In wonder the adventurers stood awe struck by the beauty and splendour of the surrounding foliage. The great open plain before them transformed from a flat green world into mesmerising colours and movement. The Vissealist stood unmoving, his hands outspread and resting gently on an intricate structure of vines that threaded their way over the wall and into the earth of the plain, spreading outwards from the ramparts of the kings palace.
Like magic Methnik’s sword passed through that of his foes….All too late, the blade was at his neck, it burnt, stinging like acid, it slivered through skin and muscle. Methnik crumpled to his knees, then to the floor, his eyes greyed over and he heard faint words, maybe those of his foe? "Your last lesson in this life. Your teacher? A Serivemn"
A simple flag, faded by time and sun, tattered and worn by untold years flying from the pole of a bannerman, passing hands from officer to officer, from one generation to another. It is a humble symbol of great importance, and greater inspiration to those who see it. Soldiers become heros filled with espirit de corps, enemies loose their nerve and fire. It is not an enchanted item, but a powerful item still...