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Z8 a5 boss

Description

Mardachus the Destroyer is the fifth boss encounter for Together in Eclectic Dreams (Area: Reality). As with all bosses, Mardachus the Destroyer can also be battled in a raid with 4 available levels: Normal, Hard, Legendary and Nightmare.



Loot

Name Att Def AV Per Ability Obtained
Essence mardachus Mardachus the Destroyer Essence Used to summon Mardachus the Destroyer (Raid) Mardachus the Destroyer quest boss
Mardachus claw Mardachus' Claw Used as an ingredient to craft Gauntlets of the Realm Walker Mardachus the Destroyer
Helm mighty hero Mighty Hero's Headpiece 80 80 100 80 Increases Energy by 4 and Stamina by 2 Quest Boss - Mardachus the Destroyer
Letharin Archmage Letharin 140 100 165 Arcane Lance: Chance for bonus raid damage Quest Boss: Nightmare Mardachus the Destroyer


Lore

Enter battle:

Lore
Your eyes water at the horrendous burst of sound. Your tongue explodes in anguish as your jaws clamp shut and piercing teeth bite into its left edge. Even though you were expecting the cacophonous torrent, the disorientation is so powerful that it sends your brain reeling.

Medea's voice is locked in a long, penetrating spear of song. But her head tilts back and taps your face, a wordless reminder for you to renew your loosening grasp around her waist. You pull her close, pressing her body against yours as you struggle to hold her in place.

Solus is wavering, his body wobbling from side to side as the music scatters his draconic senses. Yet he keeps you aloft and upright, holding his position in spite of his suffering.

The white dragon, the focus of the clamorous attack, isn't so fortunate. His monstrous head tilts backwards, green flames spraying impotently at the heavens before spluttering into nothingness -- giving way to an almost human moan of unendurable agony. His broad white skull thrashes as though it were being shaken in the grip of an even larger beast's jaws. And the drake forgets to flap its wings.

A scaly mass drops from the sky, hurtling towards the ground below.

Blessed silence falls as bard and harp end their collective cry, and with relieved eyes you gaze down to survey your enemy's fate.

The dragon's wings scrabble at the air as it plunges, and slow its twisting, tumbling mass. But those frantic flaps aren't enough to keep it aloft. The reptilian form crashes down on the ground, slamming to the grass between battle and tower.

Solus descends, and at the same time your companions surge forward -- making for their draconic foe before he can recover and fly once more.

A blood-splattered figure runs over to you as you land, so drenched in redness that it's only recognizable by the crimson-covered swords in its hands -- one steel, the other crystal.

"Did I miss anything good?" Roland asks.

"Good is a matter of opinion," Medea replies, as she leaps from Solus. Her harp trills with satisfaction when her boots hit the ground.

More of your comrades come to your side, forcing their way through the beastmen and gathering near the scrambling wyrm.

"At least we're here for the best bit," Aesa says.
Murderous orbs fix themselves on you as the dragon regains its feet. A furious roar bellows from between its vicious jaws. And yet after all the bizarreness of today a mere dragon is a strangely comforting sight.

You almost laugh as you charge.

Victory:

Lore
"Good show! Good show!"

A group of men and woman in mages' robes are bustling over from the direction of the tower, picking their way across the corpse-strewn field. A tall, rotund woman with a jolly grin moves at their head -- bestowing nods of appreciation on the troops at either side as they part to admit her.

She gestures here and there as she comes, and in response to each imperious gesture some of her minions break from the pack and join the healers who are working on the wounded.

"Who's in charge here, my good men?" the woman asks.

A forest of pointing fingers directs her to you. She puffs up to you, her face still flushed from the battle, and favors you with a pleasant grin.

"Well, aren't we glad to see you here! Thought we might be trapped for years before anyone came along and found us. What brought you here, anyway? Come to recruit mages, what?"

You open your mouth to reply, but the women's verbal torrent washes the words back down your mouth as she continues.

"Easier for newcomers to break the spell, you see. Impossible from within. Well, almost impossible. Nothing's ever quite impossible where magic is concerned, what?"

She turns to the white wyrm's corpse, a mutilated mess of broken scales and ruined flesh, and gives a humph of dissatisfaction.

"Can't leave that thing there, I suppose. Do you people dispose of them?"

"We usually just kill them," you reply.

"Oh. I see."

"But if we piled the beastmen on top of it, you could burn them all with some spells."

"Ah! Good thinking! I like it! Nothing like war to get people thinking, is there?"

She turns round, and thumps your shoulder in what you assume is appreciation -- though the unexpected blow almost sends you staggering.

"Still," she continues, "that can wait. I'm sure you people are worn out what with all the fighting. If you'll come into the tower, we'll sort out some food and drink. Can't live on praise alone, what?"

The tower is remarkably well supplied with provisions. Enough to feed a figurative army, and it proves more than ample to sate a literal one as well. It seems that the mages buy their supplies in bulk, and simply preserve them with magic against the ravages of time.

During a hearty meal, Archmage Winifred -- the boisterous woman who accosted you outside -- and her cohorts explain how they were forced to work a spell to forestall the dragon's attack, knowing that they couldn’t hope to defeat the attacking warband at their present strength. The place is a magic school, and many of its inhabitants left to enlist right at the onset of the war -- shortly before the tower was attacked, as it transpired. Those who remained hoped that their colleagues would return at some point, and remedy the unusual situation their spell placed them in.

"That white dragon you killed looked rather like the one in the picture on my study wall," Winifred says. "It was painted after the last war with those damned dragons..."

She looks at Solus, who's crouched on the floor near your table.

"No offense, dear."

The drake glances up, and blinks his orange eyes.

"None taken," he replies. Then he goes back to chewing at a hunk of beef.

"Anyway, during the last war one of the blighters attacked this tower. Was new at the time, just put up by Archmage Walad. There were a lot of powerful mages here back then -- legendary fellows, what? They blasted the dragon near to bits before it flew off. Wouldn't surprise me if it was the same one come back for revenge. Drakes have long memories."

After enduring Archmage Winifred's friendly yet somewhat overwhelming hospitality for a while, you excuse yourself and spend a little time among your companions. There are a few things you're curious about...

"Yes, Gulch was indeed my form master," Lucian says, when you question him about the realm you found him in. "And Grimsly was my headmaster. Rather strict gentlemen, but superb scholars -- and usually far more reasonable than the versions you encountered. I certainly never had any great desire to bludgeon them with a cricket bat. Well, perhaps once or twice... But such are the thoughts of schoolboys."

Marcus tells a similar tale.

"You already know that I never killed Aurelius Bloodwyn."

"More's the pity..."

"And I've never had reason to suspect him of any crime other than his inadequacies as a mayor and a leader. He does have a son called Verus, though -- who was a captain before I took his place. Not as bad a man as his father. He wasn't much of a fighter though. Nearly getting his throat cut by a thug in an alleyway made the town guard lose its allure for him. He moved to Dracoshire, and took up politics."

You look around for Medea, but see no sign of her in the hall.

The twanging of a distant harp reaches your ears. Its voice is quiet, almost lost amongst the roaring flames and chatter of voices. But somehow you pick it out, identify that single sound amidst the din.

You head towards it, leaving the pyre of burning enemies and groups of reveling warriors behind.

The twang, a strange marriage of melody and discord, draws you into the trees -- now dark and dusky. You follow it amongst the enshrouding shadows, picking your way through the foliage.

A small lake glimmers in the moonlight just beyond the trees, and it's there that you find her. She's sitting on the bank, gazing at the water -- its surface rippling as the vibrations of her playing skim across it.

"I came here to be alone," she says.

But she makes no protest when you sit beside her.

"The boy..." you say. "Xalis..."

He was my closest friend at the academy." Her music softens, takes on a mournful, drifting tune. "The things you saw happened, though not quite like that. But similar enough. We summoned the Sisters, and they slew him. I only lived because some of the golems heard the music. They arrived and performed a banishing."

You grope for something to say, but find nothing. The bard remains silent too, but for the playing of her harp.

Several minutes pass, in which you feel like an unwelcome interloper -- as perhaps you are. You rise, deciding to leave Medea to her thoughts.

It's only as you're about to slip into the trees that she speaks.

"Sit down."

A chord rings from her harp with the insistence of an imperative.

You walk back to the bank, and sit alongside her once more.

"I've encountered chickens that understood music and rhyme better than you do," she says.

"There wasn't much call for poetry in the fields."

"Listen and learn."

She starts to sing, and the water ripples to her words.

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