father's quest was successful. He met a holy woman on the road no more than two miles from Brierge, a traveling priestess who wandered the countryside in search of those she might aid. According to our poetic friend whose verses speak of demons and the like, Vierre had to save her from a gang of bandits -- slaughtering them left and right in heroic combat which spans near a hundred lines. But once again this can surely be discounted. Fatherly devotion and desperation may have filled his breast with potent motivation, but even so one could hardly expect that a mere cobbler vanquished a band of lawless men singlehanded.
Nevertheless, Vierre rode back to the village with the priestess, and her pious magic is credited with restoring the boy to health -- curing his illness or healing his injury as the case may be. Within a few days Dahrizon rose from his bed, and his kin wept tears of joy and relief instead of sorrow.
But the malady had left a strange legacy in its wake."
-- Fontella D'Tang, Strategists
Moor & Mort
|"It's Dahrizon's friends who are said to have first noticed the change in him.
Though he still accompanied them on their little adventures, the boy seemed withdrawn. He was quieter than before, his voice no longer joining theirs in the boisterous and nonsensical cries of youth. He replied when spoken to, but at other times he maintained a curious, contemplative silence.
The sources most hostile to the warlord claim that he became not only detached but wicked and sadistic. They present long, sometimes stomach- churning tales of the cruelties they say he committed -- such as vivisecting animals for no better reason than amusement at seeing the working of their organs. One goes so far as to declare that he stole a baby from its crib for the same abhorrent purpose. However, that chronicler's biases are well known. Furthermore, it hasn’t escaped the notice of more objective scholars that the atrocity in question is identical to one which appears in the most lurid accounts of Creon the Tyrant’s boyhood, and that the author appears to have transcribed entire sentences almost verbatim from those earlier works. Hence the accusation must be regarded as without substance.
And if Dahrizon’s morality after his recovery has been questioned, his abilities have not. Once more the sources unite. Even those which despise him acknowledge the beginnings of the seemingly eldritch traits that would mold his later life.
In much the same way that he would only speak when addressed, the boy is said to have made little effort to thrust himself into the games he had once reveled in. But when a rock or stick was pressed into his hand, and his friends bade him take part, he did so -- and left them dumbstruck. Before his malady he had been capable enough. Now he was unsurpassed.
Every stone that left his hand claimed an avian life, no matter how impossible the throws seemed. On several occasions he would cast the rock wide, as though his aim had failed him, only to have the bird take to the air and stray into its path. To quote one of the more notable and poetic-minded chroniclers: 'Like martyrs hurling their bodies onto their persecutors’ blades did the fowl appear to submit to slaughter.'
Dahrizon’s mock swordplay was no less impressive. He's described as dodging or parrying his adversaries' sticks with a deftness that appeared born of precognition rather than mere swiftness or skill. Not a single blow reached his flesh, however loose and lackadaisical his guard seemed. Each time his weapon would rise to block the attack, anticipating every strike before it was born. And when he hit back, there was no stopping him -- the most vigilant defenses were as insubstantial as mist before his assault.
In the text of almost all the prominent literary works, his awestruck friends question Dahrizon about his newfound prowess. One can well imagine so. Alas, the chroniclers and bards who tell of his early childhood record responses so varied as to remind one of the unreliable nature of their sources. Furthermore, scholars have argued -- not without merit -- that these authors and poets are likely taking the words of the adult Dahrizon, for which we have far less dubious source material, and placing them in the boy’s mouth. Yet one of those responses, which appears with greater frequency than the others, is worth recording nonetheless: 'Numbers -- it's all just numbers.'
It's no exaggeration to say that these words have sparked more academic debate than any other single sentence in martial history. Men and women of letters can't even agree on whether they represent erudition or insanity. However, in recent years attention has been drawn to a previously near-forgotten school of philosophy which states that all of creation, every aspect of nature and the doings of the sentient races alike, may be understood as a complex sequence of arithmetical formulae. Devotees of obscure philosophical texts have spilled rivers of ink in the pursuit of some connection between the warlord’s words and this belief system, and their findings are -- if not yet convincing -- at least of intellectual interest.
But however later scholarship would view such things, most accounts hold that within his village the boy was deemed slightly touched in the head by his unfortunate illness, though at the same time blessed by the gods as if in some form of divine compensation for his suffering.
This opinion was only strengthened later in Dahrizon's youth, when Brierge was attacked by bandits.
The poet whose hexameters weave such a splendid if implausible tale of Vierre's victory over a group of bandits later states, in similarly evocative verses, that those who attacked Brierge were led by the daughter of one of the men the cobbler slew. After spending a dozen lines praising her beauty; two lauding her martial skill, and seven in a drawn out simile which likens her eyes to blazing fires, he expounds at length on the vow she supposedly swore over her father's body -- promising vengeance against Vierre, along with his kith and kin.
Delightful storytelling and poetry. But the verses’ veracity is rather tattered when one consults more mundane sources - such as epistles received by the authorities in Rhynhart during that time. These archived missives show numerous complaints of bandit activity in the region not long before the assault on Brierge, including attacks on other villages which were presumably felt to provide easy pickings for armed miscreants in search of plunder. Hence if the bandits were searching fer revenge, it seems that they were either unsure upon whom to inflict it or else felt that a modicum of marauding practice was necessary to prepare them for their true goal. Neither seems particularly plausible. So let us cite coincidence rather than anything more dramatic.
On the attack itself we fortunately have far more pragmatic and unromantic sources. When the bandits were first spotted in the countryside close to Brierge, the village’s best rider and fastest steed were dispatched to summon help from those of the king's men stationed in the nearest city. Whilst the affair was over before they arrived, their captain felt obliged to interview those involved and write a report to submit to his commander. This document is still extant, and any visitor may request to see it -- replete with the inky fingermarks of the many scholars who have handled it before them.
The events it describes are as follows:
In the weeks before the attack, word reached Brierge of the aforementioned raids by bandits who had thus far eluded the forces of law and order. The most substantive information came from a farmer who had been an eyewitness to one of the attacks, delivered at length in the village tavern when he stopped there for refreshment on his way to a nearby market town.
The man was plied with ale by villagers anxious to hear his tale, fearful that the same bandits might cast their eyes on Brierge.
Dahrizon was there among the others, and he’s said to have abandoned his customary quietness to bombard the farmer with questions about the bandits’ weapons, armor, tactics, and sundry other things with a level of specificity which his fellow villagers regarded as being bizarre or even ghoulish. After the youth had gleaned all the information he seemed to desire, he sat back and stared into the tavern’s fire, lost in contemplation.
When their fears were later realized, and the bandits were spotted so near to Brierge that there could be little hope they might be making for some other destination, the village’s inhabitants seized their weapons and gathered to prepare for the coming attack. That's when Dahrlzon spoke out, laying forth battle plans with the confidence of a veteran general rather than a cobbler's son.
According to the captain‘s report, some of the villagers were swayed by the sureness in his voice, their knowledge of the young man's remarkable abilities, and the belief that he had been blessed by divine hands. Others were influenced by their respect for Vierre, who urged them to heed his son’s words. They adopted his stratagems, falling into place as he directed.
As the bandits appeared in the distance, Dahrizon issued final orders -- adjusting his plans as though in accordance with fresh discoveries unfathomable to anyone else. Then the battle began.
Here the record becomes somewhat less reliable, as many of the peasants seem to have lionized themselves in their accounts of the fighting. An understandable failing perhaps, for men and women new to the terrifying thrill of battle. But one of them disputed Dahrizon's pivotal role. All credited his positioning of the bowmen, use of makeshift caltrops, and other contrivances with the victory. And each tale included his slaying of the bandits' leader -- whose skull he bludgeoned with a thick, sturdy cudgel.
Upon learning of the attack on Brierge, Earl Bren De Chauntallion came to the village to congratulate its gallant defenders. He arrived while the soldiers were still there, and his words thus found their way into the captain’s report. The earl was amazed to discover the part Dahrizon had played in the battle. Unlike the villagers, he'd had no inkling of the boy's remarkable powers. So after praising him for saving Brlerge, Bren De Chauntallion questioned the young man -- curious to find out how a youth with no schooling in the arts of war had demonstrated such mastery of martial matters.
The earl was fascinated by the notion that Dahrizon’s skills were the result of natural instinct and understanding, of a mind so attuned to war war that it comprehended battle as though it were but another part of creation -- no different from the changing of day to night, or the passage of the seasons. And he saw that the boy took great pleasure in this talk of combat and tactics. Hence he offered to have him sent to Dracoshire. There he could be housed at the expense of the De Chauntallion family, and learn from the finest strategists and tacticians at the king’s court.
Dahrizon’s eyes apparently lit up at this proposal. And Vierre, seeing that it would gladden his son’s heart, accepted the earl’s generosity. Thus the future warlord's destiny came to pass."
--Fontella D'Tang, Strategists
|Finally! Been waiting bloody forever for you to wake up. Even thought about upending a jug of water over your mug, but I didn't think you'd quite appreciate that -- as the bandit said when he stabbed the woman in the gut.
No need to grab for that sword, mate. If I'd come looking for trouble you'd be wearing a second smile, like a bloke that got shaved by a blind barber. Instead I was just watching you sleep. Yeah... That sounded bad. Like I'm one of those freaks who sneak into girl's rooms at night and cut off their faces or something. But I'm not! I just wanted to talk to you first, without Marcus seeing me. So I snuck in here. Easy enough. Thought the famous dragon-rider would be guarded a bit better than this. Still, it's not like some bloody big dragon can sneak around like me. I'm a thief -- a damn fine one at that, if I do say so myself.
You don't remember me, do you? I was up on the wall in Fallows, putting my daggers into beastmen in the middle of all that fighting. Killed a sodding bunch of them too. Still, there was a lot going on -- can't blame you for missing one little gnome. Especially a lass who makes her living by not being seen... How about in the pub? We were drinking in the same place after you did that dragon in, and everyone came out to celebrate. But we were both pretty bloody sloshed that night. We could have (shagged/snogged) on a table and you might not remember. Stop blushing. We didn't.
I'm Rissa D'Tang. I thought that family name'd ring a bell. You know my cousin, don't you? Not that the prissy cow would ever tell anyone that she had kin who grew up in a Titaran slum. Poor relations, and all that. A nice fancy name, but not even a bleeding hook to hang it on -- or a pot to piss in. Still, it taught me how to look after myself. And how to nick things.
Sorry... You don't want to hear my life story, do you? You want me to skip to the important bit, so you can find out why a masked gnome's in your bedroom in the middle of the bloody night. Fair question. Tell you what... You get dressed -- you don't look comfortable hiding your private bits under that sheet -- and I'll keep talking. I'll even turn around to stop you going red again, since I'm such a nice girl.
I heard that! Put the sword down! At least listen to the tale before you run me through, as the bard said to the barbarian. Let me start at the beginning, so you know how things are. I fancy a (bloke/lass) like you'll be interested in what this little gnome's got to say.
That night in Fallows, when we were all drinking up the ale, that mate of yours -- the old feller with the two swords -- got into a little wrestling match with a couple of elves. From that laugh of yours, I think you remember what happened next. They upset a table, and that upset Mayor Bloodwyn. Can still remember the look on the pompous tosser's face when all that wine splashed over him...
Old Aurelius was too chicken to pick a fight with your friend. Didn't even dare to give the elves a go. But after you lot went back to your drinking he gave me a good hard kick for chuckling at him. I'd left my armor and daggers back at my digs, so the bastard probably thought I was just some meek little gnome girl he could knock around if he felt like it.
I was going to smash his face in with my tankard, but Captain Marcus grabbed my arm. Didn't want to mess with him, so I went off instead. I swear, honest to the gods, I was just going to go back home and sleep it off. But then I got thinking... Since everyone was out drinking themselves silly, who'd be any the wiser if I went into the mayor's house and nicked a few things. Just to teach him a lesson, you know?
Thieving's all about wits and reflexes. You know, the first two things that go out the bloody window when you've had a few. And I'd had more than a few. Sober as a judge, I would have been in and out of the place before anyone knew I was there -- carting off all the valuables I could carry. Drunk... Well, I had the bright idea of throwing a big rock through the window. Seemed easier than fiddling with locks or climbing the ivy to get inside.
Turns out that not all the guardsmen were off joining in the fun. Some of the young bobbies had pulled the short straws, and were out patrolling. Bobbies... That's what we call guardsmen in Titar. Because if they catch you, they bob you on the head a few times with their sticks. A couple of them must have heard the glass smashing, 'cos they came through the garden and grabbed hold of me.
Now, in my head I thought of kicking one in the shin, twisting out of the other's grip, jumping on their shoulders, leaping into the branches of the nearest tree, and making myself scarce. But like I said, I was bleeding pissed. So instead I tripped over and threw up. Then they carried me off to the guardhouse. They were nice about it though. I even managed to get a spot of kip on the bloke's shoulder, and they didn't wake me up when we got there. Just put me onto the bed in one of the cells, locked me in, and left me to sleep it off.
Not the best place I've ever come to my senses in. But not the worst either. Not by a long shot. I once woke up next to... Well, let's save that story till you and me know each other a bit better.
Anyway, I saw where I was -- and even through the splitting headache I remembered what had happened. I wasn't best pleased about it, as the father said when his daughter ran off with an oroc. But I wasn't going to panic. I'd been in tougher scrapes than that.
I went up to the bars, to see how things stood. The place was empty. Made sense, of course. Fallows was still one big drinking party. The bobbies stuck on duty would have their hands full out on the streets. They couldn't spare anyone to watch over a prisoner. And that was just fine by me.
The gate on the cell must have been made by a bleeding fool. The keyhole went all the way through, so whoever was locked inside could get at it. Course, it wouldn't normally matter much. Unless the prisoner was a bloke with a funny shaped thingy, what would they have to stick in there? But I'm clever. Well, okay... Not so clever I didn't get arrested smashing a tosser's window when I was sloshed... But still...
I had some tools hidden in my boot heels -- a few rods of metal that I could pull out, stick together, and use as lockpicks. So I got to work sharpish, before the guards could come back lugging any other drunks to the cells.
Haven't Got the Foggiest
|The lock was a joke. Not even a good joke. I once heard this prat called Lester the Jester tell one about how Mina von Richten was a 'neck-romancer'. Where I come from, coves who tell puns that bad get glassed... Anyway, that's how bleeding stupid the lock was. I could have opened that thing when I was a nipper.
I slipped out of the cell and kept quiet. The guardhouse looked empty, but there was no point taking risks, was there? I found the backdoor, took the bars out, undid the bolts, and eased it open.
I was feeling bloody chuffed when I stepped out into the alleyway. The sky was nice and pink up above. Drunks were singing in the distance. Reminded me of being a girl and staggering home from the pub after blowing a night's takings on whisky.
Then I heard the bloke's voice.
"I expected you much sooner," he said. "I fear you overindulged."
There he was, leaning against the wall as regular as you like. Thin, grey-haired bloke in fancy robes. I was going to leg it. But then a pair of big lads with swords appeared down each end of the alley. I heard more clanking armor behind me in the guardhouse.
"Nice clothes for a mugger," I said. Thought I'd get him talking while I sussed out what to do.
"Actually," he said, "men like me conduct our robbery through the more civilized method of taxation."
He pulled out the king's seal. That's when I knew things were going to get even more bloody pear-shaped than they were already. He told me that his lads would take me back to my cell and keep an eye on me, and that he'd send for me later.
Wasn't much I could do about it, so I went quietly. No point getting knocked around by a load of beefy warriors.
Didn't have a chance of breaking out of that cell again -- not with the lot of them sitting around playing cards just outside it. Meant I had to sit tight for a few hours until a messenger came along and said the bloke was ready to see me. Then the coves opened the door, took me outside, and marched me down the street. Put themselves all around me, so I couldn't run off.
They took me to the mayor's building. Tosspot Aurelius was there, and the sneer on his face made me want to jump up and nut him. But I was in enough trouble already...
The feller with the seal was in the mayor's chamber. The guards followed me in there, but not Bloodwyn. That made me sit up, I can tell you. I wondered what the bleeding hell he could have to say to me that the king wouldn't want old Aurelius to know. Got to admit, as nervous as I was -- part of me thought I was going to get hung, drawn, and quartered for trying to break into the mayor's gaff -- I felt pretty bloody important.
Don't know what I expected, if it wasn't a slow and painful death -- as the virgin said on her wedding night. But the first thing he said threw me.
"What do you know about Dahrizon?" he asked.
I told him I'd never heard of it, but that I'd try a small glass just to wet my whistle. Hair of the dog and so on. He got a bit snotty at that.
"Your esteemed cousin wrote a treatise in which she spoke about the man at length!"
I've got his voice down perfect, don't I? Always was good at sending folk up. Could have been a mimic instead of a thief. Anyway, I said, "I have another cousin who's a blooming whore -- but that doesn't mean I know how to do the Writhing Wyvern position!".
He started coughing, and went a bit red. When he got over it, he told me a bit about that Dahrizon bloke. I never had much schooling, so for me history's just a bunch of old rot that happened to other folk. I started yawning, and messing with my fingernails. He got the point and wrapped it up. Great warlord, won battles, sodded off, hid himself in a castle, died.
Then came the good bit. He said Dahrizon was meant to have left a load of writings behind. Scrolls full of military learning. The kind of things that would make my cousin wet herself. The bloke -- never did catch his name -- said they reckoned the warlord's teachings could help us against the dragons. So the king wanted to send a little expedition to his castle to find them. Was supposed to be all hush, hush. That Dahrizon feller isn't too popular in some parts, and the king's lot didn't want it known that they were rooting around to trying to pick his brains.
I already knew where he was going with all that, of course. I'd done a bit of treasure hunting in my time. I knew how to get past traps, puzzles, locks -- all the stuff that folk with too much time on their bloody hands leave in dungeons to keep people like me from the loot. He wanted me to go along and help them get the warlord's scrolls.
Seemed like a laugh. I told him that I'd do it in exchange for a pardon and a bit of gold. Aurelius Bloodwyn would have had me stoned to death if he could have, so it would have been worth it to wipe the smile off that sodding ogre's ass he calls a face.
He coughed. Made me think he was imagining me doing the Writhing Wyvern again. Then he said there was a problem. Mayor Bastard Bloodwyn wasn't going to let them give me a pardon. And the king wasn't going to piss off an important noble family. The best they could do was promise that I'd only get a short spell in prison. Otherwise I'd be hanged, like tosser Aurelius wanted in the first place.
Not much of a choice, so I accepted. Reckoned I could probably just leg it the second I got out in the open. That's when she came in.
Soon as I laid my bleeding eyes on her, I knew her type. Mage wearing more skin than clothes -- the kind of slut who does her enchanting with her eyes and her breasts, if you know what I mean. Seen plenty of them in my time. Men can't resist a slutty mage woman. So they get into all the cushy jobs. The look on her face -- beautiful face, mind you -- said 'bitch'. When she started yapping, her voice said the same.
She was going to be my handler. If I stepped out of line, she'd zap me.
Bloody fantastic... But still... It was the best offer I had.
They brought me my armor and daggers, at least. The mage didn't like it, but I told them all that I needed the tools of my trade to get the job done. After that they brought the horses out and we went for a ride.
I had to sit in front of one of the soldiers, so I wouldn't just gallop off into the sunset. He grabbed onto me with one arm all the time we were riding -- like he thought I was going to jump off. Or maybe he wanted to feel me up.
Boring journey, unless you count the groping. Just a lot of riding and camping -- with people watching me like bandits watching a merchant with a big, fat purse to make sure I didn't scarper.
But it got a bloody sight more interesting when we got to the moors near the castle.
That's when the fog set in. Big thick clouds of it, like the stuff was trying to choke us. The mage woman started whining, saying that we'd never find our way through it. I just laughed, and told her that it was nothing next to the fog we got back home in Titar. Now that was fog -- the kind you could ladle up and serve as pea soup.
I said that I'd find our way to the blooming castle.
|It wasn't sodding difficult. Not to someone who'd spent her life fending for herself, while that mage was probably getting rogered by every fat wizard or official she batted her eyes at. I knew which way the castle was supposed to be. That's what maps are for. After that it's just a matter of keeping your wits about you, and not blundering around like a chicken with its bloody head lopped off.
She kept close to me when we got off the horses. Made the soldiers do the same, apart from the couple we left to watch over the animals. Got to admit, I did think about sticking a knife in her guts and scampering away in the fog. But it wasn't on the cards, lucky for her.
Like I said, the fog wasn't a problem. Made me feel right at home even. If we'd found a stall selling fried fish and chipped taters, and someone had pressed a beer into my hand, it would have been childhood all over again. Then the groaning started, as the chef said after he'd served undercooked chicken at the orphanage.
Never a good sound when you're out and about, groaning. Especially when you can't see what the sodding hell's making it. Was almost a relief when we saw them shamble out of the blooming fog, and we knew it was zombies. Almost.
Quest Boss: Dahrizon's General
|"A week after the bandits were defeated, a man named Rhonur appeared on Vierre's doorstep. He was Bren De Chauntallion’s seneschal, an individual well known throughout the earl’s lands. Rhonur told the cobbler that all arrangements had been made to his master's satisfaction, and that he’d come to take Dahrizon to Dracoshire.
With the customary mixture of sadness and pride evoked by such partings, drawn out at length in the more romantic tales, he left his home and entered the carriage which was to ferry him to that far off seat of West Krunan power. Had this journey been completed, had the earl's plan for the boy come to fruition and Dahrizon been trained by those connected with the royal family, who can say what might have transpired? He may have become a commander in the king's army, and even today stand as a gray-haired general or military advisor of great repute -- tasked with defending the kingdom against any enemies who cast covetous or murderous gaze upon its lands and riches.
But the next day the carriage was found a dozen miles from Brierge, on a road which led not towards the capital but to the coast. Its horses were gone. The driver and seneschal both lay dead, their throats slashed.
As much mystery surrounds this episode as any from Dahrizon’s earlier boyhood. Some of our chroniclers tell at length of Rhonur's perfidy, one digressing into such a catalogue of perversions and vices attributed to the man as to make either the seneschal a fiend worthy of the fieriest depths of hell or else the author a fabricator of disturbed mind and dishonest quill. These accounts claim that Rhonur intended to deliver the boy into the hands of mercenaries who ha heard of his abilities and were willing to pay a high price to procure him. But they supposedly betrayed the seneschal and murdered him.
The sources which take the most pleasure in denigrating Dahrizon instead depict Rhonur as an honest and forthright man, whom the boy killed. They propose that it was Dahrizon's own plan to join with mercenaries rather than complete the trip to Dracoshire, believing that in such company he would best be able to satisfy his hunger for war and bloodshed. However, this theory seems remarkably implausible. One wonders how a cobbler's son living in a quiet village would have come into contact with mercenaries to arrange the diabolical plot in the first place. Furthermore, if this had been his intention, surely he could have absconded from Brierge at anytime of his choosing to meet with his confederates -- rather than waiting for Rhonur's carriage.
Perhaps in an effort to combine these two tales, or else to simply provide a more satisfying story, an epic poem reaches a pleasing if not necessarily reliable compromise. It declares that Rhonur did indeed betray the future warlord, and that upon learning of his treachery the boy snatched a dagger from one of the mercenaries -- which he used to open the seneschal’s throat.
But whatever occurred on that lonely road, Dahrizon disappeared into the shadows of history. For the next two decades of his life we have nothing in the way of reliable evidence to chronicle where he may have gone or what he might have done. Even the bards and poets have had the decency to accept this mystery, rather than filling those missing years with tales woven purely from their own imaginations. Only one especially fanciful work attempts to bridge the gap, and it need hardly concern us. It describes Dahrizon dying, waking in hell , raising an army of demons, and conquering the infernal realm before being returned to the face of Tor'gyyl by mighty fiends who feared his continued presence in their fiery domain. Thus it doesn't so much strain credulity as murder it and leave its dismembered body in a ditch.
However, in recent years a group of scholars -- who possessed sufficient energy to abandon their dusty library and travel in search of the truth -- have come up with a rather more intriguing theory. They voyaged to East Kruna, and conducted research into known mercenary activity during the missing decades of Dahrizon’s life. Though they found nothing conclusive, they uncovered numerous references to a mercenary leader called Raizon, who’s said to have overthrown his predecessor and taken ccntrol of a powerful force of warriors -- which he led to war in the lands further east.
At present this avenue of scholarly explcraticn can only tantalizie us. But perhaps later years and further academic expeditions will yield an epiphany." -- Fontella D'Tang, Strategists
So Moat It Be
|The soldiers were good blokes. If they were miffed about how I got them banged about by the zombie, they like that I chipped in and brought him down. And to top it all off, the fog decided to piss off. Cleared up a treat till we could see the castle across the moor.
Even the mage was chuffed. Course, that didn't stop her being a sodding bitch when we got there...
Blooming awkward places to get into, castles. If the coves inside don't want you in, I mean. The drawbridge was up. Meant that someone had to swim across the moat, getting soaked to the skin, climb up the wall like a bloody lizard, and open things from the inside.
Guess whose job that was...
I told the mage to sod off. So she told one of the bloke to pick me up and chuck me in the water. Could see that none of the poor buggers wanted to do it, but she was in charge... I dived in to save them the trouble.
Driven up the Wall
|My armor's made for thieving. Light and agile, just like the girl inside it. Comfortable as a second skin. But I still don't like swimming in it if I don't have to. Prefer to take my dips naked...
I got across though, even if I did feel like a drowned rat with all that water running out from my clothes. Thought I'd catch my death of cold, as the man said when he kissed his mother-in-law. Made me blooming keen to get up the wall, so as I could warm myself up with the climb.
Past the Patrols
|Show me a thief who can't climb like a spider and I'll show you a lass who needs a bloody good kicking to knock some sense into her. Got to be nimble in this game. Lets get you into places where the good loot is, and helps you scarper if you get caught red-handed.
I could've gone up that wall in my sleep. Plenty of hand and footholds on those old stones. Just right or anyone with enough bottle to clamber up that high. Course, that didn't mean things were over.
They'd warned me about the golems. And I heard the sodding things clanking around on my way up. That Dahrizon bloke didn't trust other coves. Couldn't blame him for that. The number of times I've seen guards sleeping at their posts or shagging the maids while I tiptoe past with the loot... Anyway, he had a bunch of magic contraptions to look after the place instead. They were down in the courtyard, wandering about after all those years. That's the thing with golems - they just don't get bored and piss off home.
There wasn't one of those turning whatsits for the portcullis or the bloody drawbridge. You know - like we have in Fallows, where a bunch of poor sods have to break their backs shoving it. The mage woman... Yeah, I know her name. Course I do. But it was longer than your arm. Shanarletharisethea. Even a sodding demon would think it was bloody stupid. She wouldn't let any of the blokes cut it down either. On the way to the castle one of them called her "Shan". She practically ripped his kidneys out with her tongue. So they just called her 'ma'am', and I tried not to call her 'bitch' to her face.
Anyway, she'd found one of the gnomes who put the mechanisms together back when that warlord bought the blooming place. So we knew how it all worked. There were two levers, one for the gate and one to drop the drawbridge. Use them, and good old gnomish engineering takes care of the rest. The cove said Dahrizon wanted to make it so that he could seal the place up on his own, without needing other blokes to help turn a wheel or whatnot.
I just had to pull them hard, as the whore said after her first night on the job.
Thing is, I needed to do it without those golems smashing me to pieces...
Boss: Guardian Golem
Traps & Tribulations
|"'The broad events of those bellicose months known as the Year of the Ten Warlords are fresh enough in the memories of those who lived through them.
But as I hope that this work shall continue to be read by generations yet unborn and unbegot, for whom the political and martial tumoil may seem as far removed as the deeds of Tyranthius or the Red Prince, I shall take a moment to describe their beginnings.
Baroness Vantha Quent sent a missive to King Jamus, on behalf of numerous baronies in southern Rhynhart and eastern Baird. lt was a plea for help, stating that a large force of barbarians had arrived from across the sea and made camp in their region. The barons urged the king to use his royal influence on their behalf, and deal with the invaders before they began whatever campaign of raiding and pillaging they'd come for.
King Jamus' father had in the past arranged treaties with these particular barbarians, and he thus agreed to settle the matter peaceably if it could be managed. He sent a diplomatic mission to parlay with them, instructing those agents of his throne to call upon honorable agreements which he believed would sway even so savage a folk as these interlopers.
Baroness Quent subsequently sent a second missive to the king. It accompanied a basket containing the diplomats’ heads.
In that letter she spoke of how the marauders had treated the king’s people, and expressed her outrage. Quent assured him that her fellow barons and baronesses wouldn’t allow such wickedness to go unpunished. If King Jamus would supply them with wealth from his coffers, they would raise their own levies and expel the invaders by force.
Reasoning that this would be far more practical than mustering armies from further north and sending them to that southernmost part of the mainland, the king once more agreed to the baroness' proposal.
Thus began the uprising of the southern baronies, orchestrated by cunning and financed by royal gold. For Baroness Quent had invited the barbarians to West Kruna. Her goal, and that of the other barons, was to separate their lands from Jamus’ rule - creating a separate nation within the continent, like the Diamond Queen’s subterranean kingdom or the elven kingdom in the northwest.
The matter was an awkward one for our respected monarch. He could hardly allow such treason to go unchallenged. Yet he knew full well that the kingdom's populace would blanch at the thought of men and women wearing the king's colors waging war on their countrymen. Civil wars seldom make for pleasantness.
Sulthus Quent, one of his most respected advisors, was a kinsman of the baroness who played a leading role ln this treachery. And though King Jamus had accepted his public disassociation from, and condemnation of, Vantha, Sulthus felt that his family’s honor could only be restored if he devised a solution to the problem. So he pondered what might be done.
At Sulthus' request, word was spread that barons who had risen up against their lawful ruler could hardly expect royal protection should they happen to be attacked. Moreover, those who waged war against such upstarts might even be rewarded with stewardship of the territory they seized -· providing that the subjects who dwelled within its environs, the villagers and townspeople who were innocent in the affair, weren't mistreated.
It was a warlord's dream. A chance to carve out a little fiefdom with royal sanction. Thus armies were raised, and campaign plans set in motion.
During this time, Dahrizon made his reappearance.
Armed with a vast fortune of gold, he purchased a castle in his native Rhynhart. The fastness had been owned by a minor nobleman, a member of the gentry willing to sell that piece of his heritage so that he might pay his extensive debts with minimal embarrassment. Dahrizon then proceeded to gather an army, the force he would lead to the theater of war.
Whatever he had been engaged in during the previous decades, however he had earned his wealth, the warlord seemed to understand much about West Kruna’s mercenaries. He approached some of the finest captains and warriors, promising them victory and -- rather more importantly -- paying coin to buy their services. Among these sellswords was a man named Tharn, whose account of his time with Dahrizon has come to form the nexus of many of the more hostile chronicles.
The seditious barons looked on in dismay as no fewer than ten warlords, each at the head of a powerful army, marched on their lands. Some tried to bargain with them. Others went so far as to abandon their dreams of autonomy and bring the king's pardon for their treason. But matters had been set in motion, and they were dead or subdued long before their pleading messengers arrived at King Jamus' court.
Vantha Quent herself was slain on the field of battle, when she led her soldiers and barbarian allies against Vorlge -- whose forces were perhaps the most numerous of the ten.
But whilst the barons and baronesses were disposed of soon enough, the fighting was far from over. Ten warlords coveted the land. None would rest until they'd destroyed the other nine to become its master.
So unfolded a year of marching battalions and bloody battles - so many of the latter that historians throw their hands up in derision at the thought of bestowing names upon them, and even the men-at-arms who took part in the fighting can hardly remember one from the other.
It was in these months that the powers of the boy who had once saved Brierge from bandits were unveiled to the whole of West Kruna. His abilities hadn’t dulled with age. By the accounts of the men and women who served in his ranks or as his generals, his strategies and tactics were incredible in every sense of the word. Dahrizon would anticipate the movements of armies across the land, or units upon the field, with such prescience that he might have issued their orders himself. The warlord saw what his enemies planned, and each time made arrangements to frustrate their stratagems with is own.
If an enemy set an ambush, those ambushers would themselves be eradicated in a surprise attack. If a unit of hostile archers made their way to a vantage point, they'd find Dahrizon’s skirmishers waiting there to kill them.
Three of the nine rival warlords fell to him in battle, their armies vanquished and their heads mounted nn pikes. When that fateful year drew towards its close only he and Vorlge remained."
-- Fontella D'Tang, Strategists
Blow the Bloody Doors Off
|There wasn't anything we could do for the dead bloke. Had to just leave him lying there in the courtyard. The soldiers took it on the chin. They'd lost people before. But the mage... She took it hard. That's when I knew she hadn't seen real fighting up till that day. Must have trained for it well enough, the way she was lobbing spells around. But you can't practice what it's like to see your own lot die in front of you.
She didn't say anything, just kept staring at his body. Maybe wondering what the bloody hell she'd gotten herself into, or else thinking that some poor sods would never see their father again - because she'd led him to that castle and got him killed.
Dauben had to snap her out of it. We still had work to do. For a start, there were big bloody doors between us and the inside of the keep.
She said she'd sort it out. But first she looked at me, all dripping wet, and tossed a spell over. Dried me right up. Wasn't expecting that, but I wasn't complaining either.
After that she told us to stand back. And her hands started burning.
|Seemed like she stood there for a whole minute, still as a bleeding statue, the fire on her hands getting brighter and brighter till you couldn't even look at her. Funny stuff, magic. Suppose sometimes you can build it up like a bloke working up the nerve to grope the barmaid.
When she finally lobbed it... Well, the doors had no chance. Smashed right open. Mage didn't look much better neither. Looked like someone had kicked her legs in, the way she was swaying about. Johan, the biggest soldier bloke, had to catch her when she fell over. If he hadn't, she'd have gone face-first onto the stones and probably smashed her blooming head open.
Then it was my turn, as the prince said when the king fell off the cliff.
Sodding big castle, bunch of little scrolls. Like finding a needle in a haystack. Always though that was a stupid saying, mind... Needles are cheap. No point rooting round for a missing one in haystack. And if you're that bothered, why not just use a blinking lodestone? That's what the gods made them fore, isn't it?
Anyway, I had to dig them up and make sure we didn't get ourselves killed looking. Never knew Dahrizon, but any bloke who set a load of golems up to watch his gaff was going to have a few traps about the place. Common sense, that. And the gnome engineer cove, the one the mage found, had only worked on the stuff outside. We didn't know what we'd find in that bleeding keep.
That's why I told Dauben and the others to hold up when they were going to just saunter on in, casual as you like. I'd already spotted the thing that would ave bloody well killed them.
Tiles. Word of advice, mate: If you're hunting for treasure and see a tiled floor, give it a good once over before you walk on it. Good place to hide pressure pads. You know - the things that set stuff off when you tread on them. Killed a good many careless sods, those things have.
The hallway was covered with black and white tiles. So I got down on my hands and knees and took a peek. It was just like I thought... All the tiles were pressure pads. And it didn't take a blooming genius to know that they had something to do with the big dragon heads up above, high on the walls to the let and right. Very decorative they were. Course, back in Dahrizon's time they weren't at war with the sodding things. Can't see too many rich folk decorating their gaffs like that now.
Anyway, I told the lads.
"So we should walk on the white ones?" one of them asked.
"No, we should walk on the black ones!" another said.
"Everyone knows white means good, black means bad!" the first one said.
That didn't make Brethurl happy, of course. Poor bloke was the color of coal. Took it personal, he did. Would have kicked off a bit of an argument, if I hadn't stepped in.
"They're both just as bad as each other, lads," I told them.
Bless them... They'd heard a lot of adventuring stories, but they didn't know a bloody thing about sussing out traps. I could see what kind it was It wasn't here to let the right people in. It was there to keep everyone out when the right lot were already inside. Keep them out or do them in.
The soldier blokes didn't believe me. So I went outside and grabbed a couple chunks of golem.
I tossed the first one on a black tile. Made one of the blooming dragons breathe fire. Big gush of magic flame, all over the place. Hot enough to melt the golem's metal. Think what it would have done to any poor sod who was there instead. We wouldn't have had to carry him home - we'd have just swept him up instead.
Then I chucked one onto a white tile. Same thing happened, as the alchemist said when he blew up his second apprentice.
"How do we get across?" Brethurl wanted to know.
"You just stay put, mate," I told him. "This is a job for Rissa."
Johan had come in, along with the mage. So I told him to come help me out. I'd already sussed how I was going to get over to the other side. I just needed a boost.
Death in the Library
|Big, strapping lad, Johan was. His hand caught the bottem of my boot when I jumped and tossed me in the air like I was a bloody caber. Got so much height off him that it made the job easy.
I grabbed the chandelier, swung from it like an acrobat, and jumped over to the next one. Another little jump and I was past the tile. Then I just had to have a gander until I found the lever. It was a clever one. Disguised as a statue's arm.
The big grinding noise when I yanked it told me that we were good. But to be safe, I yelled for Dauben to chuck another bit of golem on the floor. That time the dragon kept its gob shut. So the lads came across.
Then the hunting started. We went through the place - me up front, the others behind. I told them not to touch anything and to do whatever I bloody told them. Found a whole load of traps. Some I could took care of. Others we just had to go round, making sure no one stood in the wrong place. Worked a treat at least for a bit. They did what I said, and we were all fine. I suppose that made some of them cocky, or careless.
You should have heard the mage gasp when we found the library. Shelves and shelves of dusty old books.. And scrolls. Big boxes of scrolls.
I went in first, to look everything over. I'd told them not to handle anything till I let them know it was safe. But Brethurl... Poor bastard grabbed a scroll off one of the shelves when I wasn't looking. There was a crackling noise - you know the sound magic lightning makes. When I turned round he was already dead.
Bloody waste. The mage was beside herself, screaming for everyone to stop sodding touching stuff. Not that any of them would have, after that.
Still, job needed doing. Another dead bloke made no difference, sad to say. So I went over to the shelves and poked around.
Boss: Animated Armor
|"Vorlge had divided his forces in half, seeking to deal with two rivals who were converging upon his position from different quarters. One of these halves he had led in person, another was tended by his generals. Both were victorious. It was these triumphs which finally cleared the field of all other challenges, and determined that the matter would be settled between him and Dahrizon.
Dahrizon’s army met that commanded by Vorlge's generals before his rival could reunite his divided legions. It was a powerful force that he faced, filled with hardened warriors well used to the rigors of battle and led by commanders skilled in the science of war. Though Vorlge himself was absent, they employed the same tactics which that warlord had used to achieve so many victories throughout the year. Their mages and cavalry worked in harmony, for instance -- the former shielding the latter with potent enchantments designed to make their charges irresistible. This tactic had won them the bulk of their battles, allowing their horsemen to smash through even the sturdiest enemy formations.
But against Dahrizon they met their match. His plans were as flawless as ever, countering each stratagem his enemies threw at him. One of Vorlge’s armies was destroyed, and on the following day it was expected that the other would suffer the same fate.
Then Dahrizon ended his campaign.
Scholars, politicians, the king's advisors, and countless others have attempted to make sense of this bizarre action -- to fathom why a warlord on the cusp of final victory, within a hair's breadth of controlling a valuable swath of territory and no doubt gaining other honors from the crown besides, would abandon the ambitions for which he’d spent an entire year waging war. But even those who were with him at the time can offer little illumination. Their accounts are filled with confusion and the echoes of their discontent.
Dahrizon assembled his generals in his tent, and told them that he had to leave. None of those present who later set down their tales in ink, or else spoke with scholars who did so in their stead, have ever recounted his words in full. They simply describe a rambling, disjointed speech from the lips of a pale, troubled, haunted man. It was as though their warlord had taken leave of his senses, been driven into melancholy despair.
One single quotation appears in the several of their accounts, however -- with such minor variation as to demonstrate its authenticity:
"I've seen the dark horizon."
Much like the warlord’s statement about numbers, this sentence has been studied by scholars, clerics, mages, philosophers, and countless other erudite individuals. The theories attached to it are equally innumerable. Some claim to have discerned meanings of profound importance in those words. Others see them as the babbling of a man deranged by a reoccurrence of the insanity which had lurked in his brain since his childhood illness or injury, exacerbated by the enormity of what he’d wrought during the Year of the Ten Warlords. Among the latter group, it’s been noted that "dark horizon" has a suspicious phonetic similarity to "Dahrizon" - which they see as evidence that his statements were those of a deluded lunatic.
But whatever knowledge or insanity may have motivated him, Dahrizon rode back to his castle. His befuddled am1y was left in disarray.
Several of his generals chose to lead their troops after him. Though they were mercenaries, months of fighting under the warlord’s leadership had made them as loyal to the man as soldiers fighting for cause, country, or god instead of gold. They decided that if some trouble beset him it was their duty to follow him and aid him as best they could. Hence they made the journey to his castle in turn, though they arrive to find its drawbridge raised against them. So they camped on the nearby moors, hoping that the warlord would appear and speak to them in time.
As for the rest of his forces, they were outraged by what they deemed as Dahrizon’s betrayal. Inspired by Tharn and some of the other most respected soldiers, those warriors refused to withdraw when their victory so close at hand. Instead they swore they would take the field against Vorlge, slay him, and claim the territory as their own.
It was folly. They were brave and skilled warriors, ready to fight with all the passion incited by their circumstance. There were capable commanders among those who remained, men and women who had led their formations to victory after victory under Dahrizon's banner. But with so many of their number gone, and without their warlord's brilliance to guide them, they couldn't hope to stand against Vorlge’s army.
Their losses were heavy, and would have been heavier still if Vorlge hadn't held his soldiers back -- ordering them not to pursue their routed enemies.
Spilled blood and lost lives roused Tharn and the others to even greater fury. His account, though it was written years later, still burns with emotion when he speaks of how he and his warriors yearned for revenge against Dahrizon. They regrouped after their defeat, and made their way to the warlord's castle to seize it.
But the troops camped on the moor, who remained loyal to Dahrizon, wouldn't allow them to attack the castle. First they tried to dissuade them with words. When that failed, a fresh battle was inevitable.
It was a bloody affair, fueled by all the bitterness of former allies turned into enemies. In the end the loyalists won. Their adversaries were broken and routed a second time, and again they left many dead in their wake -- whom the loyalists would bury on the moor alongside their own fallen.
Most of the twice-defeated soldiers chose to disperse. Their campaign was over, and there was nothing left for them but to return to whatever homes or wanderings beckoned. But others refused to relent without first repaying Dahrizon for his betrayal. And since the warlord remained untouchable behind his castle walls and the ranks of loyal troops, they traveled to Brierge -- where they massacred the villagers and burned the settlement to the ground. Thus Dahrizon’s birthplace was scoured from the world.
As for the warlord himself, there's no record of him being so much as glimpsed since he retreated to his castle -- and now almost two full decades have passed. Thus it's believed that he perished alone within its walls, claimed by nature or his own insane hand."
-- Fontella D'Tang, Strategists
|when I turned round, two of the soldiers were down. The others were all fighting for their blooming lives - trying to get back to the door. Johan yelled for me to get over there, so I legged it.
But there was so much armor between us... Like a sodding ocean of colored metal. And half of it was coming for me.
|Don't know how I dodged them all. Every second I thought one of them would grab me or put a sword through me. But I made it.
Johan, strong bugger that he was, practically threw me out into the corridor after the others. And he stayed put, holding the doorway, telling us to go. Keeping them off us. Bravest bloody thing I ever saw.
We heard him shouting while we ran, laughing and taunting like it was a sodding pub brawl. Can still hear him in my head. Brave, brave bugger. But he couldn't hold them back for long. They came through the doorway, over his dead body, clanking along after us.
|I ran at the front, screaming like a blooming banshee for them to follow me around the traps that were still there. That's when it came to me. Before that were were just running, wanting to get as far away as we bloody well could. I was taking us the same way we came, 'cos I knew where all those traps were. Last thing I bleeding wanted was to run into a fresh one. Not like I had time
to stop and check for them.
But the traps... I knew what to do.
The armor was still clanking along behind. The sound was right in my sodding ears, like metal was falling all around us. The suits were fast. Maybe not as fast as us, but fast enough. And I don't reckon they would've got tired, even if they did have soft bits we could stab. The only way to stop them catching us and killing us was to do them in first.
So I took us to the hallway with the black and white tiles, and told Holt to help me. he was the biggest of the soldier blokes left. And he had guts, just like Johan. Even with those things coming after us, when some of the others were bolting out into the courtyard, he did what I wanted.
Same trick as before. He threw me up to the chandelier.
Some of the suits went after them lot. The mage even threw a few spells their way to make sure of it. Other ones stood around looking up at me with those glowing eyes like a bunch of bleeding idiot, wondering what I was doing or waiting for me to drop. All of them were on the tiles... Bloody stupid things.
Boss: Simulacrum of Dahrizon
Burden's Rest |
Faedark Valley |
The Last Titan |