The cold iron of Nicodemas’s armor bit into his side, a side effect of having been battered and beaten by more swords, arrows, hammer blows, and shields than he should have lived through. The blood of those who bore the weapons still dripped from the plate and chain buckled down to his body.

From atop Durgor Nicodemas stood staring at the remnants of his last battalion being washed away by the wave of his enemies. He watched as the bodies were piled high around his tower en masse, unable to stem the tide of the elven forces crashing through his lands.

As the doors to the tower were breached, and the explosion of magical wards placed on them echoed in the towers ramparts, a feeling of deep regret came over Nicodemas. There was so much hope and conviction in what he had striven, for so long, to accomplish. Now there was nothing but a few magical traps to stop an army from toppling what had taken 30 years to build.

Nicodemas turned away from the edge of the tower’s pinnacle, stepping defiantly, yet unnervingly aloof of the arrows which rained down from winged attackers whose griffon mounts wheeled overhead. As the arrows fell, Nicodemas strode to the center of the tower, slowly taking the worn, leather gloves from his hands. He took what seemed like an age to stare at his calloused hands, hands that had grown worn by time and use. There had been a time when those hands were lithe and dexterous, capable of creating musical wonders and weaving potent magic. Now all these hands were suited for was the grip of an axe and sword, for killing, not for beauty.

Nicodemas drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, replacing the gloves over his hands. Gytax landed at his side, the hungry look of a predator now turned prey could be seen in his eyes, but was never-the-less loyal to his master, whom gripped the drake’s reins and began mounting himself on the back of the winged, dragonoid creature. A crash at the door of the roof signaled the arrival of his guests, the first of which quickly caught the sharp end of a drake’s claw. Good old Gytax, the rider thought.

The old warlord, in his rent armor of blackened iron, and the drake took to the air in what was to be the final watching of Durgor, the Tower of Black Stone. The passing was bittersweet, and the old human could do nothing but stare as he and his mount wheeled one last time in the air around the tower. With the griffons in the air, it would be hard enough to escape, but lingering to be the bait of keen elven archers was not worth a third glance.

Master and mount were joined by a trio of drakes, who warded off flame and claw and arrow, and covered the escape into the smoky sky.