Why do I mention this? Because I managed to tie for second place in my office’s costume party, of course. It took a little explaining, though. “A hobbit?” was perhaps the closest guess I got out of my non-roleplaying coworkers. Other misguided guesses included Friar Tuck and a Jedi. Oh well, you can’t blame them for trying. Honestly, I was a little flattered that they thought I looked like a Jedi.

Those with a bit of inside knowledge would not have hesitated to identify me as an elf (the ears are a dead giveaway). Perhaps if I could have pulled off a better Orlando Bloom, it wouldn’t have been so confusing to the non-geeks. Of course, a real geek would have pointed out that I must have been a half-elf, because of course elves can’t grow facial hair. It would be a fair assessment, and I wouldn’t have minded, especially considering I wasn’t about to shave my mustache off for that full elf look.

Some of you may remember that I was once arrested for wearing my geeky costume, so I would advise caution even during Halloween. Our kind, from the humble tabletop RPG geek to MMORPG geek to the full-blown LARPing geek, are misunderstood at best. If you give them too much geekiness at once, they might just give you a $25 gift certificate to Chili’s.

As it turns out, the answer is no. Dominion, as evidenced by the nonexistent website, is stillborn. According to posts I read before it went down, the project lead had been up to his old neglectful/abrasive ways when he finally admitted to being a drug addict and officially quit gaming all together. As a member of the gaming community at large, I think we’re better off. Incidentally, not mentioning his name in this post is the only courtesy I care to extend to him, although I’m sure my fellow TALAN players will know who I’m talking about.

Speaking of TALAN, I was very surprised to see it back up and running. Well, perhaps not running, but at least showing signs of life. The TALAN website has apparently been revamped, although there doesn’t appear to be much in the way of actual content. I also noticed the president posting on the local D&D meetup about upcoming events. Whether or not he’s managed to garnish any interest after the part he played in its breakdown, I couldn’t say. I’m not going to hold my breath.

As always, part of me can’t help but hope that, one day, everyone will be able to put the whole ordeal behind them and have fun again. Realistically, I doubt that will ever happen. Like everyone else, I am forced to give a heavy, nostalgic sigh and move on with my life.

As a side note, I managed to find some old TALAN friends’ blogs while I was looking for news on the defunct LARP. Jeni was my plot person for a time and definitely one of the few level-headed TALAN personnel. Barton was probably one of the best players at the game, and the one who first introduced me to professional boffer weaponry.

I decided to give this LARP a go primarily due to proximity. One of the local chapters holds games in a park right down the road from where I live, keeping my driving time to a minimum. Since this was also the park in which I played TALAN, I had some familiarity with the layout as well. Deciding that convenience was more important to me than other factors, I sent an email asking for more information.

Generally speaking, I was very pleased with the response I received. It was a breath of fresh air to get my questions answered in a thorough and prompt manner. This was definitely a deviation from the unresponsiveness and neglect to which I had become accustomed from TALAN. I was somewhat dismayed that more information wasn’t available about the game system itself, but my interest was certainly piqued. I decided to take the next step and actually attend the event being held that weekend. Here are the details of my experience.

Action (2/5)

Not to begin the review on a sour note, but the action was sparse and scattered. There were perhaps a half dozen encounters throughout the entire weekend. I had heard my friends stating that Avalon wasn’t very focused on combat, and that seems to hold true. Rather than rotating player duty as random monsters and NPCs, Avalon features dedicated NPCs and player volunteerism. Granted, I’m not one to think that fighting is all that LARPing is about, but this seemed on the light side to me. Point in fact, the worst thing you can ever do in a game like this is keep your players bored.

Cinematics (4/5)

What Avalon lacked in action it made up for in cinematics. These people love their costuming. On my second go as an NPC, I was smeared in black body paint, decorated with red eye designs, and tied to two other players with the same appearance. While the encounters were sparse, they were quite interesting and memorable. There were horrific narratives and interesting plot twists to satisfy a literary critic’s appetite. If you don’t mind the wait, the staff at Avalon definitely put a lot of thought into their stories.

Organization (3/5)

My first impression was that the game was very well organized. There was paperwork to fill out, new player training, and even dedicated staff personnel with uniforms and headsets. I couldn’t help but get the impression that I was on a big movie set.

Unfortunately, all of this organization broke down at several points throughout the game. The weekend was, unfortunately, quite rainy and exceedingly muddy, making the decision to close the main lodge for several hours on Saturday afternoon an unfortunate one, especially when it didn’t appear that any work was actually being done on the inside. As a new player, I was kept waiting at length for a module (i.e. mini-adventure) because my fellow players were not properly informed to attend. The main encounter of Saturday night didn’t even get going until well after everyone had gone to sleep, leading to ineffective attempts at waking people up. This is to say nothing of the two-hour wait for everyone to check in on Friday night.

Still, Avalon’s organization is leaps and bounds ahead of every other LARP I’ve attended. Despite these setbacks, I’d say they handled their large player base quite well. There’s definitely room for improvement, especially where efficiency and timing are concerned, but all in all the game ran fairly smoothly.

Roleplaying (5/5)

If you go to Avalon for anything, go for the roleplaying. The staff and players alike seem to care deeply for what, in many LARPs, is something of a lost art form. Even as a new character, I had some of the most enriching and memorable roleplaying experiences of my life at Avalon. Despite its drawbacks, the game does a fantastic job of promoting in-game play and really immersing you in your character. If you care more about the fun of being someone else and less about beating down random monsters, this is the game for you.

Game System (3/5)

It is unfortunate that the game system was kept a complete mystery from me up until the moment I got to make my character. Why they have this level of obfuscation, I really couldn’t say, but it makes the experience of being a new player all the more difficult.

Once engaged in the system itself, I found it to be dauntingly complex. Every special combat maneuver or spell requires two- or three-word declarations that I didn’t find to be at all intuitive. According to several players, the game itself features over 1,500 spells, and the fighting systems are equally as detailed. It is obvious that this game has been around for awhile, and that it has added features to accommodate its large and varied audience.

Of course, I don’t necessarily see this as a very bad thing. Most of the game systems in which I play are quite complex at first. This is, naturally, very intimidating to new players, but very liberating to those who have a handle on things. If I were to get into it further, I’m sure I would find that to be the case.

Overall Gameplay (3/5)

Over all, Avalon struck me as a slightly above-average LARP. Like most, it has issues dealing with logistics en masse. My largest criticism would be the long waits for something to happen. When you look around the main lodge and see a dozen players falling asleep, you know the wait for action is too long.

Perhaps the most negative experience I had, however, was getting killed by players at my first game. I don’t blame the game staff for this, of course, but I found it to be a big drain on my fun. Thankfully the death system is very forgiving, or else I probably would have left on the spot. As I’ve said before, I hate PvP, and I was very dismayed to see that it was such an active element in Avalon. That there were actually in-play ramifications was nice, but it would have been nicer if they had actually seen resolution.

The game had its merits, of course. When something did happen, it played out like a movie, complete with heavy plot and cinematics. Between those instances, I had fun getting to know the other characters, many of whom were roleplayed like pros. Still, even the best roleplaying in the world can’t keep one’s attention for hours, and the lack of much else to do made for long stretches of boredom.

Perhaps I’m being too harsh and the perfect LARP simply doesn’t exist. All in all, I would recommend this LARP over my previous one, as Avalon does a much better job in almost every respect. I don’t see myself getting into it, though, partly due to real-life considerations and partly due to personal preferences. I still count it as a worthwhile experience, however, and may return to play at some later date.

By the simplest definition, a boffer LARP is a LARP in which fighting with boffer weapons is a primary aspect of the game. Boffer weapons are replica medieval weapons, such as sword, maces, and the like, that are constructed from foam or latex. Naturally, getting hit with one of these is quite safe, with the worst injuries generally limited to minor bruising or welts. In fact, the sport of boffer fighting is often regarded as safer than most modern team sports.

As I’ve mentioned before, I was initially dubious about boffer LARPing. Having been a die-hard tabletop and video gamer, the idea of dressing up in funny clothes and going at other players with padded piping and hacky sacks was very alien to me. Nonetheless, when I finally gave it a try, I was immediately hooked, due in no small part to the realism of getting attacked with a boffer weapon.

Though my first boffer LARP has since ended, I am now looking forward to new LARPs in the near future. In anticipation of playing, I recently put in an order for my very first high-end boffer sword from Iron Liege, pictured right. Greg, the man who runs the site, is a friend of mine and a fantastic artist when it comes to creating boffer weapons. I only hope I’ll be able to do the sword justice when it comes time to use it in play.

My experience with this boffer LARP began in late spring of 2004, around the time of my graduation from college. My brother had been attending for several months and urged me to join him. I was admittedly skeptical, having until that time indulged only in tabletop RPGs and non-combat LARPs. Still, the game had a unique appeal and I decided to be open-minded enough to try something new.

To say that it was love at first sight would be a massive understatement. I was taken from my world of pens, paper, and dice and plunged headlong into a living fantasy. Suddenly I wasn’t imagining being waylayed by bandits or engaging in epic melees. The action was real to see and hear, and my character’s responses were my own. For any long-time gamer, it was an intoxicating experience.

I continued with TALAN as best I could for well over the following year, even participating in the ill-fated winter games when we had no park in which to play. It really didn’t matter a great deal, since it’s hard not to roleplay when you’re dressed up in medieval garb. Until near the end, I couldn’t get enough of it.

Even during downtime between games, I was constantly excited at the prospect of next month’s adventures. I wrote several stories about my character, Alderin Archias, including Fontana’s Gift, The Fall of King’s Crossing, The Dying of the Light, Ode to the Comedy of King’s Crossing, Flame of the Heavens (Part One), and Flame of the Heavens (Part Two). All of these, except the last two, were actually acted out in play before I ever wrote them down. Yes, I actually did write a song and sing it in front of a medieval banquet hall. To anyone who knows me, this is an almost unbelievable occurrence, and a strong testament to my love of the game.

It wasn’t destined to last, however. TALAN recently fell on hard times, partly due to bad politics between the game masters and partly due to player fallout. It is a shame, really, as the game rightfully could have persisted for many years to come. Looking at the blank game website, though, one can’t help but face the sad truth that it’s gone and will likely never return. The fantasy has become nothing more than a memory. I lament the fact that I will never get another chance to play Alderin, that I will never have a chance to share the end of his story with the other TALAN players.

I, for one, will cherish the time I spent at TALAN. It opened my eyes to a grander way of gaming that I won’t soon forget. With any luck, there will be a new LARP on the horizon. I only hope to see my fellow players there so that I can share in the good times with them again.

If any of my old friends from TALAN happen upon this post, please feel free to leave a message through the comment form below and tell me how you’re doing. Just because the game is over never means that our friendships should be.

The zombie’s cryptic words had been his only clue since departing the ancient kingdom. He had journeyed to the Northlands once before, and could think of no better description than “the heart of ice.” Already he was having difficulty remembered what his toes felt like. The thought that it was only turning autumn here made him appreciate the bitter cold the Northmen must endure during the winter. Perhaps, somewhere in the Northern Kingdom, he might find someone who knew where to find “the Flame of the Heavens.”

Alderin stopped momentarily, lifting his hood to check his direction against the sun. Then, a cry echoed through the air. It seemed ethereal, almost haunting, and spoke a sorrow that chilled Alderin’s heart deeper than the wastelands around him ever could. Without realizing how he knew or why, he sensed that a dear friend was despairing. “Va’kellius,” Alderin whispered into the wastes. “I’m sorry.”

With a heavy heart, Alderin pressed on. He tried his best not to think what could have caused his friend’s stalwart soul so much pain, but could not deny the conclusion that Evandria, princess of Elendor and beloved wife of Va’Kellius, must now be dead. Life in Lohathlehan would never be the same, if indeed he ever made it back. As he walked, the cold no longer seemed to bother, locked as he was in his own silent mourning.

As the sun drew low on the horizon, Alderin decided it would be best to stop for the night. He set up his tent in the shadow of one of the larger hills, hoping it might afford him some protection against the biting winds. “Cr… creo ignem,” he incanted through chattering teeth, conjuring a ball of magical flame to warm his hands. “How do the Northmen do it?” he muttered to himself, drawing a strip of icy-cold jerky from his pack and sticking it over the flame to thaw.

All that Alderin had heard for the past few weeks were the sounds of the empty wastes. In the frozen tundra, nothing but wind and ice broke the silence. Thus, Alderin jumped when he heard voices whispering nearby. He wasted no time, grabbing his staff and dousing the flame. He was immediately plunged into darkness.

He rose out of his tent, trying his best to be stealthy even while his boots crunched the snow. He stopped, listening hard. The voices had grown silent when the light of his flame had gone out. “Whoever they are, they’re either curious,” Alderin thought seriously, “or dangerous. I shouldn’t take any chances.”

“Salio sursum,” he incanted as quietly as possible, but his spell cut through the silence like a knife. He felt his legs tense and, with a great heave, he leapt higher into the air than humanly possible. He landed a moment later atop the hill, immediately swinging around to look for his foes. His position offered him some view of the surroundings and, as his eyes adjusted, he spied three hulking, shadowy figures crouched several feet from his tent.

“Who goes there?” Alderin said loudly. They had surely seen him already, so revealing his position was no longer a concern. The figures rose slowly, seeming to whisper uncertainly to one another, but gave no answer.

“Show yourself,” Alderin demanded, drawing a stone from his component pouch. “Creo lucem,” he incanted before they could offer up a response, tossing the stone to the bottom of the hill as it began to glow with magical light.

All three of the Northmen were taken aback to be revealed so suddenly. Alderin knew at once that he was in grave peril. The three wore black furs and necklaces laced with bone. The sharpened edges of their axes gleamed in the light. Admittedly, Alderin would have felt intimidated if he didn’t already know by their dress that they were Vulf. The tribe was notorious for its cruelty. “Oh how happy Aridreki would be to be here right now,” Alderin thought with grim joviality as the three raised their axes, devilish grins playing across their faces.

Without further hesitation, they charged. “Ferio fulmine!” Alderin yelled, casting a bolt of magical energy at the first. His shot landed true, knocking the Northman off his feet and sending him tumbling back down the hill. As his body rolled to the bottom, he lay motionless.

His companions, however, barely noted the loss, roaring battle cries as they rapidly ascended the hill. Axes cleaved out at Alderin, one catching his staff with a resounding, metallic clang. The other, however, caught him cleanly in the arm. Alderin yelled out in agony as pain shot through his entire body.

“Evanesco confestim!” he forced the spell through gritted teeth, knowing that any break in his concentration would mean death. Before the next strikes could connect, he vanished in a flash of light.

The two remaining Vulf looked around in confusion, talking frantically in a language Alderin didn’t understand. He had appeared a moment later only a few feet away, crouching low in the shadow of his own light spell. He knew the ruse wouldn’t last long, though.

He winced in pain, holding back a cry of anguish as he clasped the wound on his right arm. It was deep, too deep. With his limited understanding of the healing arts, he could stop the bleeding, but more potent spells would be required to restore movement and feeling. “Damn,” he thought desperately to himself, lamenting the fact that he hadn’t thoroughly practiced off-hand spellcasting. It would be difficult to hit one of them with a spell now, and impossible to take them both down at once.

“No choice,” he whispered to himself as one of the Northmen finally turned to search in his direction. “Ferio fulmine!” he repeated the spell, popping out of concealment and blasting the Vulf at close range. Luck, it seemed, was with him as the Northman’s body flew backward, knocking his companion off balance.

It was only a momentary advantage, but it was all Alderin needed. “Teneo corporem,” he incanted, emanating waves of debilitating blue energy from his outstretched hand. As the Northman rose, his body came to a stop as if he were frozen in an invisible block of ice.

Alderin slumped to the ground, overwhelmed by the pain of combat. Fresh blood trickled down his right forearm, which lay limply at his side. “Reficio corporem,” he whispered, holding the wound and concentrating. The pain subsided, and he breathed a sigh of relief. As he expected, however, the damage was too extensive; try as he might, the arm would not move.

Alderin rose, surveying the results of his handiwork. Eldritch Bolts were meant to kill their targets, and they had done the trick against two of the Northmen. The third, however, was still very much alive. Alderin walked over to him slowly and looked him in the eye. The expression he saw there, however, was far from the look of rage he had expected. In fact, the Northman seemed elated as he stared unblinkingly back at Alderin, as if amused by a private joke.

“The necklaces!” Alderin screamed, whirling about at the two corpses to see them rising to their feet. The bone-laden necklaces about their necks glowed with the black radiance of Necromancy. In the back of his mind, Alderin heard the words of his teacher Ignatious. “A wizard must have attention to detail.”

The undead Northmen grabbed their axes and began lumbering toward Alderin. Though slow and mindless, Alderin doubted his ability to take them down for a second time. “I need a distraction and a quick escape,” he thought frantically, inadvertently backing into the third, immobile Northman.

Alderin smiled at his own ingenuity as he ducked behind the motionless brute. With his uninjured arm, he shook the man from behind, making it appear, however crudely, that he were still moving. Predictably, his undead companions moved in for the kill. He would have three roving zombies to deal with in a moment, but that’s all the time he needed to make an escape.

As the Northmen murdered their own defenseless compatriot, Alderin made a mad dash for his tent. He’d have to leave a few things behind in his haste, but it was a small price to pay for his life. He hefted his pack onto the shoulder of his good arm and, grabbing up his staff, fled the scene.

After perhaps an hour of brisk jogging, Alderin stopped. If they had been accomplished trackers in life, his pursuers were little more than animated corpses now, no more able to follow him than a tree. He was sure they would wander the wastelands aimlessly for a time until the enchantment faded and they became ordinary dead bodies again. Still, the attack had taken its toll. He was now crippled, tentless, and lacking many of his supplies. If journeying the arctic had been difficult before, he wondered how he would make due now.

That night was the harshest Alderin had yet experienced. He dared not create another fire for fear that other Northmen might be about and, without any shelter from the wind, the cold bit deep. He huddled in a tight ball, attempting to conserve as much warmth as possible, and eventually drifted off to sleep.

The morning light brought little solace from the chill. Alderin struggled at first to stand, exhausted as he was from shivering all night. His extremities were pale and numb. Even gripping his staff with his working hand was a feat. “No choice but to keep going,” he repeated the mantra, though he knew his situation had become bleak. He would need to find shelter soon, or the night would surely kill him. Even his magic wouldn’t be able to protect him.

So he trekked onward, heading north as he had been the whole time. He had no idea where he was or what might lie ahead, so it was just as good a choice as any. As the day stretched on, however, and the strain of his weakened state began to take its toll, nothing but featureless tundra could be seen. Desperation began to set in as Alderin pressed his worn body forward, knowing that it could not endure much longer.

As the sun fell and night came, Alderin stood defeated, unable to take another step. The chill wind roared past him, as if it were the voice of the tundra itself celebrating its victory. The wastes would swallow him whole, leaving nothing behind but a frozen corpse buried in the snow. He watched as the sun disappeared on the horizon and felt a bitter determination well up within him.

He swayed slightly in the wind, his vision swimming, knowing that he would soon pass out. “The Light has abandoned me,” he said aloud, gazing at where the sun had been moments before. “It cannot keep back the darkness.”

Slowly, his footing precarious, he turned around, staring in the opposite direction with a crazed clarity. “You may have driven back the Light,” he said, addressing the darkness directly, “but I will never yield.” Without warning, he tilted back his head and yelled across the expanse. “Do you hear that!? You will never defeat me!!!” His proclamation echoed through the void.

He clenched his good arm, raising it into the air. “Ferio flamine!” he incanted as a ball of flame erupted from his hand. It soared skyward, setting the tundra temporarily alight before it burst some ways off. As the darkness returned a moment later, Alderin fell backward, landing lightly in the snow. He stared up at the stars and, overwhelmed by his exertions, fell unconscious.

All sense of time vanished as Alderin slept. Distantly, he felt the world passing around him. Voices spoke in hushed tones and lights moved about, but he took little notice. Groggily, he wondered if he was dead. A sensation of wholeness and warmth rushed over him, and he opened his eyes.

“I’m… alive?” he asked aloud. He could feel his heart beating in his chest. When he breathed, he could smell the faint odor of stew cooking on a nearby fire. He sat up, inadvertently pushing several heavy pelts off of him.

His surroundings were no longer the bleak, unforgiven arctic, but rather a cozy cottage with a roaring fire. He lay on a bed of stuff furs. In a nearby corner, his gear lay piled in a neat stack. “Where am I?” he wondered aloud.

“Papa, papa!” came a young girl’s voice from behind him. “He’s awake!” Alderin turned to see a young girl with long, dark hair beaming happily at him. From her dress, he could tell that she was of Northman decent, but knew instantly that she could not be Vulf.

“Hello,” he said tentatively, returning her smile and cocking his head in mild confusion. “Can you… tell me where I am?”

The girl giggled at him, but his answer came from behind her. “You are in the village of Austwick, my friend,” said a large man with a great, black beard and weather-beaten features. “And, from the looks of it, you’re a long way from home.” At this he laughed, a chesty guffaw that Alderin could help but chuckle at himself.

Alderin rose to a stand. As he did so, he instinctively used his right arm to steady himself, and was astonished to see that he could move it. He looked at the spot of the Vulf’s strike and saw that the wound had completely healed over.

“Ah yes,” the large Northman said, taking note of Alderin’s amazement as he approached. “The village healer said you were in very bad shape even before the cold took you. I wonder what such a frail foreigner was doing getting into trouble out there.”

Alderin laughed again, almost giddy at his luck for being found by these people. “It’s a long story,” he said.

“Good,” the Northman proclaimed, beaming. He gestured towards the fire place, where the daughter was ladling soup into several bowls. “We like long stories around here. Eat and tell us about it.”

So they sat and enjoyed what Alderin could only conclude must be spiced gravy of some sort. He told them where he was from and why he had come north in search of the Flame of the Heavens. The Northman listened intently, nodding his approval. As Alderin told of his victory over the Vulf, he let out a thunderous victory roar, patting the wizard on the back vigorously. The girl, all the while, sat in rapt attention at his tale.

As he concluded, the girl could barely contain herself. “You’re a wizard?” she asked in amazement. “A real wizard?”

Alderin smiled, realizing that magery was all but unknown to the Northman tribes. With a flick of his hand and a brief word, the three empty bowls flew into a neat pile by the fireplace. The girl jumped up and down with glee while Alderin and the Northman laughed.

“You are quite skilled, and your battle with the Vulf is most impressive,” the Northman said at length after his daughter had gone to bed. “More than that, though, I feel you are a good-hearted person.” Alderin was taken aback by the clarity and seriousness of the Northman’s words. “I am glad that I found you in the snow.”

At this, Alderin couldn’t help but ask, “How did you come to find me?”

“There was a light,” he said simply. “I was hunting and saw a flash in the distance. When I went to see what it was, I found you.”

Alderin smiled, realizing that the beacon that had led to his rescue was none other than the fireball spell he had cast in a fit of madness. “Do you know anything of the Flame of the Heavens?”

The Northman pondered the question for a moment, then answered. “No, I have not heard of such a thing. There is one who would know. He is a hermit, and lives in the mountains to the north. He sees many things. They say the winds whisper secrets to him. If anyone could answer your questions, it would be him.”

Alderin nodded his gratitude and the two sat in silence for some time. He pondered the direction his quest had taken. It had almost claimed his life once already, and may well do so again. To what length was he willing to go to find a way of defeating Xuthal, and what would he give up when he reached his goal? As he drifted off to sleep, he thought, “I got lucky this time. What if the next step is my last?”

It had not taken him long. In fact, on the night King’s Crossing had been destroyed, Alderin hadn’t spared a moment. He had gathered his belongings and left without so much as a word to his friends. He had walked without sleep or nourishment until he reached the capital and, without hesitation, had beseeched his teacher Ignatious Quarry for help.

At first it had seemed like the archmage was too preoccupied to notice Alderin’s heartfelt plea. Then, between his own frantic research, he had assured Alderin that help was indeed coming and that he should return to King’s Crossing and wait.

But the desperation in Alderin’s heart was simply too unbearable. How could he sit around and wait for the darkness to come when the Light and the Virtues themselves were impotent or unwilling to stop it? There had to be a way, some manner of magic, that could oppose the influence of Xuthal. And, from what he had seen, not even the great Ignatious knew of this.

Thus, he had spent the previous fortnight pouring over tomes in the Red Scholar library. He had heard tell of magics that could cancel out infernal energies. Only the greatest of mages dared experiment with it, however, for it entailed exposure to those same dark agencies that it promised to counter. One theory, however, burned in Alderin’s mind. To each its opposite. Why twist infernal magic against itself when its counterpart must already exist?

His search for this magic had been unfruitful. Alderin had expected as much; after all, if the library spoke of it, the Red Scholars would have already brought it to bear against Xuthal. No, he hadn’t expected to find what he was looking for, not exactly. But, in all of this lore, there must be a clue that might lead him to the knowledge he sought.

Alderin brushed several books aside in a fit of frustration, causing them to tumble to the floor. The commotion echoed throughout the silent hall. It was late, however, and not a soul stirred in response. Alderin felt as if he might weep. Then, beneath a fallen scroll, he spied a glimmer of hope. He hefted the book, “The Legends of the Crimson Cross,” and read the page. Maybe, just maybe, he would have his answers after all.

“Goodbye, my love. Be safe.” Alderin embraced Cassandra tightly and, kneeling down, kissed the forehead of his son. Without warning, the boy flung forward in a tearful hug. “I love you both with all my heart,” he said, beginning to tear up himself. “Don’t be afraid. I’ll be back before you know it.”

His words were a sweet lie on the ears of his son, who refused to let go until Cassandra pulled him away gently. He looked upon his wife for what could be the last time, memorizing her face. The two shared a final kiss and, for a blissful instant, Alderin forgot the troubled world in which they lived.

Knowing that remaining any longer would cause his resolve to falter, Alderin hefted his pack and turned to leave. As he did so, he heard his wife’s sweet voice coaxing the boy away with her to join the refugees in the capital. If safety was to be had in these dark times, Alderin felt certain that King Azlin’s finest would be the only ones who could offer it.

As he set out on the long road, Alderin assured himself of his purpose. “I’m doing this just as much for my family as I am for all of Castille,” he thought, bolstering his determination. “There’s no other choice. If I don’t, there’s no telling how far the darkness might spread.”

And so he journeyed into the wasting world. The legend he had read spoke of an ancient kingdom protected by the original Crimson Cross. It was said that they had done battle with Xuthal there and driven him from the mortal realm. The details were, of course, vague as to how this feat had been achieved, but some traces might still remain. Perhaps, in the ruined kingdom of ages past, he would find something that the other Red Scholars had overlooked.

As he walked through the civilized lands, he spied signs of the ongoing struggle. Smoke rose on the horizon, evidence of other towns that were suffering the same fate as his beloved King’s Crossing. Dark, unnatural clouds loomed in the sky, blanketing the land in shadows. The chill of an early winter hung in the air, even though the season had not yet even turned to autumn. Alderin realized with trepidation that the world was slowly dying around him.

As he passed beyond the boundaries of the civilized lands, the path grew all but nonexistent. It had probably been decades since any soul had journeyed this way, and centuries since the road had seen regular traffic. A clear patch of earth and the occassional piece of cut stone were all that indicated where a once sprawling highway had been.

The trek stretched on for days without end. And, although he regularly fortified his stamina with spells, Alderin found the distance to grow ever more wearisome. Idly, he mused at how impossible the trip would be without his magic. Rarely had he been so thankful of his diligent studies, for without his knowledge of magery he would have frayed clothing, worn boots, and no food but what he could scavenge.

After what seemed like a lonely, silent eternity on deserted roads, Alderin arrived at his destination. Ruined and toppled stone were the last monuments of a once thriving metropolis. The air here was eerily quiet, as if nature itself considered it a solemn sight. There could be no mistaking that its history had scarred the land. Alderin looked on and, wondering what price had been paid for Xuthal’s defeat, proceeded.

At first, the overgrown ruins revealed nothing to Alderin. He journeyed through the ancient city and spied little more than moss-covered, weather-beaten stone. Nothing, it seemed, remained but dust and memories. He incanted spells of detection, hoping to catch a glimmer of the ancient magical events that had marked the city’s history. Nothing whispered or stirred, and he began to despair that he had made the trip in vain.

That night, after an exhausting day in the ruins, Alderin settled down to sleep in the shelter of a roofless but otherwise intact stone building. He would keep searching the next day, and the day after and the next if necessary. As he drifted off to sleep, he resolved to search as long as it took to find an answer.

Just before he fell asleep, however, a voice carried to him on the wind. At first, he wasn’t sure if he’d heard anything at all. Did he imagine it? Alderin sat up, turning his ear to the air. Then it came again, just as faint as before but most certainly not his imagination. It was the far off cry of a man in terrible agony.

Wasting no time, Alderin set off in search of the voice. No doubt the man was wailing quite loudly, because it took Alderin quite some time to come upon the source. He alighted the foundation of a crumbled castle, certain that the man must be just ahead. Curiously, however, he found nothing. Confused, Alderin searched the area. It was clear that the sound was coming from nearby, but for all his reasoning he couldn’t figure out where.

Thinking quickly, Alderin reached into his pack and retrieved a small spying glass. It had been a gift to him on a quest with Ignatious, and could discern secret passages and openings. He lovingly referred to it as his Kaleidoscope of Secrets, because looking through it allowed you to see little else. He scanned the area, immediately noting the presence of a passage leading down into the earth beneath the castle.

With the help of a strengthening spell, Alderin quickly hefted the cover off the passage. Immediately he was defeaned by the screams that had led him there. No mortal person could wail so loudly. Stagnant air rushed out at him, smelling of rot and decay. Alderin reeled for a moment from the onslaught, feeling as if he might wretch.

Alderin looked down into the darkened passage. “Creo lucem,” he incanted, conjuring a magical light. He was immediately reminded of his adventures in the Dark Forrest and what lay behind the demonic portal he and his comrads had found there. The walls, which had once been stone hewn by human hands, had been twisted and distorted by chaotic magics. The very air reeked of dark malevolence.

Alderin hesitated for a moment. There was no need to be hasty now that he had found what he was looking for. He incanted protective spells, readied his staff, and proceeded with caution.

As he walked, the screaming came in deafening spurts, as if the man were being slowly tortured. Part of Alderin wanted to run to his aid, for no decent person could tolerate such suffering. His reason, however, demanded caution, as traps like this were laid to lure the unsuspecting to their doom.

Alderin rounded a corner and gazed upon a horrific scene. A crazed zombie, who was obviously the source of the screaming, stood chained in the center of a wide chamber. Skeletal, imp-like creatures took turns raking their needlelike claws against his marred and decaying flesh. And while the whole room was bathed in an eerie red glow, large puddles of blood were evident on the ground at the man’s feet, testimony of his ongoing, brutal torture.

Aghast at the scene, Alderin failed to notice that his spell of light was still active. He doused it too late as one of the imps turned and let out a bloodcurdling shriek. Without further warning, the whole flock rose into the air and darted in Alderin’s direction.

Thankfully, Alderin’s experiences in King’s Crossing had included an ample amount of combat. With a few quickly-uttered words of magic, a stroke of lightning issued forth from his staff, striking the first imp. With a loud crack, the creature exploded in a rain of fragmented bones. In the back of his mind, Alderin was thankful that, while the imps were many, they were also relatively weak.

He got no further chance for a preemptive attack as the remaining imps closed and raked at Alderin with their blood-stained claws. Several caught the hem of his robes and turned aside thanks to his armoring enchantments, but others dug deep, biting into Alderin’s flesh. They pushed forward as he reeled back, undaunted by their ally’s demise.

Retreating a few steps, Alderin had to think quickly. The battle would not afford him many chances for uninterrupted spellcasting. His only option was to enter the fray and hope to fend them off with his staff. “Tribuo vim gigantis!” he yelled, enspelling himself with the strength of a giant, and charged toward his foes.

The imps were momentarily taken aback by this, having thought that their opponent was retreating. They scattered as Alderin’s staff smashed one of them cleanly against the floor, sending bits of bone flying in all directions and leaving a large dent in the stone.

Alderin pressed into the room, swinging his staff at the imps, who were now airborne and circling him menacingly. He swung, narrowly missing, and yelled in pain as its cohort anchored claws into his back. This proved to be its undoing as Alderin whipped his staff around and caught it squarely in the torso.

As the battle raged on, Alderin laid waste to each of the imps one at a time, suffering more than his share of wounds in the process. The final imp, having wised up to his opponent’s power, decided to flee too late, and caught a blast of lightning in the back before it could escaped. Injured and heaving great breaths, Alderin fell to his knees, leaning against his staff for support.

It took several moments for Alderin to recover enough to cast a healing spell on himself. He rose and remembered exactly why he had been drawn to this place. The zombie in the center of the room regarded him with distant curiosity. Alderin found this in itself very peculiar, as undead don’t generally display any emotion, let alone intellectual fascination.

“Lies and wisps of fancy, that’s all you are,” it said incredulously, regarding Alderin with a sneer. “Just another dream of a man without any dreams left.”

If Alderin had been surprised by the zombie’s reaction before, he was astounded to hear it speak. Never in all his encounters with undead had he ever had a conversation with one. Even the particularly powerful and intelligent undead never took the time to say more than how they were going to kill you. “Excuse me?” he replied, trying to understand its meaning.

“Words and babbling and nothing. Did you expect me to believe you?” the zombie continued, obviously growing perturbed at Alderin’s presence while continuing to make little sense. “He’s losing his imagination if he thinks you’ll trick me. Why not break out the whips and thumb screws and get it over with?”

At last, Alderin was beginning to understand the zombie’s ranting. “You… think I’m here to torture you?” he asked.

“Why else would you be here?” the zombie replied bitterly. “All that’s here is here for pain.”

Alderin wasn’t sure how to respond. Instead, he tried to ask the only questions coming to his mind. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

“Always here. Always been here. No better use for me than to suffer, I suppose. He feeds on it, you know? It’s like a fine wine poured in crystal. Never forgives, does he?” The zombie’s words seemed to make a sense that was as twisted as the walls of the chamber.

“Who wants you to suffer? Who’s keeping you here?” Alderin asked, obviously intrigued.

“You’re mad!” the zombie yelled angrily, rushing at Alderin. Alderin jumped as the zombie reached the end of his chains several feet away. “Where is the king and where’s the throne, eh? They would’ve been swallowed in shadows if it wasn’t for me. And what did I get for my trouble?” The zombie rattled against its chains, enraged. “Always, always he hates me. Revenge takes all of time, don’t you know? That’s the only way to make sure.”

Alderin tried to understand what the zombie was trying to tell him. “You helped banish Xuthal?” he asked slowly.

Immediately the zombie retreated away from Alderin, cowering in a puddle of its own blood. “No more, no more,” it said pitifully. “I’m sorry. Please. I didn’t mean to spoil it. The king, he made me. Please, no more…” The zombie broke down in sobs, weeping tears of blood.

At last, Alderin was beginning to understand. Perhaps this zombie had once been a man who helped in the battle against Xuthal. But what if Xuthal had imprisoned him? What if this was the hell Xuthal had planned for anyone who opposed him and succeeded? Centuries of undying torture could easily drive the sanest of men mad like this.

Alderin quickly realized that the answer to his question could very easily burn within this pitiable creature’s shattered mind. Alderin kneeled and, in soothing tones, said, “It’s okay. I’m not here to hurt you. I want to help.”

The zombie continued crying. “Nobody helps me. You’re just another falsehood. There is no hope, only claws and blood. Go away!” The zombie wailed, covering its face and laying feebly on the floor.

“I want to help you, but I have to know how. How did you defeat Xuthal?” Alderin asked the question with burning interest.

“How?” the zombie asked, looking up and staring quizzically at Alderin. “You know how, don’t you?” The zombie rose, looking at Alderin in disbelief. “Of course you don’t, you wouldn’t ask otherwise. But, that means…” There was a degree of sanity to his words and Alderin thought he spied a glimmer of lucidity in his eyes.

“Yes,” Alderin said, answering the unspoken question, “I am really here. Xuthal didn’t send me, and you didn’t imagine me. I’m real and I need your help.”

The zombie looked on him for a moment and, slumping its shoulders, said, “No good. No good. You haven’t felt the touch of the stars. Only Empyreal magic can unbind me. He made sure of that. Added his own personal touch to it. You can’t help me.”

“Empyreal magic?” Alderin asked without hesitation, his eyes wide. “What is that? What do you mean by ‘touch of the stars’?”

“Maybe… no… but just maybe,” the zombie said, pacing and speaking to itself. “There’s only one choice. Seek the flame of the heavens in the heart of ice. Then you’ll be able to free me. Yes.”

At this the zombie grew excited, pacing at a furious rate and babbling incoherently in a language Alderin didn’t understand. Despite his further inquiries, the zombie seemed to have forgotten he was there and become engrossed in a furious debate with himself. Try as he might, it seemed that was all of the information Alderin would get from him.

But maybe it was enough. As Alderin rose into the ancient city, he pondered the zombie’s last, cryptic words. “Empyreal magic… touch of the stars… seek the flame of the heavens in the heart of ice,” he repeated aloud, wondering at its meaning. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to go on. After much thought, he turned northward. Maybe it was just mad ranting, but it was the only hope he had to cling to.

Rising from his seat, Alderin turned to Lord Brevin and King McGrioghair, who both sat at the head of the feast. “I apologize in advance,” he began, drawing their attention to him, “that I’m not much of a singer, so I hope you’ll bear with me. But I think I might have a song that you’d enjoy. It works a bit better if you clap.”

With that, Alderin started a rhythmatic clap that everyone immediately picked up on. And, taking a deep breath, he began to sing.

“Oh, there once was a man from King’s Crossing,
who thought himself stalwart and brave.
And oft did he spend his time dreaming
of all the fair maidens he’d save.

So he strapped on a sword and a shield,
walked under the light o’ the moon,
strode into the dark with a smile on his face
and said, ‘Glory and pride will come soon.’

On the road, he met with a mage,
who, seeing the man, shook his head.
Said the mage, ‘Your arms won’t protect you from harm.
Learn some spells or you’ll find yourself dead.’

Later on, he met with a warrior,
who regarded the man with a frown.
‘You’ll likely be killed if you don’t get some skill.
And besides, your shield’s on upside down.’

Further out, he met with a cleric,
whose pity was plain in his tone.
‘You’re only one man in a dangerous land.
Walk with friends or you’ll soon die alone.’

In the darkness, he met with a rogue,
who smiled and snickered with glee.
‘I could hear you, I’d say, from a mile away.
Walk with stealth or your death’s guarunteed.’

I’ll tell ye not what happened,
but mind that the lesson is learned.
For suffice it to say that unto this fair day
the young champion has never returned.

They found his shield torn to pieces,
his footsteps in grim disarray.
His trousers they found in a pool on the ground.
What it was is not proper to say.

So mind the words of your betters.
On the full moon you ought not to roam.
And unless your head is as full as your heart,
you’re better of staying at home.”

Alderin concluded with a dramatic flourish, to the applause of the entire tavern. He was thankful that the dim lighting covered up the embarrassment on his face, because he had quite expertly fumbled many of the verses. However, Lord Brevin and others didn’t seem to mind, laughing approvingly at the jest of his verse. He resumed his seat, feeling the congratulatory pats on his back from friends, and thought, “At least I won’t have to do that again until the feast next year.”

“Creo lucem,” the mage spoke wearily into the darkness, conjuring light to witness the devastation for himself. This had been the Temple of Light, a bastion of hope against the darkness. It was supposed to be their final sanctuary. Now it lay in ruins, destroyed by the hand of Xuthal.

Alderin’s expression was one of deepest exhaustion. He had fought alongside the champions of King’s Crossing. He had done it for his home, for his friends, and for the ideals of the Light. Kneeling, Alderin grasped a handful of ash, allowing it to sift through his fingers. What did they have to show for their bravery and devotion?

The young mage rose and walked slowly into the room, absently looking about at the wreckage. Though usually sharp and decisive, his mind was in a daze. How could this have happened? Why hadn’t the avatars stepped in to protect them? Hundreds lay dead and the town in ruins. How could the virtues let this happen?

Alderin paused, looking down at the floor. With a poke of his staff, he brushed aside a bit of debris, revealing a badly-burned but intact copy of the Tome of Illumination. He picked it up, looking upon the cover in weary despair. That it hadn’t been destroyed was perhaps a miracle, but a miracle that tasted as bitter to Alderin as the ashes that still clung to its pages.

Without realizing what he was doing, Alderin wandered back outside, walking amongst the survivors of the attack. His mind grew blank and he shuffled in a slow daze, reeling from the hopelessness of it all. One thought cycled through his mind over and over again. They had been faithful. Why had the virtues done nothing to aid them in their direst hour? Had they done something wrong to deserve this?

Time seemed to have no meaning as questions roiled in Alderin’s soul. At the edge of his mind, he scarcely heard friends and comrads talking of the battle and the prospect of survivors. Nothing seemed to matter anymore. How could the future ever be bright, or life worthwhile, in a world where things like this were allowed to happen?

At last, Alderin felt a friendly hand on his shoulder. A melodic female voice cut through the fog. “Alderin, are you alright?” Slowly coming to his senses, Alderin blinked and turned to see Andrena, the healer of the Crimson Cross. A look of concern shown plain on her face. “What’s that you have there?” she asked, indicating the book in his hand.

Alderin did not answer, but instead looked down at the Tome of Illumination. Clear, grim understanding began to dawn on him at last, and an expression of deep loathing welled up at the sight of the book.

They hadn’t done anything wrong. They had been faithful and true to the teachings of the Light. In return, the Light had done nothing to save them. Why? Why hadn’t the avatars come to their aid? Did they refuse, or were they simply powerless? Even if that was the case, why had they not been warned?

King’s Crossing had been used and betrayed. Whether the virtues had been unwilling or unable to help was irrelevant; they had turned their backs on the town when it needed them the most. A bitter rage came to Alderin’s eyes then, replacing the dim haze of moments before. “Ferio flamine!” he incanted, casting the book to the ground and hurling magical flames upon it.

With that, Alderin stormed off toward Lohathlehan, ignoring the shocked expressions of his compatriots. No longer would he trust in the virtues to protect them. No longer would he be blinded by faith. Someone had to rise against the darkness, even if the light itself wouldn’t.

Some lay on the ground and contemplated a nap, apparently unconcerned at the prospect of battle. Others paced anxiously, eyeing the road for any sign of the enemy’s approach. Still others lamented aloud that the greatest champions of the town were absent, slowly turning the group’s hope to despair. None argued with these worries, for they weighed heavily on the hearts of all, even while they found voice on the lips of only a few.

Without warning, an explosion rocked the countryside. All eyes immediately turned upon the center of King’s Crossing, where the tavern had erupted in flames. Those who had languished rose to their feet at once, many drawing weapons and readying themselves for combat. The champions looked on in despair as the site of many good times was laid to waste in the blink of an eye.

“Hold the line! Defend the temple!” came the cries of those with the right and the will to lead. The fastest and stealthiest among them set out to scout the destruction for signs of the enemy, returning with word of an ambush. It was clear that the destruction was merely a plot to draw them away from their station before the Temple. They had been charged with the defense of an artifact of great importance, and while this fact had not escaped their thoughts, many secretly wished to seek out their foe rather than remain.

Silence came then, and the champions waited, growing ever more worrisome as time drew on. The face of their enemy still eluded them. Did they lie in wait? What of the commoners in the baronies? Uncertainty plagued their resolve.

What feelings of rage they may have harbored were then turned to horror. A ghastly rain of human heads fell upon the temple. Shields turned upward, but no defense could protect the champions from the sight of friends and loved ones, their heads staring blankly upward from the ground.

Cries of pain, rage, and anguish resounded through the crowd. Curses of the foulest sort rang through the air. “Stand firm!” cried the leaders, trying their best to sound resolute lest all morale fade. This was not war of a mortal sort. The vileness of their foe was palatable, like bile at the back of their throats.

Time was now no longer their foe, as it had already run out. Not just the tavern, but all of the baronies were now alight with flames. What would be left to save when they won? How could a victory be anything but pyrrhic, if it was to be a victory at all? Determination turning grim, all stood silent and awaited the inevitable approach.

They felt him before they could see him, so great was his darkness. The blaze of the summer night was tinged with a sting that chilled the soul. Whispers escaped the crowd, voices that spat the name Xuthal beneath their breath, as if it were offal in their mouths. The ground shook and shadowy creatures of immense size broke the tree line, clearing the way for their master.

Courage which already hung by a thread began to vanish as the dark army drew closer. Great demons sheathed in flame stood beside giant, undying skeletons, all grinning hungrily at the would-be champions. At their center, the dark lord smiled, as if nothing of significance opposed him. Fear hung over the Temple like a thick mist, obscuring everything but the approaching doom.

Neither side waited for the other to make the first move, both launching a full attack in massive, bloody melee. The healers of the Temple stood within their circle, restoring the wounded and the dying as they fell. Spells of might and protection were laid upon the warriors as they entered the fray, cleaving into the fiends with great ferocity. Strokes of magical power felled those foes that approached too close.

Still the dark lord smiled, unimpressed by the power or the devotion of the Temple’s defenders. Such mortals could not fathom what power really was, and so he would toy with them, dangling victory before their desperate grasp, and then snatch it away when he had been amused enough.

The dark army pressed forward, undaunted by the number of their dead. Exhaustion shown plain on the faces of the Temple’s defenders, harried as they were by the seemingly endless ranks of the fiends. The dead soon began to outnumber the living. The clerics and mages of the group struggled to cast their magics with depleted strength. It soon became clear that their fight was in vain.

Without warning, the dark lord stepped forward, seeking to taste their despair for himself. With a word and a gesture, he struck down the mightiest of the champions. Even the Crimson Cross, stalwart defenders of king and country, lay slain, cut down by the dark one’s power. Effortlessly, he strode past their weakened and dying ranks. Those who flew forward to oppose him found their blades to be useless, their spells to have no effect, and their lives extinguished for such reckless heroism.

At last he came to the door of the Temple. What few guardians remained to check his advance he slew without difficulty. The magical protections on the door vanished with a touch. He entered the Temple at last, the smile never having faded from his face.

Moments later, the last bastion of hope in King’s Crossing burst into flames. The champions who still lived, fighting desperately for survival, looked on in despair. The battle was lost. Despite their valiant last stand, the darkness had won.

The dark army withdrew of their own leisure then, leaving the champions to sift through the ashes of their defeat. The dead were covered and laid in neat rows, for there was no time for burial. Those with any remaining strength spread out to search the baronies for survivors, hoping against hope that their losses were anything but total.

Thus did King’s Crossing fall, swept away by the darkness. Only time would tell whether the survivors would have spirit enough to rebuild, or if the gesture would be anything but futile. For the darkness would surely return to finish what it had started, knowing now that the light did not possess the strength to oppose it.