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
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."