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[Flames of Hyperion]

The Legend of the Tella’karythar, the Last Crusader
~ As told by Elralad Calil-Galdor, historian and scribe

Many long years have I spent delving into the depths of the libraries at Istien and Anebrilith. The sands of time are merciless and unrelenting, eating away without respite at the rich history of my kin. Memories vanish and inks fade, tomes are lost and sages are killed, and with every passing breath a fragment of the strength and knowledge that is the hallmark of my people disappears into the fathomless void, never to be recovered again. It is a sad thing to be as old as I, for it is my fight to survive each and every pain-fraught day in the knowledge that my time is soon, and that when I leave this world, yet another invaluable shard of our legacy will leave with me.

Raiaera has stood strong through long millennia of peace and prosperity, and has survived through equally protracted ages of turmoil and strife. Those such as myself, born not long after we first settled these lands, remember well the years of light and hope that were the pinnacle of our lives here. But we also remember the darkness that marred us… the wars we waged against the gods themselves, the schism that tore us apart from our own brothers, and most of all the atrocities we committed towards the indigenous humans of this land. Perhaps it is just punishment for those dreadful sins we perpetrated upon the Durklan tribes, that even now we slowly wane and fade… as I write this, I look towards the setting sun upon the Black Desert, a burning haze of malevolence and vengeance that tears at my very eyes even from this afar, and my aged bones tremble in regret.

Some label us a haughty race, proud and arrogant. Perhaps there is truth in their words, for the perfection we strive for in our every deed may be considered conceit by less long-lived, hastier peoples. But for all we are proud we are also noble… for all we are arrogant, we are brave and just. Though we have made mistakes in our past, there are some of us who are not so blinkered that we will not admit to them. Perhaps in time, even the most ardent of our youths will see this, and we may yet be saved.

I fear, however, that time is not now.

High Bard Ferahar has mustered the mightiest of our warriors and marches on Denebriel and Aesphestos in Caradin, seeking to conclude this endless war once and for all. I myself have had the honour of adjudging his plan to be sound, and the rituals he intends to complete to be, in theory at least, capable of fulfilling their intent. Ferahar takes with him the Regalia Lumina, the Masters of Light, the most powerful artefacts that our forefathers brought with them on their journey from beyond the seas.

If he fails, then we will most likely fall, and the world as we know it will be consumed in an unstoppable tide of darkness and malice. But I have faith that he will succeed… for these are not yet the end times that the prophesies speak of.

And thus, I take to heart his command to set in stone the sum of my knowledge for the benefit of future generations. My first act will now be to write of what I know of this prophecy, and of the fate of the other three regalia, sealed safely within the vaults of their respective keepers.

I shall begin with the legend of the Tella’karythar, the Last Crusader.

It is said that when our forefathers first journeyed to these lands and drew from the power of the Eternal Tap, the greatest seer amongst them foresaw the doom that would befall his people in the millennia to come. But faced with the hope and joy of his companions at their brave new life free of the troubles they had fled, he could not bring himself to warn them of their fate. For weeks he meditated, seated deep in contemplation before the all-powerful Regalia Lumina and its three lesser cousins – the Regalia Valora, the Regalia Benevolentia, and the Regalia Consilum. Ancient relics of great power, named in a tongue that was obscure and foreign even in those times, the sage knew that they would be to the key to the survival of his descendants in the ages to come.

Little remains of the conclusions he arrived at, for there were few who would listen to him. Of the two fragments of his prophecy that survive, the first was what gave Ferahar the key to the ritual with which he now seeks to bind the Forgotten Ones using the Regalia Lumina. The second is what speaks of the Tella’karythar.

Many thousands of years from now, when ancient evil once again stalks the land and the sins of our people return to exact their retribution, our fair realm will face utter and complete annihilation. Our armies defeated and scattered, our leaders humbled and killed, our cities destroyed and our population strewn like fallen leaves upon the four winds, death will roam freely across the realm in numerous disguises, irrevocably corrupting everything it touches with its malign influence. Seasons will pass filled with utter despair, blighting souls with fear and terror and the infinite chill of evil.

In these troubled times, a hero will appear from the rising sun, a far-travelled human bearing a name of the Elven tongue. At first this hero’s path will be in search of something dear, but in time the destinies of this human and those in the company will become entwined with the fate of the very land itself. The hero will take up the Regalia and shine forth as hope amongst the beleaguered realms, and those of good heart and stern conscience will flock to the beacon as if it were the light of Lady Aurient herself. And the hero will be known as the Last Crusader, for it will be the fortune of this fated one to watch over the last days of Raiaera, for better or for worse. In the hands of this hero and of those who fight alongside lies the ultimate destiny of our kin… to perish or to survive, to be extinguished like a feeble candlelight at the mercy of the gale winds of destiny, or to be born anew no matter how small or weak.

In all my years studying our history, only a handful of times have I stumbled upon obscure references to this legend. And yet, when I think of the frightening accuracy of the first fragment of prophecy…

[Flames of Hyperion]

A muted sigh echoed through the room, tired and mystified. Ingwe Helyanwe set aside his quill, careful not to blotch any ink onto his fresh transcription of the mouldy tome. Scattered candles cast flickering illumination onto the dusty table surface upon which he worked, causing the musty air itself to swim in miniscule motes of fine particles. The young man spared another glance at the archaic grimoire of prophecies before stretching uncomfortably, thoroughly exhausted by the draining task of not only translating the obscure text and its ancient Raiaeran script, but attempting to wrap his head around it at the same time.

Perched precariously on the very tip of his nose, his glasses glinted in a fleeting trick of the light as he paused to contemplate. He had acquired the heavy leather-bound tome earlier that day from his arcane mentor Ecthelion, no less a personage than the High Archmage of the Ivory Spire at the Raiaeran citadel of Tor Elythis. The old Elf’s instructions had been to study as much of it as possible - and in particular the legend of the Last Crusader - before the midnight bells finished ringing.

Once he had conquered his awe at the age of the text, for it had been written at the time of the Leaguer of Caradin during the Wars of the Tap some ten thousand years ago, Ingwe had set about doing as his master had requested. Even now, however, the young man had to suppress his amazement that such a relic could have survived for so long amongst the libraries of Anebrilith, hidden amongst a multitude of other such relics. It didn’t hurt to be reminded just how much stood to be lost should Raiaera, or even Anebrilith alone, fall to the darkness that threatened. Not only lives, not only homes, but also the lore and history of a nation that could trace its roots far beyond imagination.

With another sigh he stood up, patting his clothing to dislodge the worst of the dusty fluff that had accumulated on his tunic. He desperately wanted to clean his glasses but thought better of it, realising just in time that any ill-conceived attempt to wipe them with his dirty clothes would merely smear the grime on the lens and force him to seek a more drastic solution.

I can’t make heads or tails out of this… Ingwe thought, shoulders drooping in resignation as he took two steps towards the nearest shuttered windows. What Regalia? Who is this Tella’karythar that keeps being mentioned… there’s no chance that it could possibly be referring to me, could it? Would that be why Ecthelion so abruptly entrusted me with such a valuable relic? But would that then imply that these are the ‘last days of Raiaera’ that Elralad refers to? No… no, it can’t be…

In a rare show of frustration, Ingwe thrust violently at the battered oak that barred the window. Fresh air abruptly flowed through the dank room as the heavy wood gave way. The sun had set since the young man had last looked outside, although the thick blanket of heavy grey that hung low over the spires and rooftops of Nenaebreth would have thoroughly obscured any sign of day even if the hour was still high noon. Focusing his gaze upon the outside world, Ingwe received the distinct impression that the sky had been compressed between two shapeless masses – the cloud above and the city below – and in turn was now acting to muffle the sights, sounds, and smells of what was essentially a makeshift army encampment. He shifted uneasily; whether due to the chill that clung to the belated spring breeze, or because of an instinctive reaction to the primeval fears that still stalked the hinterlands, he was not sure.

How he envied his familiar in that brief instant. The gyrfalcon Hayate, at that moment scouting the forest to the north for any sign of the enemy, enjoyed the carefree freedom of the skies, where word such as those he had just studied had little meaning. He, on the other hand…

… from the rising sun, a far-travelled human with an Elven name, searching for something dear but caught up in the war… Certainly, he rationalised, it was possible that the words of the prophecy referred to him, assuming of course that one chose to believe them. Obviously, the High Archmage Ecthelion did, unless this was all an elaborate trick. Except that Ecthelion had no reason at all to play such trivial games in the midst of the war, and the look on his wizened features as he had handed Ingwe the tome had been far too serious.

In which case, the young man had to assume, the prophecy was true and was coming to pass.

But there’s still no guarantee that I’m the ‘Last Crusader’, a little voice of logic pointed out in his mind. Ingwe clutched eagerly at the lifeline, desperate for a strand of thought that did not spell doom for Raiaera by placing the nation’s hopes on his shoulders. ’From the rising sun’ could mean anything. It doesn’t have to signify Nippon, it could even be the east of Raiaera or Corone. The prophecy does specify human, so that does rule out some likely candidates such as Prince Turgon or Glorfindel… wasn’t Castor from Corone? Ah, but it says bearing an Elven name, and that does narrow the search space down somewhat, doesn’t it. Yuka, Hitomi, and Kendal… Thomas as well if I remember correctly… each of us having travelled from the eastern isles in one way or another, each of us searching for something. In the presence of names like that, the chances of me actually being this legendary hero are… I mean, this is me we’re talking about, after all…

But what if the prophecy really did point to him? What if, by trying to convince himself of the opposite, he was simply running away from the responsibility? Ever since he had joined the Legion of Light to fight against the undead horde that threatened to overwhelm Raiaera, he had tried to face down everything that came at him by standing his ground. To run away now would be the worst form of cowardice.

And yet, to accept that he was this hero of legend would also mean that he would have to accept that Raiaera might be damned without recourse.

Each new though spawned into his mind like an unwanted chain of metal links, heavy fetters that shackled his mind and weighted it down in frustration. It was all Ingwe could do to fight the mounting sense of drowning in his own worries and concerns, trying to prevent the agonising aggravation from actually showing on his features. For long moments the young man stood at the window, ignoring the strands of dark hair that crept into his eyes as he peered out into the distantly echoing night. Lost in thought, his fingers absently fingered the pendant he wore at his neck, as if seeking inspiration or solace, or both.

Only when a sudden voice called his name, rather closer to his ears than the rest of the sounds carried upon the light breeze, did he finally snap out of his solitary reverie.

“Ingwe!”

The voice belonged to Castor Pollux, the dark-haired huntsman who had been with the Legion of Light since its inception in Scara Brae, and who had just figured in Ingwe’s thoughts. The older man stood in the barren castle courtyard some twenty feet below, peering upwards at the window from which Ingwe was gazing apathetically out upon the world. He was accompanied as usual by the large bulk of the half-ogre Taggar, but also by a slender figure in silvery scale mail.

One of Prince Turgon’s elnaith knights from Tor Elythis, Ingwe realised. And judging by the looks on their faces, something serious has happened again.

“I’ll be right down,” Ingwe called back, turning away from the sill and shelving his thoughts for later perusal. He paused just long enough to check that the ink was dry on his journal before scooping up both tomes and throwing on his cloak, leaving the dusty table behind in a flurry of decisive action.

Only the silence remained to watch him leave.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Nenaebreth had once been a fairly non-descript town by Raiaeran standards, with its elegantly designed wooden buildings, its wide paved thoroughfares, and an abundance of arboreal and artistic accentuation. The citadel in the centre of the settlement had managed to hold out for a few dreadful hours against the swift advance of undead that had engulfed the rest of the city, but its defenders had been forced to watch in helpless despair as the citizens who had been caught in the streets – and of these there were many – had been murdered one by one. Here and there Ingwe could still see signs of bloody butcher and futile last stands, even after six months of occupation by Xem’zund’s mercenaries and two days of subsequent liberation by the Legion of Light and their allies from Tor Elythis and Karazund.

As he rushed through the benighted streets in the wake of Castor’s guidance, flanked on either side by the burly half-ogre and the grim Elythisian knight, Ingwe’s thoughts turned to the latest of the problems he was being asked to face. Like Castor, he had travelled in company with the Legion of Light ever since it had been formed in Scara Brae, from their initial skirmishes around Anebrilith to their epic battle against the horde of undead at the base of the Emyn Naug. It had been a journey not without its fair share of troubles. He liked to think that he had done his part in helping the diverse and motley levy – comprised of volunteers from Scara Brae, Dwarves from the northern stronghold of Gunnbad, and Raiaeran Rangers under the command of Lord Arminas, amongst others – to unify and coalesce into a cohesive fighting force working as one towards the defeat of Xem’zund and the liberation of Raiaera. And despite the divisive differences in motive and outlook between the three main factions within the Legion, against all his hopes their efforts had been rewarded. The Legion was now akin to an extended band of brothers, so long had they travelled together through desperate situations and hopeless battlefields, all doing their part in fighting off the undead advance.

Now, however, Ingwe faced the same problems only on a far grander scale. The Legion had made many allies in their travels, the foremost amongst which were the professional High Elven armies of the Silverwind from the island colony of Tor Elythis, and the grim mountain warriors of the hidden stronghold of Karazund, or Keldagrim in the common tongue. The Legion had stood back to back with the former when the Harbour Wall of Anebrilith had been breached, and had been aided by the latter when braving the treacherous midwinter mountains of the Emyn Naug. Together the three armies had defeated an undead force attempting to reinforce the Anebrilithian siege, and then had proceeded to sweep the garrison of Nenaebreth from the occupied town, striking the first blows for Raiaeran justice and freedom in the dawn of a new spring. But that had been two days ago, and almost overnight the old prejudices had boiled to the surface once more, ignited by the dilapidated doorways and abandoned arches of the makeshift encampment as a product of sheer boredom and close proximity to unfamiliar company.

The raucous sound of trouble grew louder in Ingwe’s ears, and he lengthened his stride across the untended pavements in response, forcing his companions to do the same. It was not difficult to pinpoint the source of the commotion from amongst the handful of buildings that had been taken over as drinking and feasting halls; it was the noisiest, rowdiest, and resounded with the angry bellows of several inebriated, infuriated Dwarves.

“Of course, it would have to be Derthark, wouldn’t it…” Ingwe murmured to himself, adopting an uncharacteristically grim expression upon his youthful features. The only one of his companions who showed any signs of having heard him was Castor, who made a sympathetic sound and cast aside his rugged gaze in embarrassment. The young prince of Gunnbad, nominal leader of the Dwarves that marched under the Legion’s banner, was known as much for his insatiable appetite for ale and his extraordinary repertoire of insults as for his prowess on the battlefield. Ingwe quickly glanced about the milling crowd that was gathering at the ruckus, hoping to spot the distinctive grey beard of the runelord Telchar. Derthark’s senior advisor was the one figure whose authority the Dwarven prince absolutely respected, and who could potentially put an end to the commotion without causing a fuss.

It was not to be. Ingwe grit his teeth in resignation, sighing to Castor, “Stay close. I’m probably going to need your help before this is done with…”

The huntsman looked less than pleased at Ingwe’s request, but nodded in reluctant acquiescence. Taking a step back, he tapped Taggar’s shoulder and indicated the doorway to the building in question; the half-ogre was only too happy to oblige, using the powerful bulk of his large body to force a path through the mass of excited bystanders, through which Ingwe, Castor, and the silent elnaith followed.

By the time he could reach out to touch the door, Ingwe’s heart had sunk quite considerably further into his stomach. Bracing himself for the worst, he pushed the sleek oaken panel open on its squeakily protesting hinges.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Ye clanless lily-livered beard-shaving tree-hugging halfling’s armpit!”

“If your tongue were but a whisper further from the ground, master Dwarf, I would have it removed from your mouth and mounted on the wall as a trophy.”

Once, perhaps, this had been a sleepy back-street lounge or a place of eating. Now, however, it looked nothing short of a war zone. Elegantly crafted chairs lay in multiple pieces against the walls upon which they had been thrown; tables had been overturned and their contents emptied upon the chipped and scarred remnants of the smoothly polished floor, and the comfortable crimson couches had been repeatedly doused with the dregs of the evening’s merriment. As much as it had been a mistake to allow Xem’zund’s human mercenaries to have the run of the town and its amenities, it was perhaps an even greater error to let the Dwarves in.

Ingwe ducked instinctively as a half-full pitcher of cheap human-made beer came soaring through the lamp-lit incandescence, shattering in a messy splatter on Taggar’s shoulder behind him like crystal upon bedrock. The half-ogre simply looked bemused, watching over the carnage unfolding before him as if he were a benevolent deity, completely ignoring the sopping mess that decorated his ragged tunic.

“An’ ye call dis stuff beer!” a proud voice bellowed from the centre of the room, the same voice that had just insulted the mail-clad commander of the High Elves. Brandishing his personal pewter tankard like a battleaxe, Prince Derthark more than made up for the fact that he barely reached to his counterpart’s waist with expansive gestures and a generous girth, as well as the sheer indomitability of his attitude. Squaring up to the Elf with the shouted encouragement of his fellows ringing in his ears, he took another noisy spluttering draught of his drink before continuing, “Poncy pointy-eared incompeten’ cowards! Cannae e’en protec’ yer aun lan’s!”

“Derthark…” Ingwe had a brief moment of stunned silence in which to attempt to intrude before the situation degenerated even further, but whatever else he wanted to say was lost amongst the livid uproar. Drunken Dwarves cheered their spokesman on, whilst enraged Elves barely kept their tempers in check. The entire roof shivered under the combined onslaught of emotions, sending drifts of long-lingered dust from the rafters to the floor.

“I suggest that you do not speak any further, Dwarf,” the Elven commander – whom Ingwe belatedly realised to be Prince Turgon’s banner-bearer and second-in-command, Elessar – spoke. Green eyes glinted with fey fire, long ithilmar hauberk glimmered silver in the lamp light, and one slender gauntlet was poised upon the hilt of his longsword, clearly fighting the urge to unsheathe the weapon there and then.

“Wut if ah de?” the Dwarf slurred in reply, making a face as he peered tauntingly at the Elf. “Ye ainnae git the guts tae defen’ yer aun homes, much les’ strike daun a warrior! Ur mebbe ye shud call fer ‘elp… ah hir Turgon oh Tor Ely’is izza right butcherer ah innocen’s ye ken…”

“Speak no ill of my lord Turgon!” Elessar cried, stepping forth with naked steel whispering from his side. Half a dozen other elnaith matched his step, and suddenly Derthark was facing a veritable wall of blades beyond his royal tankard.

“Ur wat?” the Dwarf spat in turn, his rune-encrusted axe almost magically appearing at his side. Coolly he drained the last of his drink before tossing away the mug, confident in the knowledge that at least a dozen of his brethren were ready to throw themselves at the milling Elves… including those who had not directly challenged him. His fiery red beard quivered in youthful eagerness; a good brawl was something he had not enjoyed in…

“Enough!”

Ingwe wasn’t sure what surprised him more, the fact that he’d managed to raise his voice to the level that it was sufficient to stop both parties in their tracks, or the fact that they’d both actually deigned to listen to him. Highly conscious that all eyes in the room were now squarely focused on him, the bespectacled young man strode into the arena, trying to inject a veneer of confidence into his movements. It would not do for his audience, as alcohol-befuddled as they might be, to see through to the lack of self-assurance that lay within. Clean-cut, youthful, and sober, the purity of his white tunic was distinctly out of place amidst the shimmering ithilmar and burnished gromril. Part of him wished that he could simply retreat back to his studies and let the storm pass him by.

But he was an officer of the Legion now. He could not allow the seeds of trouble to take root without opposing them.

“Commander Elessar. Prince Derthark. That is quite enough. High Elf and Dwarf, we are allies now, not enemies. I ask you both to put aside your ancient prejudices for the benefit of the task at hand.”

“And just who do you think you are?” one of the sword-bearing Elves, more inebriated that the rest of his kin, challenged. Without waiting for a reply he lashed out with his free hand in classic Orbb Rah Laur, the most basic of unarmed High Elven martial arts.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“Fei…” Wai…

Elessar’s hasty command came too late, however, and Ingwe barely had time to react before a mail-clad arm landed a blow against his ribs. It was all the human could do to protect his vital organs from the whirlwind-like barrage of precision hammer strikes, dedicating every last shred of effort to not being knocked out in the first seconds of the engagement. If he fell, and there was nobody else to stop the confrontation…

He was saved by the intervention of the nearest dwarf, who barrelled blindly into the battle and by virtue of the sheer width of his shoulders and strength of his upper arms managed to force human and elf apart. Both landed rather violently on their backsides upon the slick splintered flooring, and though the elnaith was swifter in attempting to regain his feet, he was rudely interrupted by Taggar and Castor literally sitting on his limbs to pin him to the ground. His decision to stop struggling may have been assisted by the fact that his commander stepped in between them, facing Ingwe with his blade sheathed once more.

“My apologies, Ingwe Helyanwe,” Elessar spoke formally, with a controlled bow and a mask of chastised neutrality upon his hawkish features. Although his words lacked quite the eloquent sincerity that would have been dedicated to Lord Arminas or Prince Turgon, Ingwe was still glad to hear them. The Elf was in charge of his emotions once more, and that meant that he would not allow any more indiscretion from those under his command. “My subordinate acted rashly. We of Tor Elythis mean no harm to you, elf-friend.”

Elf-friend. The term was not lightly used, and its utterance had the same effect upon the assembled Elves as a figurative pail of cold water. There was a measure of reluctance to their actions as swords were sheathed and angry gazes averted, but the bloodlust that had hung over them like a crimson pall had dissipated.

“Thank you, commander,” Ingwe replied, reaching up from the floor to accept the proffered hand of assistance and allowing himself to be pulled upright by the lithely powerful Elessar. He’d never had much chance to converse with the reserved second-in-command of the elnaith, but it was clear that he had not been far off in his estimation of the Elf: professional and polite almost to a fault, a warrior to his core who was somewhat awkward in social circles but had the full respect of the men he led.

His relief was somewhat dampened by the fact that the helmet of the elnaith knight who had attacked him was now lying loose, exposing fiery red hair to the smouldering lamplight. Where Ingwe had been quick to classify the Elf as a “he”, he could now see that in fact “he” was a “she”… which was good news indeed for his already battered and bruised pride.

Serves me right, he thought to himself, giving the smouldering blue eyes a rueful smile, and indicating to Taggar and Castor that they should let her loose. The huntsman, it had to be noted, once again obeyed only after a long hesitant pause; it was as if he was having trouble comprehending the soundness of the orders, and on reflection, Ingwe guessed that he couldn’t really be blamed. The rueful smile was extended to the two Legionnaires, a belated apology for the young officer’s rash actions.

“Now…” Ingwe turned to address the other guilty party, namely the Dwarven prince who was eying him with wary suspicion. Derthark knew full well how close Ingwe was to the runelord Telchar, and despite the seeming disdain he maintained for the ‘manling’, the Dwarf had been with the human long enough to respect Ingwe’s dedication and scholarly aptitude. The expression on Derthark’s ruddy features was one of wide-eyed innocence that did nothing to conceal his guilt, especially when he buried it in the closest flagon of ale a moment later.

“My apologies to you as well, Prince Derthark,” Elessar bowed stiffly after a short pause, taking the hint with controlled reluctance. Tension eased from the shoulders of all present, although Ingwe could still feel the heated blue gaze drilling daggers into the small of his back. “I had no intention of impugning the honour of the mountain folk.”

“… m’sorrie…” a voice mumbled in reply from the depths of the pewter flagon, followed by a very audible and very pointed burp. Given the notorious difficulty involved in convincing any Dwarf to admit to a mistake, however, Elessar seemed willing to accept the half-hearted peace offering; with a curt, polite nod in Ingwe’s direction, he spun on his heel in a spiral of shimmering silver and strode for the door. The majority of his retinue followed in his wake like a retreating argent tide, until Ingwe found that he could actually concentrate on a spot on the far wall without having a pair of flinty Elven eyes stare back at him in distaste.

He had one last thing to say when Derthark finally chanced a glance out from the safety of his long empty tankard.

“I trust that this won’t happen again?”

The pleasance of his tone was underlined by the steadiness of his dark eyes as they hammered the point home, and to his surprise Derthark swallowed almost nervously. The young man knew that it was fear of Telchar Quakefist, not of Ingwe Helyanwe, that stayed the Dwarf. Much like Elessar, however, he found himself satisfied by any sort of acquiescence. A smile and a nod to Castor and Taggar later, Ingwe stepped outside once more into the night, noting with a wry smile that most of the milling crowd had dissipated now that the commotion had subsided.

He managed thirty paces in the crisply biting shadows before the adrenaline wore off. Only then did he sink to the ground, weak at the knees and trembling uncontrollably.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“I heard about your adventures earlier this evening.”

Ingwe groaned in horror as he drew his tanto from their saya, eliciting a calm chuckle from his opponent. Glorfindel was not wearing the golden plates that made him so distinctive upon the battlefield, but that still left a finely crafted hauberk of mythril mail underneath the white and blue of his tabard. Not to mention his long, slender sabre, which was balanced finely in Ingwe’s direction.

“I hope nobody’s been telling tall tales…” the young man sighed, adopting a practiced stance with the twin streaks of his thin guardless daggers held defensively across his torso. Carefully and purposefully he stepped away from the neat stack of belongings piled upon the parched earth, amongst them the pair of books whose contents continued to smoulder at the back of his mind. Ten paces away on the other side of what had once been a communal playground, his Bladesinger opponent mirrored the movement, lightly testing the edge of his blade against the keen breeze.

“Only that you appeared on a white horse, practically ordered the entire tavern to make amends, and then rode off into the sunset with hope and justice blooming in your wake.” Glorfindel laughed, a low and melodious sound, as the young man’s expression grew even more horrified. The Bladesinger took another step, then another, the point of his sabre never wavering from the centre of Ingwe’s torso. “Telchar was very proud of how you handled the situation.”

… so he was there, after all... Ingwe realised, shifting his weight such that he matched Glorfindel’s circling with the minimum of effort. The Bladesinger was a superior swordsman than he in almost every aspect – speed, agility, skill, reach, technique, power, experience. But Ingwe had long since learnt to make up for his deficiencies as best possible, including to conserve his limited reserves until they were truly needed. The young man feinted abruptly with a swift motion of his upper torso, trying to tease a reaction from Glorfindel that could then be exploited further, but the High Elf was having none of it. “I’ll never be able to live this one down, will I?”

Once again the nocturnal breeze breathed against their faces. The makeshift arena that played host to their duel basked in the light of a lonely lamp, but otherwise it was completely still, not even a moth stirring in the shadows. Their late night sparring sessions were a permanent fixture in Ingwe’s daily routine; he enjoyed not only the opportunity to stretch his legs and to practice his swordsmanship against an undoubtedly skilled opponent, but also the conversation that accompanied it. Glorfindel was perhaps the closest to a friend that he had within the Legion, and the only person that Ingwe felt he could confide in.

The Elf breathed deeply of the frosty night, instantly closing the distance across the hard-packed dirt. Steel clashed against steel with a ringing metallic chime that echoed clear and crisp through the erstwhile silence. The tall grain silos that lined this part of town, long since emptied and abandoned, seemed to pick up the sound and throw it right back at them; between the relative proximity of the echoes and the low-slung clouds that roiled in ominous threat overhead, Ingwe could not help but quaver in a forlorn sense of encirclement and entrapment.

Glorfindel’s long blonde hair flowed artistically with every graceful stroke. Ingwe’s leather-bound feet did a delicate dance of their own upon the cold dusty ground as he sought to defend himself from the quicksilver onslaught of the Bladesinger’s sabre. The single chime multiplied into a cacophonous many, which in turn were amplified even further by their surroundings, until the entire world degenerated into a discordant orchestra of metal upon metal.

“Your swords are troubled tonight, mellonamin,” Glorfindel frowned, feinting to the right only to reverse into a killing stroke aimed at the young man’s neck. Ingwe was quick to parry and even quicker to counter with his second blade, but in that bare blink of an eye the Elf had already twisted out of the path of the long dagger. “Do the events of earlier really trouble you so?”

“No…” Ingwe lied, launching into a ferocious flurry of stormy steel that drove even the Bladesinger back under the sheer volume of strokes. But it was as if Glorfindel could see through every last movement of the blades, dodging them with consummate finesse born from the most supernatural of reflexes. At length the young man began to tire, and it was only then that he admitted, “… and yes.”

“Your swords are more honest than you are,” the Elf observed, casually seizing the opportunity. In a flash he had pierced Ingwe’s staunch guard, a silver arc of his sword that seemed to disappear as it passed through a long dagger and halted mere inches from the human’s neck. Ingwe swallowed instinctively before slumping his shoulders in defeat, shaking his head as if asking himself how the Bladesinger had managed such a feat. “Tanya farnuva… that will suffice. Now, perhaps, you will talk of what is truly bothering you.”

“Ta nae seasamin,” Ingwe automatically replied in fluent Elvish; It was my pleasure. It took him a long moment to compose his thoughts before he sheathed his blades, peering at Glorfindel from above the rims of his oversized spectacles. Then, in defeated resignation, he beckoned the Bladesinger to follow him to where he had piled his belongings… and to where the books that were burning holes in the back of his brain were waiting.

[Flames of Hyperion]

“I see… so that was what was on your mind.”

Glorfindel stood with his back against a flaking tree trunk, gingerly perusing the ancient tome from which Ingwe had obtained the prophecy. The young man himself sat cross-legged alongside his friend, tightly clutching the journal into which he had transcribed his own copy, but not actually reading from it. The words were daunting enough in his head; he could not be sure of his reaction if he were to actually see them again.

“You do realise of course,” the Bladesinger spoke once more, following a brief silence punctuated only by the crackling flutter of aged pages, “that even amongst my kin there are many who disdain the seers and their baseless prophecies.”

He pulled his blue-eyed gaze away from the intrigues secreted within the priceless relic, just long enough to catch Ingwe’s thoughtful nod. It was to be expected – the young man was far too well learned not to have considered that possibility. If he had, and still brooded over the matter, then…

“In which case, Lord Ecthelion believes…” Glorfindel’s words trailed off into nothingness as he returned to studying the prophecies with even greater concentration.

“… at least, his eyes told me as much when he handed me that grimoire,” Ingwe mused to himself, thinking out loud at long last. His dark eyes were gentle and sensitive, peering at something in the distant darkness that only he could see. Lost in the night, he wore an expression almost sorrowfully thoughtful and pensive, his gaze gleaming sadly from behind the protective sheen of his glasses.

Silence reigned in the wake of his words, an unnatural mystic veil that hung heavy in the small space between the heavens above and the earth below. If this had been any other spring, a normal spring, then it might have been broken by the startled chirp of a disturbed song bird, or the rustle of the wind through the new green leaves. But the Winter of Untold Agony had purged the realm of all life too innocent to fight back… and the season that followed had no place for such chaste virtue. And thus the thoughts hung heavy in their heads as they contemplated and pondered, ancient words of immeasurable import simply refusing to fade away.

It was once again Glorfindel who finally shattered the mirror-like stillness of the night with carefully measured words. Like frozen daggers, they stabbed into the mind of the young man who was listening for them, softly and gently though they were delivered.

“What is it that you fear so? Is it the responsibility?”

Ingwe paused for a moment, frozen by Glorfindel’s accusation. Fear? Of responsibility?

He tested the honesty of the feelings on the tip of his tongue, plumbing their depths as if completely unsure of them himself. When he at last shook his head in denial, it was with a firm finality that put paid to any such doubts that he might have harboured.

“I made up my mind on that matter, a long time ago,” he affirmed, his light tenor not overly loud but strong with sincerity and conviction. “Back at the walls of Anebrilith… when those around me began to look to me for orders… I made my peace with the burden I would be asked to bear. I don’t say that I bear it well. I’m no stranger to guilt, or self-doubt, or insecurity. But I promised myself that I would never shirk from my duty. Or else, my friends would be the ones to suffer.”

“Perhaps it is the weight of our expectations that shackles you?”

Glorfindel kept both his expression and his voice impassive and neutral, but still his words seemed to scythe once more through the air like sickles of wind. Ingwe, however, was quick this time to simply brush them aside with his trademark sheepish smile, scratching tentatively at the bridge of his nose. The involuntary reaction suddenly exposed the young scholar for what he really was… a shy academic thrown into the boots of a hero and left to sink or swim in the cataclysm of the century.

“I trust you not to hold expectations of me that I cannot fulfil,” he replied modestly, his smile widening into a grin almost childish in its innocence. And if I fail you then…

“You fear failing us, do you not? Of being found wanting in our time of need?” Glorfindel’s point was acutely made, and Ingwe’s grin faltered as quickly as it had appeared. The young man seemed to visibly deflate under the Bladesinger’s hard stare, withdrawing once more into his moodily pensive shell. The Elf, however, was not about to let him go quite so easily. “This is a time of war, Ingwe… you cannot afford to be picky. Is this not the power that you seek?”

“I know… I know, but…”

In the end it was his silence that spoke volumes, weaving an epic tale of insecurity and uncertainty all its own. The heavy clouds once again seemed to press down upon the ground, and the looming shadows of the trees and the silos about them made him seem so insignificantly small. When at last Ingwe spoke once more, it was in a voice so quiet that even Glorfindel’s keen ears had trouble making it out.

“… I… I’m not ready for such power… yet.”

The Elf said nothing, briefly considering the situation. The hour was approaching midnight, and the stillness of their surroundings was complete and unyielding. They showed as much life as the tide of undeath that had populated them not so long ago. Glorfindel’s hand inched covertly towards the hilt of his sword. It was nearing the appropriate time to act.

In a flash of molten silver the sabre was free of its scabbard and keening through the air. Had Ingwe’s reflexes not been honed by months of endless battle and training, he might have lost his scalp there and then. As it was, the young man just about managed to evade the stroke by sliding his back down the tree that was supporting him. A dry shower of wooden chips sprinkled upon the surprise written into his upturned features, his expression staring straight back at him from the gleaming steel half-embedded in the thick trunk.

Glorfindel had to tug to work his blade free, and the action bought his human opponent a vital half-second in which to draw one of his own tanto. Lamplight flickered in golden arcs as both duellists swung their weapons, cutting through the densely tranquil atmosphere as if it were a tangible object. At this close range, the Bladesinger’s greater skill was balanced by Ingwe’s lighter and wieldier weapon. It was no shock to the Elf when Ingwe’s sword tickled his throat a fraction of an instant before his own reverse-stroke poised at the young man’s ear.

“Glorfindel?”

Ingwe’s voice was questioning and confused, and his youthful features were beginning to show befuddlement through his shock. Quashing the pride he felt at how far the young human had come in a mere matter of months, Glorfindel slowly sheathed his blade, maintaining his carefully neutral expression.

“Follow me,” the Bladesinger ordered, turning on his heel in a majestic sweep of his cloak and walking away. After a moment’s pause, Ingwe sheathed his blade and gathered his belongings, before doing exactly as he had been told.

[Flames of Hyperion]

They were waiting for him within Nenaebreth Citadel, ten powerful figures representing the combined authority of the Legion of Light and their close allies. Forged from white stone in the elegant and stylistic design that was so typical of Raiaeran architecture, the castle’s inner chambers had once been places of cool contemplation and silent meditation. Under the undead occupation that had blighted the town for over half a year, they had stagnated in indifferent corruption, or had been utilised in the most macabre of manners, such that one of the first acts the he’d had to take upon liberating the town had been to seal off entire sections of the castle for purification. Ingwe noted from what flickering light lit the chamber from the lone candle mounted on the far wall that this room had not been one that had required cleansing of evil, despite the thick layer of grime that tarnished the white-washed walls and the marble floors.

“Did you read the legend, Ingwe?” a tired voice asked from the centre of the assembled dignitaries. High Archmage Ecthelion Seregon of the Ivory Spire of Tor Elythis stepped forth from the crowd, clad in cloak of grey and robes of white, leaning slightly upon his gnarled staff as he extended a hand towards his apprentice. The ancient Elf had yet to fully recover from the battle for the town, though his eyes were as sharp as ever under the hood that hid his aged features and his fine white hair.

“Yes, Lord Ecthelion,” Ingwe replied, retrieving the precious relic from the pouch at his waist and handing it over with thinly veiled relief. As the thin fingers quickly leafed through the grimoire to the appropriate page, the young man took the opportunity to study the faces of those around him. The glimmering ithilmar mail of Princes Turgon and Elrohir, as well as Elessar of the elnaith, represented the Silverwind of Tor Elythis; Consul Argurios and two of his elder advisors were their counterparts from the hidden stronghold of Karazund. For the Legion of Light there was the stately figure of the Ranger-lord Arminas Ereinon, the gruff scowl of the Dwarven runepriest Telchar Quakefist, and the rather sheepish sight of one Prince Derthark of Gunnbad, who had very obviously received a good talking to from Telchar regarding the incident of earlier that evening.

Nobody knows what exactly to expect? Ingwe realised suddenly as he glanced from face to face and back again, recognising the hints of uncertainty and questioning that coloured their features. It seemed that even Glorfindel had simply been asked to ensure that Ingwe arrived at the scene at the appropriate time; the Bladesinger had settled back in arms-folded anticipation, the expression he wore just as bemused as everyone else’s.

“The hero will take up the Regalia and shine forth as hope amongst the beleaguered realms…” Ecthelion read from the prophecy, trailing off into silence when Ingwe responded to the words with stiffening muscles. The archmage handed the book to Turgon, who barely glanced at it before passing it onwards to his fellow Elythisian Prince. “Would any of us deny that it was Ingwe that rallied us under one banner and guided us to victory?”

“Yet there is no guarantee that he really is the Tella’karythar,” Turgon pointed out formally, and all eyes turned to him. Those that had not yet read from the book that was now making its rounds through the room wore questioning glances of confusion and unawareness, but there were some… Telchar, Arminas, and now Elrohir amongst them… whose eyes were sharp and words were held at the ready.

Ingwe blinked; at least one other seemed to have fathomed Ecthelion’s purpose at gathering them in midnight council. He himself, however, remained completely in the dark. He could not even bring himself to speak up as the archmage responded for all of them.

“But we have not the time, my Prince. The days grow longer, and the hours grow shorter. Xem’zund is not finished with Raiaera yet… not by any means. Soon he will make his move, and we will need to be stronger than ever before to resist him.” Mention of their great enemy, the dread Necromancer himself, sent a chill shiver of fear through the room that none could fully suppress. “This is why I have called you all here… to bear witness to the artefact that Turgon and I recovered from Anebrilith before we left, and to grant your approval as we gift it to the one person here we feel who can bear it with tempered wisdom and unbiased justice.”

Ingwe thought he could detect a deep sorrow within Ecthelion’s words. Judging by the pensive silence that hung in the still air, he was not the only one. Their shadows danced and wavered to the will of the single weak candle upon the wall; lost in the moment and buried by the expectant weight of the archmage’s words, Ingwe found it impossible to protest even though he now had a vague inkling of where the conversation was headed. At length, it was the notoriously short-tempered Argurios who demanded a continuation to the ceremonious proceedings, his strident voice echoing dangerously throughout the stone chamber.

“Well? Get on with it, master Elf!”

In another day and place, perhaps, the way the muscle-bound warrior had spat his words at the august archmage might have merited a harsher rebuke. But Ecthelion merely cocked a bushy eyebrow at the impetuous barbarian before acquiescing.

“Very well.”

The butt of his staff struck the stone floor, once in firm solidity. The sound resounded like a hollow bell throughout the chamber, a long note of sorrow that only served to heighten the cresting tension by nearly extinguishing the lone candle flame. In response to the summons, something shimmered into existence at Ecthelion’s feet, from where it had obviously been kept in some form of inter-dimensional storage.

Held upright by an invisible force obviously crafted from Ecthelion’s magic, the central artefact was a set of golden mythril armour gleaming with obvious enchantment, stylised in the form of a burning bird-of-prey. It was flanked on either side by two other artefacts… the first a tall staff topped by an ornate sculpt of a raptor in wing-stretched flight, the second a sturdy shield of wood-lined metal bearing a similar emblem.

“I present to you… the Regalia Valora.”

[Flames of Hyperion]

“No.”

The word leapt from his tongue before he could censor it, and to his abject horror, every pair of eyes within the room was now firmly set upon him. Ingwe felt the blood drain from his face, sweat breaking out upon the pale skin of his worry-lined brow. He felt clammy and cold, and yet somehow horrendously hot at the same time; his gaze roamed the faces of those who stood with him, trying to avoid lingering for too long on a single spot and especially shunning the relics of an ancient age that lay so temptingly within his reach.

In their eyes there was confusion, and there was sympathy, and pity and concern, and a whole number of other emotions besides. Ingwe’s heart fluttered as fitfully as the light given out by the candle behind him, as the weight of their hopes and expectations suddenly crested over him like a towering tidal wave. Could he… dared he…?

“I think I can see what you want from me,” he managed to speak before anybody could interject, his words low and hurried as if squeezed from the back of his throat. He wasn’t sure what pained him more – the fact that he could not trust himself to accept the honour, or the fact that he would be so obviously betraying the hopes of his comrades by refusing. But, despite the pain… “I cannot bring myself to take up the Regalia.”

“Ingwe…”

Somehow, the sorrow in Ecthelion’s voice – risen to the surface now – hurt the young man the most.

“None here doubt your courage in battle, or your sense of responsibility off it. We know of the insecurities you bear in yourself… but I had hoped that our show of support would help you overcome them…”

“… for which I thank you… thank you.” Clearing his throat of sobs and his eyes of tears, Ingwe looked up to match everybody present with a gentle and clear gaze. “But I must be honest to myself… and my heart tells me that, despite the honour, I am not ready for this.

“When I left Nippon a year ago, I was aware not only of my strength as a warrior, but also just how insignificant it was in the wider world. Since then, I know I have grown, largely thanks to the efforts of those who have been kind enough to mentor me.” The young man smiled as he finally locked gazes with first Glorfindel, then Telchar and Ecthelion. It was a wistful smile, a sorrowful smile. “I have also witnessed those with great power seek to destroy the world as we know it, and the lives of many innocents lost in the process. I fought against that power with all I had, and in the process I grew some more. I have no intention of becoming the very evil I fight… but I have learnt that the path to purgatory is paved with the best of intentions.”

Ingwe paused briefly to breathe, averting his eyes to the lone candle. How he sympathised with it, blown willy-nilly at the whim of every last happening that occurred in its surroundings, but striving to burn bright and beautiful nonetheless.

“It is my firm belief that if you have the power to do something then, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem, you should do it. It is that very belief that brought me to join the Legion in the first place. But at the same time, power corrupts. Excessive power destroys even that what we might wish to defend. Never use a cannon to kill a mosquito… save it for the enemy giant.” The descriptive metaphor from his homeland schooling brought small smiles to one or two of the battle-hardened faces around him, and Ingwe took heart from the fact that the wisest amongst their number seemed to be accepting of his choice. He drew a deep breath, then stated, “I do not honestly believe that we need this power yet. Used at the right time, in the right place, it will save many lives… but the price will not be cheap.”

“You refer to the doom of Raiaera?” Ecthelion asked bluntly, and of a sudden the eyes of the Elves in the room grew steely and cold. Nobody wished to hear of such dire predictions; Ingwe knew that much hung on his next words.

“Great power will be replied to with even greater power… if we squander the Regalia where it is not needed, then Xem’zund will seek to crush us with all his might… and that may indeed prove to be the doom of this realm. Prophecy or not, we must bear this in mind… I merely counsel restraint until the appropriate time.”

Ingwe drew one last breath, his mind now made up and committed to the path ahead.

“Should there be a time of dire necessity in the future when you are willing to grant me this honour once again, then I will gladly accept. Until then, my heart bids me to refuse, no matter what you say. I hope that you can embrace my decision with the same kindness you have shown me thus far.”

He managed to keep his voice from choking until the very end, but when he’d finally finished speaking his mind it was as if some invisible threshold had been breached. Unable to face the inevitable disappointment any longer, but determined to maintain his dignity for as long as possible, the young man bowed solemnly to the assembled authorities and then turned for the exit to the chamber. His exit from the scene was stately and purposeful, and those who remained admired him greatly for it.

Only when he left did they let out their collective breaths.

And that is why it must be you… Ecthelion of the Ivory Spire breathed to the young man’s retreating back, apologising in a mental sigh for the lengths he had gone to. Out loud, however, his words were once again simple and direct.

“There is no dissension, then?”

There was none, as Ecthelion had hoped would be the case. The Regalia would pass to Ingwe without contention, and the legend of the Tella’karythar would spread… first in whispers, then in leaps and bounds, until it united as one the scattered survivors of Xem’zund’s reign of terror. The Star Pantheon would be pleased with the results of his endeavours.

For the first time that night, Ecthelion allowed himself to relax.

[Flames of Hyperion]

Lord Ecthelion sought me out later last night to explain his actions. While there is a part of me that still rankles at what he did, his experience in political matters far outstrips mine, and I can understand why he felt the need to stage such an elaborate ceremony. His last words were to inform me that the offer would still be valid when, in the future, I require the power.

For now I will not dwell on why it is I, and not Prince Turgon or Glorfindel, or any of the others present, that is to be granted with this honour. What frightens me most is that he speaks of this future not as a possibility, but as a certainty.

I have never been the greatest believer in prophecies. I would only trust in my daily fortune, as recited to me every morning by my more oracular-inclined classmates back in the Toho Academy, when it was a favourable one. If it spoke of ill fortune or trouble, I would put in extra effort to ensure that the forecast tragedy never came to pass. More often than not, I was successful… or, rather, the fortune was simply never to be in the first place. In retrospect perhaps, for exactly those reasons, the majority of fortunes that were true for me were of an auspicious nature.

I wonder if the same logic can be applied to ancient prophecies, especially those of dire import. Somehow I doubt it greatly… but it has to be worth a try, has it not?

It has been so long now since I last thought of home. I suppose that I should be grateful that the swelling tides of war help to keep such thoughts from my mind, but every now and again, on lonely sleepless nights like these, the melancholy almost overwhelms me. At this time of year in Nippon, the cherry blossoms would be budding, in preparation for the annual festival of delicate pink petals flowing like snowdrops upon spring’s first warm breeze. For once in the year, thoughts of work would be abandoned in favour of enjoying their beauty, for their presence is but fleeting – an ephemeral paradise so easily lost – and within a week they lie strewn upon the ground beneath branches now graced by the first pale green growths of the new spring.

Am I to become a cherry blossom in this distant foreign land, destined to flower so briefly to pave the way for a more lasting peace? It would not be a bad way to go, I suppose.

My only real regret would be that I have yet to speak to you, Yuka, and that I am unable still to find a way of properly expressing my feelings for you. I feel so close, and yet so far away… I know you better than to suspect you of willingly collaborating in Xem’zund’s cause, but I have no idea of the circumstances that drove you onto their side. At least when I feel homesick I feel pain… when I think of you now, there is naught but an aching void where my heart used to be, longing to be filled with your presence.

… haha. There I go again.

Long ago when I made up my mind to search for you against all the odds, I steeled myself against the possibility that I would never see you again. And I resolved that, no matter what, I would keep walking forwards… that I would do my best never to give up or look behind me… that I would always do my best to go down fighting.

Nights like these, entries like this, remind me that I still have a long way to go. But at least I’m trying, and I think I’ve been rewarded for it. Despite all that’s happened, I have after all managed to glimpse your face once again. There may yet be hope for me… maybe. We’ll see.

Dawn is coming, Yuka. Winter is over, and the dread chill of its icy grip melts in the basking glow of the hope that has been rekindled in this land. Spring is coming, season of warm winds and beautiful cherry blossoms… a spring that may well decide the fate of us all.

I am not afraid of death. Everything that lives must eventually die. This is true, whether of people or of animals, or even of realms.

I know this. But that does not mean that I have to simply accept it. I will not sit idly by to watch death happen. Neither will I allow myself to become the catalyst for such an ending.

I will not allow you to fall into darkness. I will not allow Raiaera to collapse beneath the weight of those who seek to despoil it. I will not fail to protect all that is dear to me… my friends, my comrades, my loves, and my dreams. Not while I yet draw breath.

Not while I yet draw breath.

~ Entry in Ingwe’s Book of Travels

Spoils: Ingwe gains the Regalia Valora as described in this thread. May his soul burn in hellfire if he ever seeks to defy the restrictions placed upon it there.