|Shaar the Reaver Essence||Used to summon Shaar the Reaver (Raid)||Shaar the Reaver quest boss|
|Kasan's Companion||400||425||506||The First Kasan: Chance for bonus damage; Extra damage for each piece of the Kasan Armor set owned; Extra damage against All Roads Lead raids; Increases Energy by 40||Shaar the Reaver|
|Brown Chronicles of the Drake War||Craft x2 Stat Points||All Roads Lead quests/Quest sharing|
|Grey Chronicles of the Drake War||Craft x2 Stat Points||All Roads Lead quests/Quest sharing|
|Green Chronicles of the Drake War||Craft x2 Stat Points||All Roads Lead quests/Quest sharing|
|Blue Chronicles of the Drake War||Craft x2 Stat Points||All Roads Lead quests/Quest sharing|
|Purple Chronicles of the Drake War||Craft x2 Stat Points||All Roads Lead quests/Quest sharing|
|Orange Chronicles of the Drake War||Craft x2 Stat Points||All Roads Lead quests/Quest sharing|
|Shaar growled. His prey had escaped, and the gnome's blood taunted his feline nostrils. He longed to spring up after her, stalk her across the rooftops, split her open and feast on her heart. But there was other killing to be done. Perhaps he'd track her down later, if she still lived...
He gestured with his claw blades. His minions barged into the surrounding buildings, searching for those who cowered within. Xerkara's orders were clear. No survivors. Dracoshire must die, along with everyone who fought on its fields or huddled inside its walls.
The tiger-man sniffed the air. He turned to the doorway beneath the dangling wooden sign, with its picture of a faded crown. He smelled fear. And flesh. And blood. His minions were already forcing their way in. He strode forward and shoved them aside.
One victim had escaped, but others remained...
The King's Crown no longer resembles the forlorn, gloomy place you discovered when you first opened its door. Your friends arrived one by one. And it's as though each of them brought a sliver of the city's revelry with them. Now boisterous voices fill the taproom.
"You're having a laugh!" Rissa says.
"No, I really punched him," Marcus says. "Right in the face."
"Bloody hell! I've half a mind to drag you onto this bar and shag you!"
The knight splutters, and Skullsmash sprays from his mouth.
On your other side, Lucian and Aesa debate the finer points of their favorite athletic activities.
"Cricket is a gentlemanly sport of skill and determination," Lucian says.
"It sounds like a child's game, southlander."
"Well, what do your people do for fun?"
"We kill yetis."
Meanwhile, Medea's song floats around you all, somehow contriving to fill the barroom without vying with the happy banter.
"Instead of water we'll just drink wine, And a galleon of whisky will go down fine; We'll laugh when the bailiffs come to whine, And chuck them through the windows!"
Elyssa's flames pirouette above the pyromancer's head, dancing to the tune.
"Raise your cups!" Roland says.
His voice travels through the room, and conversations ebb. Medea's voice falls silent, though her strings continue to play, lending their melody to the old adventurer's words.
"To the friends who still stand with us!" he says.
He takes a drink, and the rest of you do the same.
"And to those who've fallen."
He turns his tankard and lets a sip of ale escape. All around The King's Crown, wine, ale, whisky, and rum splash on the floor. If the dead can truly taste the living's libations, they'll drink well tonight.
Across the tavern, a woman cowered. She clutched her swaddled baby, hugging the infant close against her bosom with one arm. Her other held the hand of the little boy at her side. The three would be meagre prey. But two warriors, a human and a goblin, stood in their defense -- swords in hand.
Shaar waved the other beastmen back and padded towards them. His heavy, muscular body moved with effortless grace. Orange fur rippled. The warriors gazed at him and trembled. But they held their ground. An instant later, they were dead. His blades impaled them both.
He growled at the woman and her children. The baby wailed. The boy clutched his mother's arm and moaned. She held them tight, as though she could protect them from the tigrine reaver.
A chorus of shouts and roars made Shaar whirl round -- and carnage greeted him. Another enemy, a human with a broad, powerful chest and grey hair, stood in the midst of his minions. Corpses littered the floor, filling the taproom with the sweet stink of blood and death. The rest died with the same swiftness. The man's blades, one of steel, the other orange crystal, sliced through flesh and bone as though they offered no more resistance than the surrounding air.
Shaar cared little for the identities of his enemies. They lived only to be slaughtered, so what did their tales matter? But even he had heard the name whispered among the beastmen's ranks. And he knew it belonged to the mightiest of his masters' foes. It flashed in his mind as he stared at that sudden slaughter.
"No," the human said. "But I taught %him% everything %he% knows..."
The man stepped forward. Shaar hurled the corpses off his weapons, and went to meet the attack.
|Blades clashed and clinked, filling the tavern with a tune as rhythmic and exhilarating as any bard's song, to those who loved battle. Mighty thews twitched, launching blurs of attack and defense. Hard, determined eyes followed the movements of muscle and armament, reading what would transpire with a speed and certainty born of instinct rather than comprehension.
Their weapons were marvelous. Exquisite. The edges of the beastman's long, jagged steel claws shone with the malevolence of their creation and bloodthirsty purpose. Roland's swords bore glory and tragedy -- a steel blade made magnificent by the art of a smith whose work shaped, consumed, and took his life; a crystal weapon that told of the price of unflinching, unyielding honor. Human artifice and the pride of the orocs' subterranean realm flashed around him as he fought.
Both were strong, fast. And they knew all the steps to the war god's dance. A thousand warriors would have paid any price to see them clash, and even in the midst of a raging battle, perhaps all eyes would've been on them. Yet this fight was for them alone. The mother and her children were gone, saved by the adventurer and forgotten by the beastman. There were none left to witness their feats of arms save for any of the divine immortals fortunate enough to cast their gazes upon The King's Crown that day.
Fury and fatigue coursed through their bodies. Even the tiger-man's huge, untamed muscles grew weary. And Roland's limbs, strong as they were, had long since seen their prime. Attacks and parries slowed. Perfection became mere brilliance. Their eyes pierced the lattice of steel and crystal, knowing mistakes would come and openings be seized.
Razor tips slashed the adventurer's chest. Deep, savage wounds. And as though blood called to steel, others followed. Skin and muscle tore beneath jagged blades. The tiger-man pressed the attack, scenting destruction, tantalized by victory and slaughter. Their weapons met in a crescendo, locked together, straining for mastery, each struggling to break the other's defenses.
The beastman was stronger, faster than the adventurer. And in his heart, Roland knew that a contest of arms, of pure bladesmanship, could only end one way.
But there was a difference between fencing and fighting.
The adventurer spat. A blob of saliva splashed on the tiger-man's left eye. He only flinched for an instant, the barest sliver of a second. But it was enough. The orange crystal blade, Raknur's sword, slashed. And blood spurted from a widening wound across the tiger-man's chest.
They fell in the same moment, both spent. The tiger-man stared at the ceiling through lifeless eyes.
Roland grimaced. He staggered to the bar, surrounded by a strange haze, and clambered onto one of the stools. He needed a drink... The adventurer reached over the counter for a tankard. But they were just beyond his fingers' grasp.
A woman's soft, pale hand lifted one of the vessels. The adventurer looked up, into a face framed by raven black hair, a visage as beautiful as the dawn but as cold as twilight. And he knew her. Of course he did, for he'd been evading her all his life. Through the countless dungeons, the myriad battles, the endless adventures.
He glanced over his shoulder and sighed.
"I was going to give those swords to %name%," he said.
"I'll make sure %he% gets them."
"Do you come for everyone in person?"
"No. But I saw you that day in Liven."
"You came so very near to crossing over, but you didn't. And I've been watching you ever since."
"So this is it?"
"Yes. Any regrets?"
"No more than any man, and less than most."
"What will you have?" she said.
The woman smiled, and filled his tankard.
"Will you join me," he asked, "before we go?"
"Of course." She handed him the ale and poured another. "What shall we drink to?"
"I've made all the toasts I need to. Let's just drink."
Their tankards touched, and Roland drank with Death.
|The last battle had come, with the kingdom at stake,|
One final clash between proud West Kruna and drake.
HP & Max Damage
- Normal - 9000
- Hard -
- Legendary -
- Nightmare - 15,000 hp, Max damage 7,500