So I was rampaging through Krystara of an evening, as one does, with stout Gorgotha in the vanguard, my pet Giant Spider (named Horace), my Alchemist (her name’s Sarah but she will insist on wearing that damnable false beard)… And yours truly, masterfully directing affairs with the faithful wands of Sun and of Moon…
And who should we stumble upon but a veritable seething festering hovel of enmity in, of all places, hallowed Whitehelm, where the Lady Archon Mercy awaited with her forces… A rival Gorgotha (not quite as large or as pretty as mine, but a hulk of burning rocky threat just the same)… and behind them, crowned in flames, the Infernal King and the fire wyrm Sheggra… Seems I disturbed their barbecue and they responded with violence most prejudicial…
Opening exchanges went as planned, as I gathered energies of many colours to my faithful band, unleashing the flashing wrath of Sun and Moon in waves of iridescent lights, drawing on the darkness spawned by beloved Horace in alternate turns with the gleaming energies fashioned by Sarah’s alchemy (yeah the beard is really misleading, I know)… Mercy crowed her words of valediction but it availed her little and soonest enough all our foes writhed weakened and seared by my masterful magicks, whilst I grew ever in stature and puissance, swelled by the ancient lores coursing through my outstretched palms…
Yet fate is whimsical indeed, these days, with the withdrawal from Krystara of the surety of the Breaker of Combos (we miss her dearly), and as I drew forth strength for a final, all-shattering blast to clear away the foes… There came a most unexpected flux in the hues and vagaries of magics and suddenly the enemy Archon rose on her white wings and sang again (Mercy, my backside, she’s never been merciful much to the likes of me)… Her will empowered her daemonic minions and Gorgotha let loose a cannoning blast… Chaos ensued and both the Infernal King and Sheggra spewed storms of fire and destruction upon us, again and again in incessant cascades of lava and flame and raging blows, aided again and again by unforgiving twists in the aether granting unearthly vigour, power and rapidity to my shaken foes…
When finally the roar of the volcano ceased and the smoke cleared, I stood alone, scorched yet unbowed, with my Gorgotha shattered, my dear Horace crushed, my beloved Sarah fled with her beard aflame… Alone I stood, charred and battered, with desolation nagging at my heart, in eerie silence punctured only by the metallic tang of my plate armour cooling from the hellish heat which it had barely protected me from… My foes glowered, sensing victory was near and Mercy loomed above in vengeful pride…
But she had forgotten one fatal truth… For I am the Follower Of The Sword… I have eschewed honour in long forgotten days, I have forsaken my kin and driven away my allies in my sole pursuit of power at any cost (I might think differently now Sarah is on the scene, but hey we were all young once)… For I am Jainus, and I do not lose…
Angels and daemons and red dragons surrounded me, drawn in by my frailty, sensing blood and longing for the final strike, the killing blow, and yet by claw or by blade or by rock-hewn fist it did not come… There at the last, with the last dying breaths of the Whitehelm sun, I reached forth and sought again the golden energies, and there at the last, the wildness of the flux hissed and flashed and crackled again in my favour, for even such randomness heeds my will at the end of days…
And hence with Sun and with Moon, the gilded wand and the pale one of night, I loosed one last cast, one last shimmering wave of wrath… And my foes all perished together, the last sparks of their souls twinkling in futility, bound in their demise as they were bound in their bonds of battle… And victory was, as ever, mine…
