Dúron's page

The war had been long and hard, but finally they were making some progress.

Dúron Avantara stood alone on top of a small hill overlooking the ruined battlefield. The night before he had led his small contingent of Elves dispatched from Kyonin to join the Shining Crusade in a battle against an army of Belkzen Orcs. The Crusade had been victorious once again, but at a great cost - thiry-three Elves lost their lives last night. A small number to a man, but a tragedy to an Elf. Dúron knew that this job would not be easy when he agreed to it; there was a great deal of opposition to his expedition from the beginning. He was denounced by many on the Winter Council for risking Elven blood to fight for Humans and Dwarves against a whispered evil across the Great Lake; but he knew he was right and the Queen had agreed with him. She knew as he did that if the Whispering Tyrant was not defeated that his evil would spread across Avistan and come to Kyonin soon enough. Despite the Queen's support, Dúron was only able to gather together a small force to join the Crusade, but they had made their mark and would continue to fight until the dread lich had been defeated and the land was safe again. Before he left, the Queen of the Elves herself had summoned him to her chambers and blessed his mission, giving him a finely crafted silver ring as a symbol of her blessing, telling him that it would keep him safe in the time of his direst need.

Calistril 9th, 3823

'He killed her. He killed a God!'

His forces were scattered, only a handful of Elves from his command remained and they were battling for their lives against a horde of Orcs, their backs to the walls. The battle had been going so well; the Crusade had broken through the gates of Gallowspire itself, led by the warrior goddess Arazni, summoned by General Iomedae and the Knights of Ozem to strike a final blow against the Tyrant. The goddess-herald of Aroden had ascended the spire alone shortly after the gate was breached and everyone thought that the day had been won - until Arazni's charred remains had fallen from the sky. With their leader dead and the Tyrant having taken the field to lead his armies, the Crusade panicked and fell into retreat. Unfortunately, the Kyonin expedition had been on the far side of the spire when the order had been called and was surrounded on all sides. Dúron could have teleported himself to safety, but he fought on, hovering above the last remaining Elves and sending rays of flame and bolts of lightning into the Orcish ranks, keeping them at bay.

Suddenly, the Orcs fell back and a shadow seemed to pass over the battlefield. Thinking this could be his chance to save him men, Dúron gave the order to advance towards the gates, but found his command to be caught in his throat as a voice rose up from behind him, speaking in a low steady tone, each word spoken with a malevolence Dúron had never thought to exist, "So, son of Kyonin. You think yourself brave for defending your men to the last?"

Finding himself moving by no will of his own, Dúron turned to face his accuser, none other than the Whispering Tyrant himself, the dread-lich king who had slapped aside the life of a living goddess minutes ago, Tar-Baphon, the lord of Gallowspire. "You have saved no one, foolish Elf. Your men will die. However, I have a more amusing fate in mind for yourself. I know much of your people, Kyonin-son. I know that you believe that this life is but one in a series of lives that you will live before reaching your higher destiny. But there will be no more lives for you." With a cruel smile, Tar-Baphon reached out a bony claw, laying his hand on Dúron's chest. The last thing that Dúron heard was the screams of his men on the ground below and the last thing he saw was the ancient lich's still-smiling face.

Erastus 28th, 4704

881 years had passed since Dúron Avantara had cast eyes on the world. Much had happened in this time; the Shining Crusade had completed its quest, the lich-king had been sealed way, the God Aroden had passed... But nothing had changed for Dúron. When Tar-Baphon had touched Duron's body, the Elf had disappeared from the surface world and had been imprisoned beneath the earth in a stasis apart from time. Until something went wrong. The magic that held Dúron began to fade. He was sustained for some years by the magical energies that permeated his being, but soon nearly all of his power had faded away. Finally on a cool summer night his sleep was broken as a great tremor rocked the land.

Dúron awoke suddenly with no awareness of who, what, or where he was. He was buried alive miles beneath the surface of the earth. As his body gasped for its first breath of air in nearly nine centuries, he quickly found that he was suffocating. Panicking, he clawed at the cieling of his grave, but to no avail; the stone was hard and thick and he was buried deep. As his life slipped away as suddenly as it had returned to him, he grasped a hold of the silver ring on his right hand. With desparation for escape flashing through his mind, his tomb was lit up by a bright light as the ring began to glow. Nearly blinded by the brightness, Dúron turned his head away quickly and slammed his skull into the stone, knocking him unconcious.

He awoke the next morning to the warmth of the sun's rays on his face and the coolness of the grass beneath him. Sitting up and rubbing his aching head, he realized that he had no idea what just happened. Looking down at the ring on his hand, no longer pulsing with inner light, he remembered a name. "Dúron. That's my name!" he shouted aloud. Standing up, he began to walk.

After travelling for several days, Dúron came to the gates of the city of Caliphas. Coming into town he was greeted as a nobleman due to his fine robes and jewelry, many of which were once magical items before their power was drained away. Once in town, he sold off all of his possessions aside from his silver ring and made a modest life for himself in the city. He took to studying the arcane arts, drawn by a natural longing for magic. He also studied history extensively, learning that Elves like himself are long-lived and hoping to find some hint to his identity within the writings of the past hundred years. He read about the more ancient history of the realm as well, but more as an academic pursuit and has never suspected that Dúron Avantara, the Elven Archmage of lore could have any connection with himself aside from simply being an ancient namesake.