In the confines of the tomb, there was nowhere to move, no room for tactics, nowhere to hide. The flickering of the torchlight sent distracting shadows cascading up the walls, the shadows of the monstrously huge guardian looking like a demon come from the very underworld to drag us from the lands of the living.
It very nearly was the case. The greataxe spinning in the hands of the minotaur dealt blows left and right, and one by one, we began to fall.
Helikaon cried out to the Dragonlords that blessed this place for strength and as we continued to battle there came a sound distinct from the din of battle. A grating of stone on stone, as the lid to the sarcophagus ground aside. From within, a human-shape drew himself upright, glowing faintly. Radiating power, skeletal eyes burning.
Xander.
He held out his hand and from the grip of Graxis the axe tore itself free and flew into his desiccated grip.
Without his weapon, the tide turned and though many of us were sorely wounded, eventually the cursed one fell. It’s a thing of sadness that he had become so corrupt. Whilst certainly not the last minotaur, he was the last of his tribe, last of his line. Perhaps now he can find the peace he was denied in life.
Xander spoke to us, urging us to continue in our quest to reform the Dragonlords. He spoke of the peace that they brought, of the defence of the people against tyranny. And he spoke of their mistakes- how some revelled in their power and used it for ill.
If there is something that sits at the heart of this group that might give us hope, more than our martial or magical prowess, is it our compassion that could sway the tide? Our wish to leave this world better than we found it?
Xander presented us with his treasures, adminishing us to use them in the cause of good. His axe and shield, as Graxis had carried, would need some repairing to bring back to their best, but he also gave us his dragonscale breastplate and two iron crowns- the crowns that allowed dragonlords to bond with their dragons. Treasures indeed. As we readied to take our leave and he returned to the rest of his tomb, I asked Calliope for one of her roses she had brought here. The tomb filled with their scent as I helped them to grow, silver roses reflecting the light of the torches.
We rested here, making ready to return to the Oracle with our labours complete. Alke and Calliope seemed deep in conversation and I took a moment to thank Damon for allowing us to be here. As I had within the tomb, I used my connection to the land to draw the life into an acorn, setting a living tree here at the borders of the land of the dead- a reminder to Damon of the life outside this place, and within the wood, the word ‘Hope’ to set against the grief of his regrets.
As we began to leave, Damon stopped to converse in his way to Calliope. As he took her hand as they said goodbye, I saw the glint of something metallic pass to her palm.
But before we could set out, there was a beating of wings and shadows passed over us, blocking the light from the hazy morning sunlight. Three reptilian forms circled down and landed close by, soldiers in red cloaks leaping clear. Dragons!
We are summoned by King Acastus of Mytros, who it seems has made his own strides towards reforming the dragonlords. But are they intended as an honour guard, or captors?