Scales of War

Dark Gods Rise

2 weeks after the Fall

Icy winds swirl around the battlements of the Monastery of the Sundered Chain. Within, the celebrations continue, as they have done since the triumphant return of the Dawnriders following the death of Tiamat. On the battlements Reverence stands vigil against any remaining threat, obdurate and uncaring of the cold. And a little way away, equally uncaring or simply immune to the frigid temperatures, a slight form stares out into the night and broods.

Valasaar Moonscale eases his way out of the tower door and nods to Reverence, before making his way over to the other watcher. His deep voice easily overpowers the shriek of the wind. “Is something the matter, Corren?”

The softer reply is whipped away and almost lost. “Only a matter of purpose, Valasaar.”

Corren turns and leans against the crenelations. “I’m sure you’re glad to have more time in the mortal world, friend. But I was so certain… I knew my purpose, what She wanted of me and what I intended to do instead. This was not it.”

The shadar-kai sighs. “I am left wondering: was She also ignorant of the bond between Bahamut and Tiamat, or at least that Bahamut would absorb Tiamat’s power as she passed from the world? Or was I a fool even in my rebellion, dancing to Her tune?”

Valasaar claps a hand on Corren’s shoulder. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about, Corren,” the dragonborn booms. “But it’s much warmer inside.”

3 months after the Fall

Corren pauses at the workshop’s door to watch, eyes narrowing as he senses the pain and dread emanating from the rune-scribed circle laid out in precious metals on the floor. A whirling mandala of bright energies plays in the air above the circle, enclosing and dancing to the whim of the wizard in its centre, even as black and green flames lick at his feet.

In time the power subsides, leaving only a lingering echo of despair, and the pre-eminent mage of his time steps carefully across the boundaries of his spell.

“Some fell working, Marcus?”

“Quite the opposite, although I admit the paraphernalia could be a little disturbing to lesser minds. No,” Marcus looks directly at Corren for the first time, “I was merely attempting to ascertain what we have done.”

With a wave of Marcus’ hand, candles around the room spring to life, replacing the gloom with golden warmth. “Killing a god has consequences, as we have seen these last few months. What I wanted to know was whether we could expect any other effects beyond the relatively benign. Has the, for want of a better descriptor, malign spiritual energy fled to some dark corner, seeking another host? More worryingly, did we actually manage to destroy the envy and greed in the world, the consequences of which would be far more dangerous than you can possibly…”

The sage halts in mid flow, suddenly aware Corren is glaring at him. “Yes, well… I suppose you might have some inkling. Valasaar, I must say, seems oblivious to any peril and only suggests we trust in Bahamut’s will. Sethlah is wrapped up in her own concerns, as you yourself have been. It’s nice to see somebody finally taking an interest in the important things!”

“What have you discovered? A new dark god to slay?”

“In truth, I am both pleased and relieved to say that there is no such thing. Nor is there likely to be for quite some time.” Marcus wearily shifts a pile of what may only look like forbidden tomes out of an armchair, and sits, waving his guest to another. “I was able to concentrate enough of the spiritual energy that if there had been any large amount elsewhere, on any plane, the principles of sympathy and contagion embodied in the construct you saw would have pinpointed it without a shadow of a doubt.”

Corren leans forward in his chair, frowning. “You’re sure?”

“You presume to question my expertise?” Marcus sniffs. “My theory is very simple, and has the benefit of being correct: the envy and greed in the world has not gone anywhere at all. Each of us carries it within us as we always did. However, without – shall we say? – a divine focus to stir it up, it remains buried and dormant.”

“So we’re just waiting until a new god comes to take on that mantle.”

“Ah, but there’s the beauty of it, don’t you see? Without the divine focus to stir up envy and greed, it remains dormant; without envy and greed taking an active role in the world, no new god can arise. Once a significant proportion of the current generation pass on – those who have felt such emotions and know what they were like – it could be millennia before the right circumstances arise to break the deadlock. If indeed it ever happens!”

“I see… that’s very reassuring. I must say though, Marcus, I feel quite envious of your ability to discover all this in such a short time.”

“Why thank you-” Marcus’ eyebrows rise and he stops mid-sentence for the second time. “Is that your idea of humour?”

“Quite the opposite.”

“Hmm. We shall have to work on the premise that as a vessel of some considerable divine power, you are your own focus of sorts. You might even act as a focus for those around you, though it would take more than a few petty thoughts to unleash any serious trouble.”

“I will be careful.”

“Of course you will.” Marcus gave Corren a thoughtful look, considering the ambitious youth before him. “I’m sure that, unlike some others I could name, you appreciate the delicacy of the situation…”

1 year after the Fall

The dark haired killer strides across the snow, eladrin bodies lying tumbled in the field behind him. A snap of his sword, white light on the blade, and the last droplets of blood fall flash-frozen to the floor. Behind him, a small group of shadar-kai fanatics holds the loyalist guard at bay despite withering losses – losses he chooses to ignore.

“My queen,” Corren bows ironically to the pale fey before him, and smiles brightly. “You look well.”

“I know what you want, demon. I say that you shall not have it. When the council hear of the treachery of their pet attack dogs, any loyalty-”

“Spare us both the protestations, Inzira – please. I am no longer a Dawnrider, and I need only the Seed. Meanwhile, it appears your neighbour Cachlain has refound his ambition, and readies his forces. You will require the aid of our friends in the mortal lands to repel him… not their paralysis, as they chase after rumour and debate the facts of this tiresome squabble.”

“What have you done?”

“Only restored the natural balance.” For a second, something like regret forms in Corren’s eyes. “Somebody has to, after all. The Seed, if you please.”

Inzira shakes her head, backing away, appalled and defiant.

Darkness grows and clings to the shadar-kai warrior, casting a pall over the skies, and for just a moment the wintry sun grows dim. He surges forward, borne by shadowy wings, and his hand seizes the eladrin’s slender throat. Ice forms between his fingers as he rips the acorn from its resting place around her neck and casually casts her aside.

“I did ask nicely. I promise, I’ll take good care of her.” Corren smirks. “If there was any chance your answer would have been different, I wouldn’t have had to come here in person.” A gesture, and the remaining shadar-kai begin to form up around him, the air shimmering with a powerful teleport spell.

“Remember Inzira. Cachlain. Do you hate me? Do you envy my power? Do you want vengeance? It’s only natural. But I tell you now, queen of the winter fey, that your children will worship me as their god. For I am the Lord of Winter.”

Corren’s black gaze pierces the kneeling monarch, and then he is gone.

6 years after the Fall

The temple in the back of the market square is all but deserted, its icons torn down years before and its sumptuous furnishings wrecked. The people of this harsh city have no mercy for those who fall behind.

A miserable figure crouches in the wreckage, turning a simple golden ornament over and over in its hands. Without envy or greed, none have sought to take it from the beggar – for such he clearly is – but neither can he recall why he clings with such fervour to the image of a five-headed dragon. Greed was his ruling emotion, vengeance his passion, and without them he is lost.

Slow footsteps, scraping in the dust. The beggar starts to scuttle away, for if greed is no more then idle cruelty remains as strong as ever. He is stopped by a name. “Gunrak Titherin?”

His name. Desperate as he is to escape, something in the voice holds him fast. The barest hint of a forgotten promise. Ages pass as the footsteps continue their leisurely approach, until finally he is staring at a pair of well-made boots. “Look up, Gunrak Titherin,” and the cultured voice seems amused, “for I have an offer for you.”

“Nothing left… there’s nothing… nothing left.” Not so much a protest, as the last sigh of a man who died years ago.

“True. You were a power once, Gunrak Titherin, and now you’re but a worm. But you mustn’t let that stop you.” The voice turns compelling. “Look inside you… don’t you want the ones who brought you low to suffer? The people who spit on you and piss on you and turn aside in the street? Do you remember how it feels to carve your revenge into their screaming bodies?”

The barest flicker of an all but extinct fire flares to life within Gunrak Titherin’s heart. To the wretched high priest of Tiamat, after so long an absence, it feels as if his soul has caught flame. He cares nothing for whether the pain might kill him as he looks down again at the golden figurine. Involuntarily, his hand closes and his lips twitch towards a snarl. “Mine…”

“I am Mahan. Once I was a bard, as you would say it, but I have been blessed with the light and stand before you as a holy man. I represent a new power, a noble lord who strives to return to the world the passions we have been unjustly deprived of and bring balance back to the heavens.”

Now Gunrak does look up, craning his neck from his crouched position. “Divine Sethlah, the Lady of Deception? I don’t understand…”

“Not Sethlah, although my master counts her as his ally. The Lord of Winter calls you, Gunrak Titherin. Summon up your courage. Rebuild your church and begin anew your devotions. Await the day that your new master calls upon you, for it is coming!”

Mahan’s lip curls. “Or will you stay there in the dirt?”

“No!” comes the desperate response. “I serve the Lord of Winter! He will lift me up and vengeance will be mine!”

40 years after the Fall

The crowd fills the execution pit and spills out into the streets of the city of Gloomwrought. The shadowfell’s dark skies and dank atmosphere are pierced today by an almost festive mood… or a riotous one. Today, the leader of the seditious cult that challenged the Raven Queen is to be brought low and executed by Her followers, the Ebony Guard of Raven’s Eyrie.

As the hour approaches, shadar-kai loyal to the Raven Queen begin to shout and jeer. Nearly as many cult sympathisers quietly line the ways, some surreptitiously clutching the faith’s twin symbols – images of a black sword or a white acorn, or of the two superimposed. Small fights break out, only to be swiftly broken up.

Amidst the thunder of the crowd, the prisoner is brought out and bound to the pyre. He has been blinded and maimed, but his tongue is intact. In part, this is a gesture of contempt from the Ebony Guard, to leave a powerful Doomspeaker free to chant. Equally, they cannot afford to seem weak in the face of the threat that promises to wrest power from the Raven Queen: and a tongue that can shout threats can also beg.

A slender, hooded figure stands to one side of the square, jostled by the impatient cityfolk and seemingly lost in thought as he stands looking up at the platform.

In his mind, he stands in a darkened room, just days before. “The path is clear. You have served me as my herald, Mahan, and as my priest. But now you must serve me for the last time, and take up your mantle as the first martyr.” The response from the High Priest of Winter comes swift and fervent, even joyously, a fanaticism befitting the title whose full powers Mahan has always been denied. “Fear not. You will be My exarch and My symbol and will stand at My side for all of time to come.”

The executioner puts torch to wood, and the crowd roars. The hooded figure shudders as waves of hatred roll over him… the crowd’s hatred for the man tied to the stake, and hatred for his blasphemous cult; its hatred for the executioners, for the Raven Queen; hatred called up by poverty and by injustice and desperate lives where the toil is never done. With the hatred comes fear, and with that envy: envy of those richer, more powerful, stronger and more successful.

He seizes the power of the crowd’s anger, and from it shapes a single thought that wings its way across the planes. “Now.” Within the feywild, eladrin arcanists sworn to Winter bring their spells to bear on the cult’s most precious artifact, the Seed of Winter, bending all of their might towards vengeance on the fomori enemies who have raided and slaughtered them for decades. Long held plans are brought to action, and a priceless fortune in residuum pours through their hands. Slowly, the frigid air cools, takes on a killing bite.

The broken shadar-kai burns, yet even in his burning he continues to howl defiance. If the Guard had hoped for pleas, they are disappointed. “The Lord of Winter is the Lord of Vengeance! I fear not, for I will be avenged! If not in this life then another! I WILL BE AVENGED!”

Yes.

As the bonfire builds to its hottest and the prisoner is consumed, his tortured shrieks finally giving way to the crackle of cooking flesh and fat, a freak gust of wind smashes the base of the pyre to tinder and scatters it across the platform. The executioner howls and staggers back, his face alight, and the hooded figure grins even as it becomes translucent, burning up from within. A blue fireball shoots towards the heavens, throwing aside the nearest onlookers…

In the feywild, the cult’s ritual builds to a crescendo. At its peak, arcane power is met suddenly by divine, and lashes out towards the lands of Cachlain the fomori in a blaze of destruction not seen since the gods battled the primordials for possession of the world. Stunned mages collapse senseless, as a swathe of land miles wide is transformed into a single, sculpted block of ice…

In the shadowfell, peace returns to the place of execution. Shocked silence reigns, until a lone finger points shaking upwards, where a brilliant blue star reigns alone in the dark sky…

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Test of Fire

Stuff in the City of Brass

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Those Once Loyal

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Legacy of Io

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Interlude: The Death of Bahamut

The mighty dragonborn, Valasaar Moonscale kneels on the floor as the echos of his anguished screams fade from the hall. He remains motionless, head in hands as The Dawnriders stand in stunned silence at the news. Valasaar reaches out with his divine power to feel the strength of Bahamut, as he has done throughout his years of devotion to The Platinum Dragon, but all he can feel is a cold, empty void. It is true, Bahamut is dead.

The bells continue to ring out across Sayre mourning the loss of the god. Valasaar looks up at Raechela, the grief in her eyes was almost as great as his own. “How can this be?” His usually loud voice is quiet as he asks the question he already knows the answer to. Tiamat has won, the ritual has been cast; he is too late. Suddenly his expression changed to pure rage, his skin colour deepening as he smashed his armoured fist into the floor. “DAMN HER!!!! I will rip each of her heads off” He stands, rushes to a nearby table and upturns it, spilling its contents across the floor. Red wine creeps slowly over the tiles of the hall.

Valasaar turns to Marcus, his wings stretching in agitation. “What can we do my old friend? You have the answers. Tell me you know what to do.” He sounds desperate as he approaches the Sage placing his hands on his shoulders and looking into his concerned face.

Marcus pauses for thought, focusing his mind past his own sense of shock at the death of a god and the distress of his friend. He casts his mind over the details of the ritual and his own understanding of the nature of divinity before answering, “It might be possible, certainly it would take further consideration, but Bahamut passed some of his power, his essence, into you before he died so he is not truely lost. Given the nature of the ritual I feel it was unlikely that Bahamut was entirely unaware of the danger, and he certainly had the time to plan a response. Consider his assistance in mines of Karak, he clearly had some purpose for the Dawnriders. That purpose may have been to thwart the ritual before completion, of course, but that seems unlikely given the indirect nature of his involvement. It seems more likely that the final steps in Bahamut’s plan have yet to be revealed.”

A thought seems to strike Marcus then and he holds up a hand to forestall any questions while he considers it. “I must go to the university at once. There are some texts which may cast new light on things.”

Valasaar nods slowly and releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Thank you Marcus. I will come with you.”

The door to the coalition chambers bursts open and, his small frame silhouetted against the light from outside, Kalad stands in the entrance way. “Dawnriders, you are returned! And yet, this is not the day for rejoicing it could be.” Kalad seems even more dour than usual, almost as if he is confused that the Dawnriders could ever be at the centre of such catastrophe. His faith in his friends is shaken. “I fear there is yet more grim news you may not be aware of.”

“More grim news? Against the death of Bahamut, what else could be worthy of note?” Marcus asks with weary cynicism.

“Amyria is unwell. I know this pales in comparison to the news we have all experienced but it is yet more bad news at a time we cannot afford it.”

The Cleric turns towards Kalad. “Take me to her. I will see what ails her and do all I can. Marcus, I will meet you in the University.”

Kalad takes Valasaar to see Amyria. It is obvious a heavy toll is exerting itself upon her, her grey skin is drawn and has taken on a sickly cast, her eyes are feverish and her normally distinct white and violet markings seem faded, almost clouded over. Valasaar removes his gauntlets and places his hand on her damp forehead. Despite his healing skill, Valasaar is unsure what is ailing Amyria. The malady seems to be internal, not from a virus or disease of any sort.

Amyria’s eye flicker open at the touch and she smiles, weakly. “Valasaar, it is good to see you again. Since the fall of the Platinum Dragon, my sleep has been wracked by increasingly vivid visios. Each night I see myself pierced through with an arrow of bone wrapped with sinew and
flesh and adorned with burning runes. Silver-chased blood spreads from my wounds and runs from the head of the arrow. The power of these visions is frightening and ancient beyond explanation, but I cannot describe them as evil or malicious.”

Amyria pauses as a coughing fit causes her to convulse.

“I know these visions to be a gift, a last gift from Bahamut to his beleaguered children. The artifact from the visions is the key; it must somehow be able to foil Tiamat’s foul schemes.”

“An arrow of bone, you say, wrapped in sinew and flesh and covered in runes? Have you heard of such an artifact?” Valasaar is renewed by this thin ray of hope.

“I don’t know what this artifact is, but I know it represents our only hope in these dark times. Find it, and with it, find our salvation.”

“Thank you Amyria. I know a man who might be able to help, if there is anything I can do to ease your suffering please let me know.” Valasaar turns and strides purposefully to the window and dives out into the open air. His great wings unfurl and he swoops down to the University, racing to give Marcus the news. He lands heavily at the entrance and without missing a step strides through the marble halls searching for the sage. The robed students and scholars give him a wide berth as he approaches the Great Library where the Dragonborn finds Marcus Brandale surrounded by librarians carrying armfuls of ancient texts, parchments and scrolls.

“Too speculative… Based on a faulty interpretation of Mordenkainen’s third law of contagion… The last known Urn of Osiris was used years ago… Why are you bothering to store that in the primary archives?… Necromancy is not an option…” Marcus directs the flurry of activity around him, dismissing scrolls and bound volumes alike as fast as the assembled students and librarians bring them to him.

“Valasaar,” he says, suddenly spotting his friend looming above the throng of brown robes, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here so soon. I’m afraid I’ve only narrowed it down to seventeen possibilities at this stage and am having trouble” – he dismisses another student with a wave of his hand – “finding the necessary information.”

Valasaar wades through the robed figures to reach Marcus. “Amyria is wracked by visions of an arrow of bone wrapped in strips of flesh and covered in runes. In the visions she is pierced by it. Do you know of this artifact?”

“Did she happen to describe the runes?” Taking the look of confusion on the dragonborn’s face for an answer, Marcus swiftly continued, “Hmm, no matter, given the context it seems most likely she is referring to the Arrow of Fate. But for obvious reasons we won’t be seeking that particular item.”

Valasaar seems concerned at this news. “Why not Marcus. What is the arrow of fate?”

“I do sometimes forget that your theological education focused on which of Bahamut’s enemies were more susceptible to the mace and which the sword. You know how Bahamut and Tiamat sprang fully formed form the corpse of Io? Well the Arrow of Fate is the small fragment that was left behind, the residual shard of Io’s power that remained apart from either of his offspring. And we won’t be seeking it because the last I heard it was the lynchpin in a pact keeping Asmodeus from interfering in Hestavar, and I’m sure you can appreciate the consequences of messing with that arrangement.”

“Please Marcus, I am not in the mood for double guessing your endless knowledge. Just tell me where the arrow is.”

“Ah, well, obviously I don’t know exactly where it is. I would imagine somewhere proximate to Hestavar, obviously, but the point is that they hid it and the precise location was never recorded, at least not in any text I have access to.” Marcus snaps his fingers and gestures to the first student to take note, sending the youth scurrying towards a stack of old tomes.

Valasaar starts clenching his fists in frustration. “Amyria has been give this vision for a reason. She has not been wrong before. There must be something to it. With the fragment of IO in the arrow and the spark of Bahamut within me we could bring him back!” The last word was almost a shout as he slammed a desk with an armoured fist, the sounds echoing around the silent room.

Marcus muses for a moment, “Yes, that is one possibility, although I would need to spend some time deriving the appropriate ritual. But if I recall correctly” – Marcus begins to scan rapidly through the pages of an old tome that the student has placed before him, – “Ah, yes, removing the Arrow from Hestavar would render the pact between Erathis, Ioun and Pelor on the one side and Asmodeus on the other void. I suppose we might argue that the Arrow need never be removed from Hestavar, but in the likely event that such a ritual would consume the Arrow I suspect that the letter of the pact would consider that removal. I would have to review the precise terms to be certain, of course. And I think it highly likely that even the Dawnriders might struggle to survive long enough to devise and complete the necessary ritual if we incurred the combined wrath of Erathis, Ioun and Pelor. I suggest that we look for an alternative.”

“An alternative? You know of another holy relic containing a fragment of IO?” Valasaar raised is head and hands to the sky in frustration.

“Fine. We can go to Hestavar and at least look into things while I consider other options. But just this once let’s try the diplomatic approach. With access to the libraries in Hestavar I could most likely find a way to harness the divine spark within you without bringing the manipulations of Asmodeus down on a centre of planar learning, incurring the wrath of a trio of deities and risking our own lives in the process.”

The Dragonborn nodded. “It seems to be our only hope Marcus. Bahamut has given us this sign. We will not ignore it."

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Grasp of the Mantled Citadel

On the other side of the portal was a dark twisted forest full of skeletal trees and black lifeless vegetation. Sat upon a rocky outcrop The Dawnriders could clearly see an oppressive citadel towering above the wasteland. The journey was dull and uneventful apart from meeting a corrupted Druid, the spirit of the twisted forest who asked them to take a branch of the tree and plant it in their home realm.

The Dawnriders entered the Citadel and encountered a host of defenders including a chain Golem, a vampire and a number of followers of Tiamat including The Black Exarch; Mornujhar. They finally reached the Ritualist; Ifulujhar only to discover that the ritual had already been completed and The Dawnriders were too late. They dispatched the Lich, but were unable to discover the whereabouts of his Phylactery. The Party returned to Sayre to see if their worst fears were true. Was Bahamut really dead?

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Betrayal at Monadhan

Soon after the defeat of Emperor Zetch’r’r and the alliance between Vlakith and the people of the Elsir Vale The Dawnriders were summoned to the Coalition chambers in Sayre. Once there they discovered an Angel of Kord named Rachaela had requested to speak with them. She had information that confirmed their fears. The recent Githyanki invasion was no more than a distraction orchestrated by Tiamat although her true intentions were still unknown. Rachaela informed them that Tiamat’s Black Exarch; Mornujhar had swayed a very powerful ritualist known as Irfelujhar and had put him to work on a ritual of great power, the effects of which are unknown but would no doubt have serious repercussions.

Rachaela asks The Dawnriders if they will seek out Irfelujhar domain. It can only be reached through the demi plane of Monadhan, known as the domain of betrayal. The Lord of this realm is a Dragon named Arantor who had been tricked into attacking a village of innocent bystanders during the Arkhosia / Bael-Turath war. In an argument with his daughter who had accompanied him Arantor turned on her and killed her.

Rachaela gave Marcus the sigil sequence to Monadhan and The Dawnriders departed immediately. Once the portal was activated a mist rose from the circle and encompassed the group transporting them to a verdant jungle. They were atop a cliff and could see down into a valley and a settlement in the distance. The treck through the jungle was hard going and they encountered a Hydra in the undergrowth. No sooner had one head been removed another two grew from the bloody stump. With the beast finally slain The Dawnriders continued to the settlement they had seen.

The place was little more than a shanty town who’s inhabitants were there following an act of great betrayal. By speaking to some of the residents they discovered the name of a seer who was able to locate the key to escape the domain. They ventured through the streets in search of the seer;
She advised them that the only way to escape the domain is to dive through an abyss which serves as Arantor’s lair while holding the key. This key is the object in the domain that most represents betrayal at any one time. The current item is the sword of Kass that was used to cut off the hand and remove the eye of Veccna.

As The Dawnriders left the hut they were attacked by a trio of Vampires determined to stop them. The dominating powers and unnatural strength of their undead adversaries was no match for the new five strong party and they swiftly fell to the might of The Dawnriders. They continued on to the fort in the middle of the settlement finding it locked but unguarded. Dargoth kicked in the doors to discover a rag tag band dozing on the floor. It was immediately clear they they did not have the sword of Kass, but they did tell them that Vampires in the realm tend to haunt the graveyard. They left the fort and headed for the graveyard.

While searching through the ruins of the mausoleums a figure emerged from the shadows. He was clearly a Vampire and was dressed in elaborate armour. The stranger introduced himself as Kass, and offered them a bargain. He would help them find Arantor if they would return his sword. Valasaar was loath to make a pact with Kass, known as the betrayer, but needed his assistance. He stipulated that The Dawnriders would keep the sword until they were all safely through the portal. They Quintet set off for Arantor’s lair following Kass’ directions. They entered a dark, damp tunnel and encountered a Dark Naga, two Cambions and a Fell Troll. The battle was short lived and they group continued deeper into the Lair.

The tunnels yielded many dangerous foes. The passages were enchanted to betray intruders by confounding them. Many led back to chambers that shouldn’t be there, chambers that they had already visited. The Dawnriders discovered a room inhabited by Rakshasa guards. Marcus used a twist of space to lock one in one of the cells in the room and through interrogation they discovered the true path to Arantor.

The Lord of Monadhan, Arantor was residing in a huge natural cavern with the portal at the far end. A number of clouds of mist were floating around the cavern. From within these faces could be seen taunting Arantor as a reminder of his treachery. The Dragon himself was a shadow of his former self. His flesh was had long gone revealing a twisted skeleton with his daughter, Imrissa, imprisoned within his ribcage. The Dawnriders used the mists to weaken Arantor. The Dragon was a mightier opponent in death than he was in life but he finally fell to their blades and spells.

As the Dragon died his hoard appeared. Within was the sword of Kas. As they approached the portal, Kas appeared and requested the sword from them. With a smile The Dawnriders turned and walked through the portal leaving the great betrayer to rot in the domain…

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Epic Tier Interlude

The sun crept over the mountains to cast its weak light upon the shallow valley which hid the squat stone fortress known as The Monastery of the Sundered chain. The dawn found a lone figure standing still and silent upon the high defensive curtain wall, watching the pass for any sign of approaching danger. He was alone: no other sentry need watch while Reverence stood atop the wall. The initiates whispered that Bahamut himself watched with him on the nights of his duty.

Although the sentinel was, as always, statue-like in his vigil, the tranquillity was suddenly broken as the door to the interior of the squat stone monastery opened. A second figure emerged from the doorway and strode across the stony ground toward the watcher. He climbed the steps and stood beside Reverence for some time before either spoke, a ritual they they had shared for some time now.

The huge form of Reverence turned slowly to his friend. “Benn, they are are returning.” His voice was deep but quiet. “Brother Valasaar approaches.”

Reverence raised his hand to point ahead and the half-elf turned to look down the path. Three horses and a pony came trotting around the bend. At the head of the trio was Dargoth the goliath astride a huge shire horse built for pulling wagons of stone. The horse must have been 20 hands, but still the battlerager’s feet almost scraped the floor. Behind him was the lean, dark figure of Corren. The shadar-kai swordmage’s features were fixed in a habitually sullen expression, as though he were brooding upon the mysteries of life, or perhaps death. Finally came Marcus Brandale, his eyes alight with the knowledge of ages. No work of arcane lore worth reading had escaped this mage’s attention. And from above swept the dragonborn Valasaar Moonscale, upon his outstretched wings. The Swordpriest of Bahamut landed heavily upon the floor in front of the gate.

Benn looked towards the sun. Judging by its height above the peaks they must have ridden from Overlook at dawn.

“Greetings friends! Are you going to open the gate? Or shall I ask Dargoth to do it?” Valasaar’s gravelly voice echoed around the enclosed killing ground before the gate.

Benn smiled. “Of course my Lord, we don’t want you undoing all of our hard work!” With a laugh the cleric jumped down and swung open the heavy iron bound doors. The Dawnriders filed into the courtyard just as a number of initiates were led from the monastery by Hadrin Blayne and Nadaar. Each initiate was wearing a tabard emblazoned with the symbol of Bahamut, the head of a platinum dragon, upon a purple field. Hadrin and Nadaar walked over to join in the greetings, leaving the initiates to gaze in awe at the legendary Dawnriders.

Reverence resumed his watch while Hadrin and Nadarr commenced sword training with the novices. Benn led the returning heroes into the Monastery and turned to Valasaar. “We have heard nothing from Rahbn these last few months. I fear he has left your company for good.”

Valasaar nodded. “We thought that might be the case. We sent riders from Overlook this morning calling for a replacement from across the Elsir Vale and beyond. With luck we will find someone to fill his boots, although many will be put off by the danger.”

Benn frowned and hesitated before replying. “Have we heard false news? I thought the Githyanki had ceased their war upon us. That you had secured peace by overthrowing Emperor Zetch’r’r. Is this not true?”

“It is true enough,” replied the dragonborn. “But Tiamat was behind the war. She was pulling the strings and her evil knows no bounds. We have despatched two of her exarchs, we think a third escaped us, and there will be two more setting enemies against us as we speak. The threat to this land is far from over and I fear our hardest battles are yet to come.” They walked through the dark corridors in silence for a short time, lost in their own thoughts until Dargoth cleared his throat.

Looking round at him Valasaar smiled. “Yes of course, enough of this talk, I believe it is time for breakfast. Do you have any Pie?”

“Pie for breakfast, Valasaar? In all my studies, the only thing of which understanding continues to elude me is your capacity to consume pie!” Marcus mocked gently, before turning to a pair of large chests strapped to the back of the pony. “Please try to save me something, I must deliver this latest donation from Sayre to the library before I eat, and see how the improvements to the chambers below are progressing.”


The Pig and Bucket was well known as an adventurer’s tavern. It was a very busy and fairly rough establishment in “the blister”, a notorious part of the city of Overlook. In the back section of the inn sat the Dawnriders, a section curtained off for the last week in order for them to have some privacy while they “interviewed” a number of prospective members. They needed a fifth man, but so far it was proving difficult. They had spoken to over a dozen adventurers in the last four days and none of them had come close to the standard and experience they were looking for.

Marcus and Valasaar were discussing their options, reviewing the copious notes Marcus had taken on each applicant, when the curtain parted and a young woman with raven hair entered. She was adorned with the trappings of a warlock and had a fey aura about her. All attention turned in her direction as she stepped up to their table.

She stood before the four heroes, judging each before beginning without so much as introducing herself. “I understand you have defeated two of Tiamet’s exarchs and two more are upon your door… I want the one who got away.”

She didn’t wait for a response, instead turned and began to leave the cubicle.

With a quick cough to clear his throat, Valasaar caught the woman before she departed. “Who, so bold a woman, do we have come before us?”

She paused with the curtain half drawn, then slowly turned back to face the dragonborn. “My name is Sethlah Erinstraad. Some call me the Witch of Steramore, but I care not of meaningless titles. Sometimes it has its advantage.” She returned to the table and gently placed a dark crystal before the party. Their eyes were drawn upon the shard as it appeared there was something writhing within.

“I have my reasons,” she began, regaining their attention. “I have heard of the Dawnriders, and of their…” She paused as if to make certain of her choice of what she should say, “loss. I care not of glory but merely to carry out a promise I have made and shall see through.”

Marcus began to ask of her promise but was quickly cut short.

“It is my promise.” And with this she discreetly stroked a small raven feather that hung from a cord about her neck. “Suffice to say, the threat upon these lands is grave.”

The shadows within the cubicle seemed to darken as she briefly uttered something incomprehensible before reclaiming her crystal from the table. “I fear no enemy. I have no need to. I won’t sit idle, allowing these champions of Tiamat to claim a prize they don’t deserve.”

“I will leave you both to consider what I say.” She paused for the briefest moment as she pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and then in an instant, was gone.

Valasaar turned to look at the others in turn, all as speechless as he was. “Well my friends it would appear our search is over. I like her! Do you think she will come back?”

“If she wants us to run after her she’s out of luck. But I hope she does return: that way we can get back to working out what we do next,” Corren replied in a frustrated tone of voice. “I don’t dispute the need to keep our numbers up, Valasaar. I do think we have greater concerns. Tiamat is a goddess. It sounds impossible, but unless we can find some way to get to her and dispatch her permanently, everything will come to nothing. Meanwhile, we’re tying up our best researcher -” a nod to Marcus “- making interview notes.”

“Have faith Corren, Bahamut has guided Sethlah to us and Bahamut will show us the way.” Valasaar stood and made to leave. “You are correct in one thing, we have preparations to make. I will leave a message with the barman to direct her to the monastery should she return, and I have no doubt she will. That show was for our benefit.” He shrugged his huge shoulders, wings stretching slightly with the gesture. “It worked for me…”


Having slid the last bolt across the door, the barman stood up and began to wipe his hands in his apron. Removing the note from his pocket, he sighed gently. “Would have been a good one I reckon.” He turned round to make his way to discard the parchment in the fireplace when a soft voice startled him.

“You really should make sure the place is empty before you lock up.”

A sly grin formed across the young woman’s face. With her hood up, it was all that the barman could see of her as she sat hidden in the shadows.

“But…” as he struggled to regain his composure, “I know that it were all clear…”

“Relax,” she whispered as she rose and made her way towards him. “You’re ok. It’s not like you’ve seen a witch or something, now is it?”

Now the barman recognised the woman as she came into the light and removed her hood. Trembling, he stood, not quite yet himself.

“Is this for me?” she asked as she removed the folded parchment from his hands.

“Umm… ye.. yes m’am,” still unable to to gather himself.

“Thank you then barman.” She then pulled her hood up again and began to make her way towards the locked door. “Have a good night. Oh… and do remember to check thoroughly before you lock up, won’t you.”

And with that she gave a sly wink and a giggle before disappearing once again.

With the mysterious woman now gone, the barman’s strength returned to him. With a shudder and wiping a heavy bead of sweat from his brow, he turned and rushed to the bar, taking hold of a large bottle of port and downing the whole.

As Sethlah stood in the middle of the street, she still giggled to herself. “Oh you are cruel.” She turned back to the tavern but then decided against it as her smile broadened more. “He’ll be better for it.”

She turned her attention to the parchment in her hand, reading it in the faint light cast by the street lantern. “The Temple of Bahamut, eh?” Pulling her cloak in about herself she melted into the shadows as she made her way on into the night.


The windowless interior of the sleeping quarters was dominated my a towering statue of Bahamut, lit by ever burning candles. It was the last thing the brethren saw before they went to sleep, and the first thing they saw when they awoke. Valasaar looked around at the cubicles holding four novices each and thought, not for the first time, how much the place had grown since his return. There must be two or three score initiates here devoting their life to the Platinum Dragon and the protection of others by skill of arms.

The secret door to the catacombs creaked open at his approach, recognising the High Priest of the Monastery. Beyond the threshold was a cavernous abyss with a single precarious walkway leading to Marcus’ study. He knew that the wizard had installed a minor teleportation circle in the far right corner of the ledge to eliminate accidents, but he preferred to do it his way. Taking a step back he launched himself into the yawning darkness and unfurled his leathery wings. Swooping down towards the braziers that marked the doorway to Marcus’ lair he landed slowly and walked into the brightly illuminated room.

After the gloom of the previous chamber it was a while before his eyes became accustomed to the glare from a number of glowing spheres that followed the apprentices at their work – they appeared to be packing some items into chests and unpacking others. This room had been destroyed during the orc invasion and strewn with rubble. The place had since been cleared and transformed into a large library and study. Floor to ceiling shelves covered nearly every wall and each shelf was packed with scrolls, tomes and relics of arcane origin. In the far corner was a glowing nimbus of light, a portal leading to the Well of Worlds, while a heavy iron door covered in an assortment of mystical sigils stood in the middle of the wall to the left – a new set of chambers recently excavated.

Marcus was intently studying a large tome and didn’t notice the Swordpriest until he was looking over his shoulder with a heavy frown on his face. “How is the research going Marcus?”

“Hmm? Oh, not too badly, all things considered. I’m tempted simply to trap her within a circle and have done with it. I’m relatively certain that a focused ward would be sufficient to contain her, but we would need to subdue her first, of course, and the entire structure would be vulnerable to attempts to deface it should her followers learn of its location. The inverse focus wards required are actually remarkably simple and relatively stable, which is to say that they could withstand minor tremors and remain intact, but a wilful foot over the line (and I’m speaking literally here) could still bring the whole thing crashing down.”

Marcus looked up, suddenly aware of the movement around him as the four apprentices, now mages of some skill themselves, continued to pack and unpack. A plethora of items drifted to and fro via ‘mage hand’ cantrips, floating disks or, where delicate magical energies required it, by hand. “We’re in the process of reorganising things now that the excavations are complete. I expect that this will help in the long term, we were getting a bit cluttered in this one chamber, but it does make it a shade tricky finding the appropriate volumes from time to time. I’m negotiating with the Coalition over rights to access the library in the Well. There are some volumes which I swear were present when we first found the place but which seem to have vanished now. I suspect I shall need to contact Nefalus to get some of them back, but apparently a few Nefalese mages have actually accused me of taking some books, which could complicate things.” Here Marcus had the grace to look fleetingly guilty. “Then there is the whole question of ownership in the longer term. As discoverers and liberators, not to mention some of the few who could defend the place going forward, I feel the Dawnriders have a strong claim, and certainly one which I am prepared to make as strongly as necessary. Young Corren also feels that the Well would be an asset going forward, which I must say shows admirable growth of personality, having a view to the longer term like that. I do worry that he might try to take the place by force, which would be plausible, but holding it could be trickier. It could be possible to further re-engineer the defences and our own tattoos to limit access to Dawnriders only, but the range of configurations wouldn’t be beyond the ability of Nefalus to crack over time. I suppose that would give us a good decade during which we might find a more sustainable solution. Perhaps something involving a sequential phasing of the interplanar field might…”

Valasaar coughed. In a human it might have been a polite interruption, from a dragonborn in a resonant cave it made his point more forcefully.

“Anyway,” Marcus continued without breaking flow, “the upshot is that, assuming you don’t want me to inter her down here somewhere and leave the Monastery to defend her location against all comers in perpetuity, we need to get hold of some documents detailing the Dawn Wars. In particular the fall of Io and the birth of Bahamut and Tiamat. Either that or speak to someone who was actually there. Crucially, we need to ensure that the incident which gave rise to Tiamat and Bahamut isn’t repeated at the death of Tiamat, at least not without considerable diminution of power in the resulting deities.”

Valasaar replies reverently. “My lord Bahamut would be an expert on the subject. He has shown himself to me once before, maybe He will grace me with his attention again. I shall rouse the acolytes in praise to Bahamut, we shall reach the heavens with our prayers.” He closes his eyes while clutching the elaborate holy symbol around his neck. “I shall begin preparations. Thank you Marcus.”

“Yes. I don’t suppose you have a more direct route? We might just use the Well to seek him out in his heaven and pay a visit.”

Valasaar looks horrified at the prospect. “Please do not suggest such a thing. To intrude upon a God without explicit consent is highly irreverent.”

“And how would we go about obtaining his explicit consent?”

“It is granted, not obtained. If it is His will He will grant it.” Just at that moment a young man in the livery of the monastery appeared from the teleportation circle.

“My lord Valasaar, there is a young lady here to see you. She teleported into the courtyard without announcement and was nearly attacked by the guard.”

Valasaar smiled. “That must be our new Dawnrider. I will see her now. Find Dargoth and Corren for me please lad? Tell them to meet me in the Temple Hall.” He turns to the Academy Master. “Can I tear you away from these books for a moment Marcus?”

“Hardly, I think I have most of them memorised by now anyway – where I go, they go! But I’ll accompany you to the courtyard if that’s what you are asking.”


Valasaar, Marcus, Corren and Dargoth entered the Temple hall to see Sethlah standing in the centre surveying the huge room. Valasaar steps forward. "Greetings Sethlah. We are glad that you received our message and wish to accept our offer. Joining the Dawnriders is a great responsibility. We are here to protect the people from harm and we must be able to trust each other in battle. You must understand that the four of us have been through a great many perils together. We have fought and bled together and that bond is not easily forged. I fear that you will soon have a great deal of opportunity to catch up. Tiamat is setting herself against the people of this land and beyond, forcing thousands of innocents into an early grave, something you would want to balance I think?.

Sethlah gave a curt bow to the party before her. “I thank you for your invitation and can assure you I shall savour the responsibility.” As she spoke to the men before her, she studied each intently. “Though I am new among you, I feel I shall prove my worth. Though I have moved on, I have struck pacts that are endless.” She gently stroked the feather at her breast again before continuing. “I am not one to break my bond, nor am I one to be broken upon.” With her last words, the shard she clutched within her left hand began to glow faintly for a brief moment. As I said to you last night, I want the elusive exarch. There is a debt to be paid."

With a final word, she turned to face Valasaar directly, comparatively frail compared to the Dragonborn. “I don’t fear, Cleric. That is for my foe.” And with this statement she made a deep bow of respect.

The massive dragonborn returned the gesture before he called the party to move on. “Very well Sethlah. We shall see what you have to offer. But for now, please, come join us. We have pies…” And to his own words, Valasaar quickly made his way out of the hall with the others following. Marcus sighed to himself at the great cleric’s fondness as he paused for Sethlah. The warlock prepared to follow the party inside when Marcus stopped her. He was still looking after Valasaar and softly laughing, “Pies. His favourite. You’ll soon get used to it.”

He turned to face the new member. “I would like to personally pass my greetings to you as a fellow master of the Arcanum Sethlah. Welcome to the Dawnriders.”

She nodded politely. “Thank you and I look forward to the tasks at hand.”

“Indeed,” the wizard replied. “As you may understand, I am an avid student of all things arcane. I hope you don’t mind me enquiring, but I am intrigued.” He paused for a brief moment. “The shard you carry in your hand, and which you placed before us last night?”

A sly smile formed on Sethlah’s lips. “Yes. What of it?”

“Well,” he began, eager to know but almost embarrassed to ask, “I don’t recall having ever seen such an implement before. Would you mind telling me something of it please?”

Her smile broadened. “Oh. Just a few souls I’ve come across on the way.” She turned and followed the rest of the group as they disapeared from the great hall, leaving the mage nodding sagely behind her.


As night fell, peace draped itself like a blanket over the monastery. For most of the inhabitants, anyway – Dargoth’s snores echoed faintly around Corren as he paced quietly towards the room Seth had claimed for herself, and his lips twisted into a slight smile, gone almost before it had appeared.

The last few steps to the open archway revealed the witch, meditating, apparently oblivious to the sound of the sleeping goliath down the hall. That she was nevertheless aware of both the noise and of him, Corren had no doubt. Even he could feel the chill, morbid aura which preceded him into the chamber.

“Sethlah Erinstraad.” The words seemed to fall from his tongue like stones, heavy with their own significance. “Would you like to be a god?”

The shadar-kai paused as if waiting for a response, but the eldritch figure before him could have been carved from one of her soul crystals for all the motion or life she evinced. In the dim glow Corren’s own features took on a ghastly undead pallor.

“Don’t ignore the consequences attached to the Dawnriders’ goal. Should we succeed in slaying a god, divine power and divine portfolios rarely stay unclaimed. The question is not will they be claimed, but by whom?

“Gods cannot be destroyed, priests may tell you. Dominion cannot be passed around like a slice of meat at a banquet. History – my history – tells me otherwise. Ask Nerull, if you doubt me. Ask Khala, if any trace of her remains to ask.

“From the skills I was trained in as a child, to the spells I developed as an adult and the powers that are stirring within me… everything I am cries out that I am a sword, forged to destroy Tiamat and seize the domain of Vengeance for the Queen of Death!"

Languid movement belied by the mad passion of his words, Corren eased his slight form back against the stone of the entrance arch. His black eyes drank in the light.

“Marcus will soon take his rightful place as the greatest sage of this age. Knowledge sufficient to bring low even the gods, harnessed with the power of death itself. I am the ender, Sethlah. The finisher, the raven and the corpse-maker made one.

“We may yet fail and go down to dust ourselves. But I think not.

“So if you could be the god of Strife, Sethlah Erinstraad, what kind of god would you be?”

A sly grin formed across the warlock’s lips at the prospect of becoming a god. But as quick as the smile formed, it was gone again.

In a hushed whisper she responded to the youth’s question. “You ask me what kind of God I would be? Maybe you are wondering what I am now, and therefore what kind of God I would become?”

Not moving from her position, she continued. “What would the Queen allow me to be is more the question.”

She left a long pause for the shadar-kai to reflect on.

“I can be cruel… So very cruel and it pleases me to be so. Why should any who oppose me not suffer as I see fit? If those under my charge are harmed, why shouldn’t their tormentor suffer? As a God, I would be nothing less. Is that what you wonder Corren? You say not to ignore.” She turned to face the youth. “I ignore nothing. A God can be slain and shall be. I relish the prospect of such, especially for one so deserving. But I cannot consider felling a God as yet. I am not yet ready. So do not ask one such as myself of Godliness. It’s dangerous.”

Examining the swordmage for signs of anger or discomfort at her retort, Seth found only… satisfaction? She turned away from him and returned to her meditation. “Never consider failure as an option Corren. Never!”

Silence fell across the room and the witch was left on her own once again.


In a freshly carved chamber beneath the Monastery, Marcus Brandale woke from a deep sleep. He always slept deeply these days, his dreams filled with visions of past, present and future, the knowledge of the world settling into his very soul, but something significant had settled in his mind, an answer to a question.

Something had been said, something decided. He searched his mind for what he now knew was possible – an agent of another deity to draw off some of the divine power from the death of Tiamat had always been a possibility, yet the gods would allow no one entity to secure all of Tiamat’s power. But now they had a fresh vessel to secure the rest. There would be no direct rebirth for the power of Tiamat, no repeat of the Io incident.

Sethlah’s arrival was indeed fortunate, her soul primed for the task ahead. Who lay behind that move, the sage wondered? A very limited number of possible candidates presented themselves for consideration. With a smile, Marcus settled back down to dream.


The strong scent of incense hung heavily in the unstirring air of the Temple Hall. Almost fifty votaries were gathered and seated beneath the high vaulted ceiling. Shadows flickered across the walls, cast by hundreds of candles and braziers and a low rhythmic chant emanated from the initiates and resonated around the expanse. In the centre of the room stood the High Priest; Valasaar Moonscale resplendent in highly polished armour and full war regalia. His deep gravelly voice easily heard over the droning chant, hands raised in supplication and praise of The Platinum Dragon. He was surrounded by the senior devotees, those disciplined enough to be called swordpriest; Reverence, Benn, Wella and Nadarr. The five were joined by two warriors who had proven themselves to be just in the protection of the weak; Hadrin and Balathan. They numbered seven and represented the Seven Great Gold Wyrms, eternal and devoted servants of Bahamut.

The congregation had been chanting for twelve hours without rest or sustenance, each hoping that Bahamut would give them a portent. Tiamat needed to be stopped, the balance restored – forever, and only Bahamut could give them the answer they needed; how to kill his twin sister. Suddenly every candle in the hall flared with a silver light, bathing all in radiance and encouraging the chanting to reach a crescendo. A shaft of pure light lanced gown from the centre of the chamber engulfing Valasaar, while seven golden sparks floated gently from it to hover around his head.

The candles seemed to dim in the presence of the mighty shaft of light and Valasaar rose slightly from the floor as a voice boomed out, echoing around the chamber. “Valasaar of the Moonscale clan, your devotion to the protection of the mortal races of this world is to be commended. With the Dawnriders at your side, you have stood and defended the weak against the darkness brought on by the Mistress of Greed.”

“Upholding the highest ideals of honor and justice. Being constantly vigilant against evil and opposing it on all fronts. Protecting the weak, liberating the oppressed, and defending just order from the chaos that would destroy it. All these things you can do, we know this. But be careful Valasaar, pride always comes before a fall, and the Dark Lady has had millennia to become skilled at her art. Tiamat’s dark plans encompass much of which you hold dear and a lot more beyond that you may as yet be unaware of. You must be strong in the face of that which is to come, as that which you hold most dear may yet still come into question.”

“Take my power, Valasaar, and use it to protect and harbour those from the darkness, but be ready for the day when I shall call on you to repay the gift I have given you, and do not flinch from what is required of you when the moment comes.” The golden motes orbiting Valasaar’s head began to coalesce closer and spin faster, until the glow was fully absorbed into the Dragonborn’s scaled head. At that point the shaft dimmed and the candle light flared back up again.

Valasaar looked down at his hands. He could feel Bahamut’s presence within him still, closer than usual. When Valasaar channeled His divine wrath, it was power that came from afar, drawn from the holy realm of Celestia, the bastion of Bahamut’s power and glory. Yet now he could feel a portion, just a glimmer, the smallest fragment, of that awesome power spilling from within himself. His divine powers were drawn from the power well within, not without. The feeling was strange. Having been connected to his God so closely for so long, there was a slight tinge of loneliness at the loss of that connection to the glorious realms. Yet, the familiarity was still there, just focused inwards, not outwards. Valasaar now carried the spirit of Bahamut with him on his travels, and somehow that eased the sense of loss.

The six holy warriors surrounding Valasaar knelt to him, and he beheld them with shining platinum eyes. He raised his hand and clenched his fist feeling the divine spark had increased his strength. “We have been blessed with the presence of Bahamut through our devotion and worship. This place is now deeply sacred and we have all borne witness to a divine event.” With that he turned and headed down to the catacombs beneath, passing his stunned companions who had awoken at the sound of the God’s voice.


Valasaar woke Marcus from his meditation with a gentle shake. “Marcus, Bahamut has spoken to me. I have our answer…” He let the sentence hang while the sage focused his mind on the present. “A God may kill a God Marcus, it was simple really.”

“Valasaar, I hardly think that Bahamut is going to join us as the sixth Dawnrider. Not even you hold that much weight with Him.”

Valasaar smiled, the platinum fire igniting in his eyes. “He doesn’t need to Marcus. I am Bahamut.”

Marcus studied his friend carefully, reaching out with his magic and feeling the pulse of divinity flowing through Valasaar. “So it seems,” he said finally. “But don’t start thinking that means I’m going to kneel.”

Valasaar barked a laugh and clapped Marcus on the shoulder with a huge gauntleted hand. “Don’t worry my old friend, I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Good, then let’s be up and about. Certain truths have come to light and we are not yet ready to face Tiamat. Sethlah is important to our cause, but she is currently a Dawnrider in name only – we have work to do before she learns to fight as one of us. Your new initiates are also in need of training. Is Bahamut up for a brief stint as drill instructor? After some pie, of course!”

“Of course! More training is needed. It will keep Dargoth busy also.”

The pair ascended to the Monastery to join the rest of the Dawnriders and set about preparing for the struggle to come.

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A Tyranny of Souls

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