An aged figure steps into a postal office, a package and letter in hand. Leaning heavily on his staff, he sets the items on the counter, as well as some gold, with a soft smile. He sends off his packages, and drifts off into the evening sun, carefully climbing onto a dark feathered gryphon, the pair flying off. The sea spray air of Kultiras always brought a smile to his face, memories slowly fading, even as he lands. He removes the bridal and saddle from the Gryphon, running his hand through its head feathers one last time, before commanding it to leave. The beast looks mournfully to its friend, nuzzling him but nodding in understanding, turning and flying off, free and without fear. He smiles, moving to the docks, buying a small boat, and paddling out to a distant island. His strength held for now, the waves rocking the little craft, but by some miracle, he lands upon the shore.

He smiles, looking over the nearly barren island, all that remains is an ancient looking house, made of stone and clay, and a chair, carved from a dark wood. He moves to the home, now barren and nearly fallen in on itself. He carefully moves through the ruin, moving a rock to the side, finding a small bottle of brown liquid. He chuckles, hobbling back toward the entrance as the sounds of the building beginning to collapse. He manages to slip outside before the ruins seems to crumble away, now a simple pile of stone from a bygone age. He nods, smiling as he moves to the chair, stabbing the staff into the sand, and taking a seat. He looks out toward the slowly setting sun, pulling the cork from the bottle.

A package arrives at the home of one Arialyn Dawnbringer, Signed with the name of the strange old man who joined her Templars during the Legion attack a few years prior. She looks to the package a moment, before opening and beginning to read.

The letter becomes a little harder to read as it nears the end, but can still be made out.

“Justiciar, no…. Arialyn, so used to calling you that, I think you might miss it in these days of peace. To refresh your memory of me, my name is Darion Ebonglen, or as some knew me, the Gray Knight. You were one of the few people who I told my secret, of my extended life, and of the creature who forced immortality upon me. You were disturbed, as many would be, I am writing you this letter, after disappearing again as I often do, with good news. ”

I am dieing. But before i explain, some context, I never told you the whole story. I am old, to give you an idea in a history you may know, I fought against the Amani and their allies in what was called…the Troll wars. My brother was among the chosen to learn magic from the elves after that great climactic battle, the other is the priest i believe you knew as Father Lockwood, but began his time as a sneaky type. We three were of no real importance, A theif, a warrior, and a doctor….sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.

We heard a rumor, some years after the war was over, of a group of hooded people kidnapping villagers, so the three of us investigated. We found the fiends and what they were doing, sacrificing people to fill this strange three handled chalice. It was too large to carry alone, so we each grabbed a handle, and that was the moment, this force gripped our souls, and changed us. We did not learn the nature of the change until later, through dreams we learned that for every wicked or good soul we helped cross over, we would be given life. It was too late before we realized it saw our natures, and knew what we would do, and it fed. For thousands of years we have lived, fighting in nearly every war in some capacity for the last few centuries, having to leave every few years, only returning when we were sure no one alive would remember us. So many of those years blur passed me, but once the orcs came, it all changed.

From there i imagine you know much of the story, a thousand years passed like so many moments, but those last years, they were so…slow. So filled with events and wars, demons, old gods, new dimensions and the near breaking of the world so many times. And then, death was open to us, the shadowlands, the place that…thing was from. We spent our time doing as he always did, my brothers researched and planned, and I fought. Eventually we managed to find our way to its little corner of the shadowlands, a pocket dimension where it had been feeding from our every victory, every defeat, every death around us. It was formless, a mass of energy and souls devoid of empathy or care. It laughed as we demanded it release us from its bonds, revealing it planned to take an Automa creation, and forge itself a body capable of traversing the shadowlands. We could not let it escape.

The battle was grueling, and we fought as one, as we so often have. In the course of the battle, it syphoned our lives, all those years it gave us, and by the time we destroyed it, we were spent. Mortal once again, with the years of a thousand lifetimes catching up to us, I do apologize for my poor penmanship, the eyes are fading. My time is short, and I hear the shadowlands are on the mend, and that true peace is on the horizon. I hope you enjoy it, we have both fought too long and hard not to have enjoyed some peace.

I have no living children, my youngest brother returned to his family home in Gilneas, and burned with it. The other passed in his sleep, with a book in his lap, in that little clinic behind the Shady lady. And I have made a little place, facing the sunset, where I depart to now. We had eventful lives, we will enjoy quiet, boring ends.

Attached to this letter, are two items for you, or rather…for the next generation. A sword forged and reforged time and time again, the core is of an ancient Wrought Iron, now a reinforced steel that can face any foe. As well as a Shield, bareing the mark of Tirisfal, though faded to nearly nothing now. It too has been repaired and reforged, takes hits like a champion, and not too heavy. If you should find someone, worthy to defend this world, I ask you give them these. Or hold them for your children, you mentioned them once before. I hope they never have to use them, but its best to be prepared.

My time serving with your group, this.. Vanguard has been a true honor. The memory of me will fade, as it always has. But so long as one person, remembers the ol Gray Knight, that is legacy enough. 

Be well, and be happy. 


A figure stands beside the man on the beach, conjuring up a chair, the sands forming into a simple seat. The bronze dragon, taking the form of a human, looks to Darion and chuckles “Do forgive my intrusion on the end of your story friend, its not every day a living piece of history dies.”

Darion chuckles, taking a long swig of the bottle, coughing and looking at it “Four hundred year old rum, not my best idea… but worth it.” He looks to the dragon, then to the sunset “I remember you dragon, Musondormu, you were the one who wanted to record my tale…” He chuckles taking another swig.

The dragon nods, taking out a leather bound book, opening it to the last page “And it has been a wonder to record, The Gray Knight, finds peace at last.” He laughs a little and nods, looks out to the sunset as well. “Any final words, to mark your stories end?”

Darion finishes the bottle, setting it into the sand as he lets his body relax, go slack, as the sunset lowers with his eyes.

“No, I don’t think I do…”

A few moments pass, as the last light leaves the sky, the starts filling the empty space. The dragon looks to the side with a soft sigh, as the body of Darion Ebonglen, crumbles away into dust, drifting of into the wind.

Author Scond
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