Terra. The beginning and end of Syndar. The town of dreams and death, of splendour and decay. At the fore of Main Street the stand the gates, proud and majestic in ithere structural genius. In perfect view slightly raised from the submerged, cobbled street stands the Palace of Terra. This glorious building, the beauteous home of the current King, Gunthrow of Man. The proud phalanx, the guards of Terra stand gazing attentively from the gates. Foreseeing every being as they pass through. Walking through the gates our hero at last comes to the bustling street.

Ah, Terra. Where else in the world to begin one's adventures Aenarion thought to himself, a smile on his face. Slowly he trudged up the cobbled street, his long tail swishing behind him. What times, where a Saurian can walk through the towns of men without batting an eyelid. In fact as he looked around he noted that the very street housed many different races. He mounted the hill and the great temples came into view. There majesty a true sight too beholds. From this vantage point he could see into Temple Street and hear the various prayers rising and falling, a chorus of echoes audible to his keen Saurian ears. He turned and saw where the place he was looking for, possibly the most famous tavern in all of Syndar if not for its beer then for its diversity in customers. He entered.

Terra Tavern. From the moment he entered his senses hit overload. At the far end stood the bar, but no visible tender. Too one side stood a burning log fire, even in the heat of the warm summer day. He moved towards this gladly. Keenly taking note of the faces around him. All around sat obvious warriors. Decked in there armaments and quaffing merrily alone or with companions. The area around the fire was empty due to the immense heat. He sat gratefully and warmed his cold skin.

Aenarion, a Saurian of age with yellow eyes which in the flickering light of the fire appeared to glow. His dark skin allowed him to blend into the shadows of the fire side where he lounged and drifted off to sleep.

He awoke in an instance to discover a pair of hands retreating with an amulet from around his neck. The amulet in question was that pledging allegiance to his god Targos, the lord of fire. His hand whipped out grabbing the thief's neck. At the same time he flicked his tongue, deftly retrieving his procession. Standing, he lifted the thief and threw him across the room. This was the only excuse the drunken drinkers needed. The room exploded in a violent hellish fury. Aenarion lunged for the door feeling the crush of bodies against him. A flash of pain as a dagger cut his arm and his thick blood trickled making its slow pursuit downwards. He rolled under a table and out of the door into the cool of night. He was embraced by the strong arms of the guards and slugged across the head with a club. The epiphany of darkness greeted him. When he awoke, he found himself bound and in darkness. Now, darkness to a Saurian is not as it is too a human. To the lizard kind darkness is a luminous state where in everything takes on a lustrous glow. In this forbidding gloom he could clearly see the outline of his cell. It opened and in walked an elderly guard.

"Get up," the grunted in a slur. "Your audience with the King is imminent."

Still bound he was dragged into a standing position. His aching limbs stiff from the position in which he had being dumped the night before. Outside of the jail he was forced into line with a number of other prisoners and slowly surrounded by guards they were lead up the street towards the Palace. Though it was still early morning, a great crowd lined either side of the street, jeering. They walked for maybe twenty minutes before they reached the Palace. There it stood a great jewel of a building, the morning dew that coated it sparkling in the sunlight. From its many turrets flew the Terran flag. They entered the palace.

The long corridor leading to the Throne Room was lined with golden doors, beside each stood two fully armed guards. At last the Throne Room was reached and the guard complement tracing the prisoners stopped and lined behind them. Through the great oaken door they went. Sitting in a great throne before them sat King Gunthrow. He is a great man, of middle age, his hair dark brown speckled with flecks of grey. As he stood the muscles in his arms were apparent and though he wore a ceremonial sword now his infamy in battle held renown with many. To his side sat his son Prince Marvin loved by all and known as the rascal prince.

"Gentlemen," spoke the King addressing the prisoners. "You are hear to be offered a choice."

Aenarion raised his head.

"And this is it, you can either be executed as is the law of this fair city or you can take your chances duelling in the cities arena. If you entertain the populace enough then you will be freed."

He went on:

"However, one of you" Prince Marvin raised his head now "will have no choice in this matter. Instead my son will bequeath to you his own sword and you will fight for him. If you honour this and please him then you will become a knight of the realm and all the privileges that come with this will be yours also."

The atmosphere in the room heightened considerably as the Prince arose from his chair. Aenarion turned his head to either side slightly. Many of the other convicts were just petty thieves from a number of races. There were a small group of dwarfs looking particularly hung over, obviously remnants from the brawl the night before. Too one side stood a tall elf clad in finely woven robe. He wore little jewellery as was a common custom among elves. However, like himself round his neck he wore an amulet. The Prince stopped in front of him.

"You, what is your name?"

Aenarion turned his head back and looked down;

"My name is Aenarion, lord." He spoke with a hint of malevolence.

The Prince looked to his father a glint in his eye. His father but nodded.

"I choose you Aenarion. You shall bear my sword. May it bring you victory and release from the chains of death that would otherwise enwrap you."