New chapter, late because it was.

Q

Abaddon953: I understand what you mean but my reason for not using most is that they don't flow, if there was say a whole suit of Daedric armor then sure, so long as it also looked cool. Most of the Daedric artifacts are powerful but I never used them in my game barring a few times for giggles, if Skyrim had something like the Goldbrand from Morrowind/Oblivion than maybe. He does have the Ring of Hircine for a specific reason however, as for the Ebony Mail. Did I ever say it wasn't it? I said he had Ebony plate but I never specifically said whether it was the normal kind or Boethiah's. Amon looted every magical item he could but you can't expect him to carry around every single piece of equipment he came across now can you?

Z: How could Amon pull the arrows from his back? His arm was numbed by the poison and ripping something lodged in your skin out without the proper medical treatment would do more harm than good. You are correct about the potions, any he had he already consumed and the spell; he didn't have a chance to cast a spell he was in battle constantly and by the time Duncan found him his mind was muddled by the poison so he couldn't focus enough to cast the spell no matter how basic it was.

Mecaldar: Knowing Sheogorath he would've probably made it a lot worse with his, "blessing"

He Who See's: Thanks for pointing that out, can't catch all the mistakes. However I would like to say that I am merely human and I can't catch every little mistake, this is just something I do for fun. And yes, Amon doesn't hate Elves in general, just the Thalmor and the Dominion.

JakMartheDarkWarrior: Yes he is a werewolf and yes he does get the Mabari. He will use his Thu'um soon enough and after he reveals it, more frequently. Armor enchantments? Well, the shield has a magic resistance, and…I didn't really think of ones for the rest of his armor. Most of the enchantments in-game are stat based and aren't exactly practical in real world applications. He is sneering because he is tired and frustrated, he's been fighting for days and now is being asked to fight more, given the chance to rest and collect his thoughts and he won't be as moody.

Guest: I hadn't planned on the Dragonborn forging any new armor, whether or not Wade creates any hasn't been planned out yet. He may or may not.

ultima-owner: But…Hugs! No one ever wants to hug him, he's lonely!

Zerixa: Yeah….the problem with using google, it's shit. I'll fix that one of these days.

Fallen-Ryu: Where was it stated that Dragonborns are anything like Wardens? Grey Wardens are beings that ingest the taint but because of the mixture can withstand it and draw upon it's power instead of being turned into ghouls. Dragonborns are mortals with the blood and souls of dragons. The Archdemon isn't a dragon, it just mocks the shape of a dragon. And were was it stated that Dragonborns have extended livespans? They have the souls of dragons but the bodies of mortals.

Bradley McCloud: The Dawnbreaker was one of the three weapons that I was going to use before I settled on the Daedric longsword. It should be obvious where the Werewolf aspect comes into play.

A final word, to all those inquiring about the immunity to disease that the Werewolf blood imbues in Skyrim. You are thinking that the Taint is a simple disease that can be warded off so easily, it's not. If it were then it wouldn't be such a horrible affliction. Not only that, it's a plot device guys, even if Beth and Bioware came out and stated such it would still be ignored for the sake of plot. It protects Amon from all normal diseases and afflictions but the Taint is not normal and such has an effect on him, the long term affects are yet to be seen.

To everyone else not mentioned, thanks for the reviews and continue to point out any mistakes you see.


Chapter 3. Betrayals and Awakenings


The first thing that Amon saw as his vision cleared were the faces of Duncan and Alistair, dangerously too close to his own. Though his body felt as if molten iron coursed through his veins, he still had the strength to swat away the Warden's hand and force his weary body off the cold stone floor.

"It is finished. From this moment on, you are now a Grey Warden."

As Duncan checked on the drained Nord, Alistair gazed morosely at the corpses of the two fallen recruits silently praying to the Maker to guide their souls to his side. "Two more deaths. In my Joining, only one of us died, but it was...horrible. I'm glad at least one of you made it through."

"How do you feel?" Duncan questions, seeing the new Warden finally regaining his bearings and focusing directly on the senior Warden. The snarl that crosses the Nord's lips confused him.

"How do I feel? I feel as if I battled Tsun himself with nothing but my hands. That's how I bloody feel!" A hand shoots forward roughly gripping the collar of Duncan's armor, lifting him slightly off the ground growling ferociously. A single wild grey eye boring into Duncan's hazel, confusion, and hatred exuding from it.

"By the bones of Shor himself, what the hell did make me ingest old man!?"

"I do not understand Amon; you drank of your own will. We did not force you."

The snarl and growl only deepen at the older man's words, clearly skeptical, glaring into his eyes further the Nordic King sensed no deceit from him, without another word drops the Warden stalking away. Armored fist slamming into the stone table, venting the frustration upon the smooth stone that he could not upon the aged Warden. Off to the side, Alistair hand removes itself from the hilt of his sword once the enraged warrior had let Duncan go. He was becoming increasingly wary of the man's erratic behavior and feared for his mentor's safety; Duncan however held no fear of the man, which made Alistair wonder what his father figure knew about Amon that neither had shared.

"The pain…and the visions, By the Nine what was that beast mocking the shape of a Dovah?" whirling around from the table Amon fixed a stern look towards the elder Warden as his cohort Alistair inched closer.

"Dovah? What are you talking about?"

Stomping towards the confused junior Warden, Amon emphasizes their height difference, glowering down at him a snarl planted firmly across his maw; "The Dov! Dragons, this creature held malice I have not felt since I battled the First-Born of Akatosh! What the hell swam within the liquid you forced down my gullet?! To feel such evil again, it was almost too much to bear."

To say that both of the Wardens were confused would be a dire understatement; Dov? Akatosh? What was their newest recruit talking about? It finally struck Duncan, Dragons…

It could not be.

"Amon, you spoke of a dragon, what did you mean?"

Snarling once more Amon whirled to face the elder Warden, "A dragon you senile old fool! A foul mockery fused together in molting scales of blood wine. Searing vile words into my mind, attempting to seduce me towards a foul end."

A flurry of thoughts occupied Duncan's mind, if what the large Warden proclaimed was correct, than this contest was futile. Even the mighty armies of the King could not stand against the horde led by the accursed one.

"Ser Duncan? The King and his counsels are expecting the Wardens arrival at the war map to discuss the upcoming battle."

A young male, clad in simple leather armor stood rigid hand glued to his forehead in a crisp salute; a trained eye could see his form shaking slightly. Whether from fear of the fabled order, or nervousness of the oncoming horde, it did not matter. Thanking the young soldier for his message, he waves the man off before turning his gaze back towards the still irate Nord. Duncan was at a loss, clearly, there was more to Amon than he knew, but there was no reason to doubt his words. Surely he should warn the King, but to what end. If the Arch-Demon truly had awakened then Ferelden was lost. Reinforcements from Orlais could do little to bolster their line and Wardens from the outlying fortresses would reach the border to find nothing but desolation.

It suddenly occurred to him, glancing back at the Nord, why had such a raw recruit seen visions of the Arch-Demon when no other Warden had. It confused him, if the beast truly did lead the horde why did it choose to reveal itself to Amon. Did the Maker have a plan for this young man, or was it simple chance.

"Cease your stares old man; your eyes begin to draw my ire."

"Duncan, is something the matter?"

Amon and Alistair's voices break the older Warden from his thoughts, whatever the reason for the apparition that appeared to the Nordic warrior Duncan had to consult with the King before taking the action of alerting the Order. Shaking his head gently his trademark paternal smile covered the perturbed frown that marred his features, placing his hand on Alistair's shoulder he reassured the Templar and directed him to the Kings council room, consisting plainly of the open ruins across from their meeting place.

Concerns of leaving his mentor with the erratic Warden still plagued him even as he marched towards the King, he trusted Duncan to take care of himself. He did not however, trust Amon.

A growl catches Duncan's ears as he watched Alistair depart, Amon no wonder curious as to why the elder Warden silently beckoned him to remain. Turning on his heel, he finds the new Warden leaning against the smooth table; arms laced low on his chest, a hand twitching subtly towards his sheathed blade. If it was at another moment Duncan would be amused at the man's paranoia, but it was no longer time for jokes and fun.

"Amon Thorer of Ralfak. Who are you?"

Narrowing brows, deepening frown, tensing of his facial muscles and those under his armor. Clearly, this was not a question the man wished to answer. This was no longer something that could remain untold however, Duncan needed to know his secrets if he would allow him to remain, too many variables, and unexplained occurrences.

"I am, who you need me to be."

So, he desired to remain cryptic tragic. With a deliberate languid draw the longsword upon his back slide from the leather strap that held it, the sword hung from his hand at his side tip lazing against the stone floor. "This is not a game Amon Thorer, more hangs precariously on the brink of ruin than you can imagine. I need you to be honest and answer my inquiries without deception."

Pushing off from the table the Nord's own sword appeared in his hand in a flash, however unlike Duncan's, his was held aloft. The ebony and crimson blade poised to spear his chest, a defiant but hardened look matching Duncan's.

"Do not speak to me of tragedy Warden-Commander Duncan, in my short time upon the mortal plan I have faced adversities that you could never hope to fathom. I have faced creatures breathed as legends, walked in the realms of gods and demons, battled both and emerged scarred and broken. Yet still, I was asked for more. And more, I gave. I have given everything I hold dear and still it was not enough."

The demonic blade inched closer, until the tip rested dangerously on Duncan's armor hovering directly over his heart, but still he did not waver in his gaze.

"Here, now, I am asked once again. To forsake everything I treasure to wage your war against these darkspawn. Enlighten me old man, as to why I should not end you and find my own way home?"

"Because Amon, whether by Divine intervention or deception, you are now tied to this world. Your blood is interwoven with these spawn. It is now you duty to eradicate them, by whatever means necessary."

"I am only now tied to this world because you forced the foul drink upon me; you gave me no other choice. Fate of death at mortal hand or face uncertainty of venom. Tell me, oh glorious Commander, why I should not simply slay you now, and carve a swarth through the fool King's army?"

For a fleeting moment Duncan worried, he had chosen poorly, for all of his skill, Amon Thorer seemed nothing more than a brutish killer one who relished in nothing more than death and blood. Behind the façade of barbarism, however he could see the keen intelligence of a learned warrior one who relished in battle but did not drown in it. A hint of a mischievous smirk shone through his hardened features, Amon may have experience, but he was still a pup.

"How will you find you way home in this foreign land of ours, with no one to guide you? Besieged not only by the spawn who will hunt you but also by the armies of man who seek vengeance for your slaughter. Think carefully Amon Thorer of Ralfalk; let not the inscrutability of youth guide your hand this night. "

The familiar snarl reaches Duncan's ears; he almost failed to hold back a victorious smile, once the strange blade left his armor he allowed it to come forth. Sheathing the blade with swift precision Amon restrained the growing desire to level his fist against that smug bearded face, how he hated mind-games particularly when he was bested in them. He was sorely beginning to remind him of Arngeir; Old, talkative and deceptively cunning in the ways of persuasion, how he hated them both.

"You wish to know old man, than I shall indulge in your question. Who am I? I will tell you but know this, one final sacrifice this night. Once this horde is routed I will have my demands fulfilled and be free of this."

Without waiting for Duncan's answer he set off on his tale, too long to explain everything he had experienced since his homecoming but enough to sate the Warden's insatiable curiosity.

As the Nord explained, Duncan was astonished at his tale. Dragons, Gods, Demons- No Daedra he called them. All seemed so, fantastical and yet what he mentioned next, astonished him the most.

"Dragonborn…"

"Yes, a mortal form enclosed around the blood and soul of the Dov. Destined to foil the plan of the World Eater and lead the land in revolt once again against his minions. Perhaps since your, Arch-Demon, mocks their form, it could sense my soul as kindred. It however, did not seem to accept me so readily."

A thousand questions pounded at his mind but Duncan could not voice them, for King Cailan's excited voice reached their ears. Across the way, clad in gleaming golden armor he waved, garnering the Wardens attention.

A snort from the Dragonborn as he walked past, towards the King and his council. "Once this contest is finished we can continue our interrogation, but for now let us join your King before he leaps from his lavish armor."

Nodding still in deep thought Duncan accompanies him, still reeling from the minute knowledge thrust before him. The injured warrior he found battling blindly against the Darkspawn was a fabled warrior with the soul of dragon battling an ancient god of destruction. If his tale was to be accepted then it was more than he could have hoped for, persuaded to aid their fight surely even the Arch-Demon could not stand firmly against a dragon reborn as a man. Perhaps he put too much faith in a stranger's tale, in times of desperation however; any straw of hope should be grasped for.

The walk, though short in distance felt like an eternity. Tension thicker than cowhide developed between the two Wardens, Duncan was thankful for it precious more time to process all, he had been told. It was shorter than he had hoped however as the King familiar tone breaching his distraction.

"Loghain, my decision is final. I will stand by the Grey Wardens in this assault"

Clad in heavy muted grey armor a second man stood, a frown permanently marring his features as he struggled to make the King see reason. At the opposite end stood Alistair and two robed figures, both clearly displeased with each other and Alistair caught between them.

"You risk too much, Cailan! The darkspawn horde is too dangerous for you to be playing hero on the front lines."

Loghain's mood only sours further at the playful tone the King takes on, Cailan was no Maric Theirin, but despite the young King's fantastical view on the battle, Loghain would support him, even if it meant playing along with his foolish battle plans. The next words out Cailan's mouth however, enraged him to the core.

"If that's the case, perhaps we should wait for the Orlesian forces to join us, after all."

Orlesians!? How dare this man even fathom bringing the scum back into the land he and Maric fought so greedily to free from their wretched control. "I must repeat my protest to your foul notion that we need the Orlesians to defend ourselves!"

Cleary displeased with his subordinate's ire the playful tone disappears from the young king's voice, "It's not a "fool notion." Our arguments with the Orlesians are a thing of the past...and you will remember who is king."

"How fortunate Maric did not live to see his son ready to hand Ferelden over to those who enslaved us for a century!" He had to restrain his fury, soon it would all come to pass, and the land would be under proper rule.

"Then our current forces will have to suffice, won't they?" Turning his gaze from his irate second the cheerful King persona remerges as he speaks to his trusted friend.

"Duncan, are your men ready for battle?"

"They are, your Majesty."

A broad smile as he turned towards Amon, inspecting the Nord from head to toe. "And you must be the warrior I met from before; glad to see you recovered fully from your wounds."

"I thank you for your concern your Majesty."

"Every Grey Warden is needed now. You should be honored to join their ranks." Biting back a remark, he is saved by Loghain's own scathing barb.

"Your fascination with glory and legend will be your undoing, Cailan. We must attend to reality not the idle tales of griffons and monsters."

Exasperated groan and a roll of eyes, Cailan beckons his second to continue it was no fun planning a battle when Loghain insisted on being so stale.

"Fine. Speak you strategy. The Grey Wardens and I draw the darkspawn into charging our lines and then...?"

Leaning over the map covering most of the long wooden table Loghain jabs an armored finger towards a spot off the center of the map, "you will alert the tower to light the beacon, signaling my men to charge from cover, where we will flank them and crush their lines."

"The Tower of Ishal in the ruins, yes? Who will light this beacon?"

"A have a few men stationed there, it is not a dangerous task but a vital one."

Both pushing away from the table nodding to each other before King Cailan directs his attention to the two younger Wardens, "Then we should send our best. Send Alistair and Amon to make sure it's done."

Incensed at the prospect of being nothing more than a torch bearer Amon rose to challenge the King's decision, Duncan's hand and Loghain's own protest hold his tongue and subdue his rage.

"You rely on these Grey Warden's too much. Is that truly wise?"

The young king's annoyance was becoming clearly visible as harshly swiped his hand, halting further protest by his second. "Enough of your conspiracy theories, Loghain. Grey Wardens battle the Blight, no matter where they're from."

That word, Blight, caused Duncan to flinch. It seemed this was a good a time as any to reveal his newfound knowledge; he was worried how this would affect the King and the armies moral. Few men could stand fast knowing that their battle was futile.

"Your Majesty, you should not discount the Arch-Demon's appearance I fear it may be more likely than we originally feared."

"There have been no signs of any dragons in the Wilds." A simple statement but it held more ignorance than he could have possibly known.

Smile never faltering Cailan simply shrugged, "Is that not what you and your men are here for Duncan?"

"I…Yes your Majesty." Duncan tuned out the protest by the Circle and Chantry representative, how could Cailan be so naïve. Just because the dragon made no appearance on the front did not denote its presence. A single Warden's did not always guarantee victory against the wraith of the ancient evil, thousands of his brothers had fallen in the Blights with similar foolish bravado. Beside him, Duncan spotted Amon's lips curl in disgust, perhaps the Nord's thoughts ran parallel to his own. Staring briefly more at the man a glimmer of hope came to his mind, Amon had claimed that the Dragonborn was the ultimate dragon slayer. Just maybe, maybe they had a chance against the Arch-Demon after all.

Duncan's mind returned to reality just in time to here the cryptic departing words of Cailan's second, what had the man meant? Could he possibly be planning to usurp the throne after the battle? It pained Duncan to think of that as a possibility, if that was truly, what Loghain had planned then he could do nothing to stop it. The Wardens had once before attempted to intercede in politics and had caused them to be expulsed from Ferelden for two hundred years.


Gathered together around the bonfire Duncan explained the mission that had been assigned to the two younger Wardens, though both highly displeased at not participating in the battle, Amon more so than Alistair. He had assured them of the importance of their mission and promised that if the dragon did emerge they could assist, until then they would remain in the tower.

"Then I must join the others. From here, you two are on your own. Remember, you are both Grey Wardens. I expect you to be worth of that title."

"Worry not of our worth old man, pray that you do not chance upon the Dovah." A cruel sneer marks Amon's face before it is obscured by his black helm; it seemed the prospect of the dragon devouring him amused the Nord.

"Let us all pray that the Arch-Demon remains hidden; even against someone of your unique repertoire I do not doubt it could devour you whole."

A short barking laugh and Amon struts out of the light, the pitch-black night ensnaring his midnight armor; "Do not think you know my true skill old man, I am more than I appear."

"Indeed you are, Warden Thorer."

Though confused by their obscure words Alistair focuses back upon his task, "Duncan….May the Maker watch over you."

"May he watch over all of us, even those who do not wish his protection."


They were more than halfway over the bridge before the sounds of battle reached them and the first barrage of stone artillery shattered against the gorge. Barely a moment to process the new sounds before a wail of agony and fear captures their gaze, three men fleeing from the tower as a horde of spawn chased after. Before they could intervene, a bolt lashes forward and catches one by the neck. Turning to engage the spawn, they are joined by the two Wardens who, with their help make short work of the spawn.

"M-maker help us! They're everywhere! You! You're Grey Wardens, aren't you?! The tower...It's been taken!

"What are you talking about, man? Taken how?"

"The darkspawn came up through the lower chambers! They're everywhere! Most of our men are dead!"

"Good, I would tire of nothing more than babysitting a flame."

"G-good!? Move to your doom if you wish but I will not die needlessly!"

A hand armored in black plate lashes out and seizes the frightened footmen by the collar, dragging him helplessly back and towards the towering figure. Behind the elegant helmet, he could barely make out a single eye seemingly glowing, either in fury or battle lust he did not hope to find out.

"A true man does not flee at the prospect of a hopeless battle; fight with all you can muster and cherish the thought of meeting your brothers in Sovengarde. Now fight or I will run you through myself."

The dragonborn stares into the soldier's eyes for a moment longer before roughly shoving him away, "Bah, I have no time to deal with this skeever bait. Flee if you wish but know you condemn your fellows to a fate worse than death."

Stalking away from the group, demonic blade clutched tightly in his hand he engages another Darkspawn while the battle-mage and his ally stare in disbelief. Alistair sighs and moves to follow his newest companion; "He is like that, if you have the courage then we could use all the assistance we can get."

"Y-yes Ser Warden!"

Moving to sever the distance between them the small group happens upon several slain and brutalized corpses of men and spawn alike. Clearly, the irate Nord had spared little time in dispatching their enemy and making his way towards the objective. At the door, the group arrives in to witness Amon finish off a Genlock with the bottom of his boot. Crushing the diminutive spawn into the stone walkway with an apathetic grunt, scraping black blood and putrid flesh from his boot Amon casually glances back upon hearing the commotion of armored feet.

Rushing up the stair his companion and his feeble escorts arrive out of breath and begging silently for a break as they stop in front of him. A scowl crosses his face blinded by the midnight helmet, was this truly what the lands army held? These men were no Nords that was painfully obvious; rapping the Daedric blade against his shield, he captures their attention.

"Seems you lot grew a backbone after all, good Shor does not abide cowards."

The wooden and iron door that enclosed the tower from the outside world crumpled under the force of his boot, worn wooden planks and rusted iron fittings explode upon impact. Trampled underneath as the quartet pass through the stained archway into a room littered with burning rubbish and bodies impaled upon jagged spiked barricades. Alistair had to choke back the bile growing in his throat, the darkspawn clearly held no mercy for the fallen gripping his blade tighter he steeled his resolve. He would give them no quarter as well, every spawn he saw would fall by his blade.

"Cease your dalliances we have a long trek ahead of us and little time to do it in." Slightly ahead of them Amon had made his way past the crisscrossed barricades and awaited them at the end. No spawn appeared to stop them in this room but he was assured that many would swarm to stop them once they opened the door.


A scream that echoes throughout the silent halls of the chapel, wrenched from her peaceful slumber the young woman clutches her simple blanket to her chest. Desperately begging her heart to cease its pounding, again, that dream plagued her and again it only further solidified her resolve. The Maker had plans for her and remaining in the chapel was not it.

She was floating, floating amongst the clouds free as a bird and safe as if in her mother's embrace. Then a bright light, brighter than the sun and twice as warm within the light a figure that looked like a man, but it was unlike any man she had ever met. Tall as an old tree and just as wise, polished silver armor gleamed brightly, a short trimmed beard swaying in the gentle breeze. Kneeling before her, he extends his hand to her, apprehensive she glances at the hand before dragging her gaze up towards the towering figure's face. Mere moments after she gazed upon his face was she forced to avert, a flush covering her cheeks, it felt as if she was naught but a child and she was embarrassed. The figure sensing her fluster laughs lightly, his voice deep but lyrical, grasping her hand he pulls her upright, no longer was she floating carefree but now she stood on the air as if it was the earth. His giant hand engulfing her own only further cementing her feelings, who was this man that man her feel as if he was her father.

"Child," his deep voice breaking her musings forcing her to stare up at him the blinding light obscuring most of his features, "a great evil descends upon the land and alone man cannot hope to turn it's tide."

She opened her mouth to speak but found the words died upon her lips, the figure continued unabated, "but there is hope my child, a son of the north tainted by many evils has been beckoned to this land to free it. His journey is fraught with many dangers and without aid, he will surely fail."

Releasing her hand his form seems to move away, feebly she reaches out for his warmth again, feeling lost without his touch.

"Cast off your cloistered vows and take up arms to aid his journey fear him not, for despite the testament of Gods and Demon his old soul yet remains pure."

The light was fading, beginning to take on a foul color that sent shivers up her spine, she was confused and frightened, and finally she had the courage to speak allowing only one question to come to bear. "How will I know?"

"You will know in your heart."

Tendrils of shadow eclipsed the bright figure; a foreboding chill replaced the paternal warmth, off in the distance a shapeless mass clawed towards her. Beckoning her to allow it entry, she was fearful of this creature and wished only to be bathed once again in the man's warmth. The shadowy tendrils inched closer and closer, she could feel their foul energy radiating just as it was about to engulf her she screamed. Driving the formless evil back and severing the connection to the Fade and back into the waking world.

Leliana shivered involuntarily as she remembered the dream, the same one that plagued her for a fortnight, the same bright figure, and shapeless malice. Casting off the blanket, she winced as the frigid stone floor stung at her bare feet, easing herself down she made her way towards a simple bowl resting atop a stand. Cupping her hands she dipped them within the cool water, splashing the refreshing liquid against her skin, a soft sigh escapes her lips as she allows the liquid to sooth her. Allowing the water to linger upon her face a moment she briskly blots a small hand towel upon her face soaking up the errant droplets. Every night the same dream had beckoned her towards a new destiny and every day it was getting harder and harder to ignore, she was mocked by the other priests and told countless times that the Maker did not speak to a single person directly. How else could she explain what was clearly not a simple dream, if that man was not the Maker then who could it be? Who else could be so warm and caring? She had decided nights ago to listen to the dream and leave the Chapel, she would find this; "Child of the North, tainted by many evils" and do as the Maker commanded. She would use her bardic talents and fulfill her newfound trail.


The last of the spawn erupted in a blaze of orange, pale grey fleshed now seared and blackened by the intense explosion. Its howl of agony is silenced by an ebony and crimson blade separating its head from its shoulders, boiling black blood spurting onto the stained stone and the body collapses in a heap. Not giving it another glance an armored figure surges forward through a huge archway opening into a massive domed room, empty except for a lone fire pit nestled securely in the wall.

A trio of men follow swiftly after all covered in wounds and thoroughly winded, one rushing towards the pit; "This must be the signal fire, hurry we've most likely missed the signal!"

Frantically patting his waist, he is shocked to find he cannot locate his tinderbox; a loud curse interrupts the silence as he futilely continues to search for his lost starter. Besides him, the sole unarmored combatant raises his staff and unleashes a torrent of flame upon the kindling emblazing the damp wood in a fury of fire. Flashing the mage a grateful smile he clasps the mage on the shoulder, catching the man off guard forcing him to catch himself lest he stumble.

Their small victory is shattered by Amon's barking, "On guard!"

His warning comes too late as a volley of arrows riddles the unprepared men, the mage's simple robe providing no protection as five crocked bolts pierce his stomach and a final one finding its place in his eye. The footman fares no better as he too falls to the barrage his standard leather cuirass unable to impede the missiles.

Alistair cries out in pain as several of the bolts lodge in his back, the stifling pain overwhelming his senses, he was unconscious before his body crashed to the floor, a puddle of crimson fluid pooling underneath his armor.

Trained and astute eyes allowed Amon to escape the same fate, the volley intended to slay him ricocheted harmlessly off his ebony shield, glancing bad he spies his comrades felled by the ambush. A surge of anger floods him, he may not have known them for long, but no commander loved to see his men fall. Channeling that anger, he allows it to fester in his gullet for a brief moment before releasing it in a massive plum of fire, the ancient language of the dragons escaping his lips.

"YOL TOOR SHUL!"

Sensing the primal fury behind it and their encroaching death the feeble horde struggles to flee from the sweeping fire. Righteous fire envelopes their forms and leaves naught but ash in its wake bathing the room in a blinding orange, a pleased growl accompanies a wisp of smoke from his lips as he admires his handiwork. Blinded by both the light and fury Amon fails to notice the massive shadow at his side until a hand twice his size crashes into him, sending his armored form spiraling through the air and crashing onto the stone floor. The force of the strike hurtles his body across the stone, screeching horribly in response to the metal grinding against it.

His ears rung, his body throbbed in pain, it felt like a mammoth had sat atop him. The force of the blow had dislodged his helmet, his vision obscured by the plate and by the worming darkness. He was aware of another sound other than the howling giant that had assaulted him, another shadow veiling the light. It looked like a bird, a giant bird. Large claws rending the flesh from the giant and casting it aside like a plaything, then suddenly as soon as it had appear the shadow disappeared. The silhouette of a woman now claimed his rapidly fading vision; she was both familiar and foreign, a mocking laugh drowning the ringing in his ears.

"Well well, what have we here?"


A giant tower of flame now illuminating the dark structure, the signal they had been waiting for, the word needed to urge them to join the fight. The sounds of a losing battle echoing all around them. Standing ahead of the force stood a single man, he stared at the burning tower in apathy before speaking his order.

"Sound….the retreat."

At his side, a young woman stares at him confused, retreat? The signal was to alert them to surge into the valley and assist the king. "But...what about the king? Should we not—"

The hand she used to gesture towards the battle was seized by his hand, his stern eyes boring into her own. "Do as I command!"

Wrenching her hand from his grasp, she stares fleetingly at the battle before turning towards the troop, ordering them off. Though they all shared the confusion they obeyed without a word, marching away from the battle as their commander stares out, joining them soon after leaving the King and his men to die.

Duncan could watch in horror as the King's lifeless body was thrown near him, his once immaculate golden armor now stained brown with the horrible life fluid. Sorrow and anger courses through him as he leaps from the ground, ripping the blade from his back. Deftly leaping into the air twin blades driving into the exposed chest of the massive ogre. Several more times for good measure and the massive spawn crashed onto the ground, Duncan's twin blades lanced into its heart. Sliding from the beast he slumps morosely to his knees all around him the King's men being slaughtered, the signal ignored. Casting his gaze up he watches as a massive bird flies from the tower, somehow he knew that his two Wardens' were safe. Perhaps the sacrifice was not in vain, if Amon and Alistair could prevail than it would be worth facing his demise in the field.

As if summoned the armored visage of a spawn catches his gaze, a massive ornate axe dragging behind it charging towards him he knew his time was over. A silent prayer to the Maker to guide his young charges was the final thing Duncan experienced before the hurlock's axe ended his life.


That's all for Chapter three, all and all I am not really pleased with this chapter. Until the next one.