The winding passages of man's greed and twisting paths of the sea had given way to the contorted trails of the jungle, only to spew her forth into the convoluted passages of the pyramid.
All along the journey, she had not relinquished the crest of the burning mountain upon her chest, had kept the armor meticulously oiled in the dampness of these d**nable reaches, kept the phoenix-wing shoulder pads of the plate armor resplendent, not to bring any shame on Brandburg.
Kismet licked her lips - finally, some foul minions of the hidden master of this place, to question to straighten her path. Wrath and resolve were smoldering within her, forged into a searing composite that would see her through the trials, to see her worthy.
How long had it been since the dawn of this incessant probation? All the roads had blurred into one.
But what an endeavour it was!
The bandits of Bjornholm were strung upon trees, their bodies lending their rancid stench to the breeze and their entrails to ravens.
The demon boar of Dannir was but a stew, far less demonic.
The Unwalked Path in the depths of Brandburg was now but a path, devoid of danger and yielding valuable legacy of kings of yore to the king of today.
The Lying Witch of Lundal was done with her witchery and deceit, her tongue nailed to her door.
The traitorous chancellor Grundtal demoted - from his bastion of rebellion, to the cliffs so far below, his daughter thrown to mercenaries to end his line.
The Life-Water of the Serpent-Sisters now bestowed strength and longevity upon a far worthier recipient, the noble prince Torsten, his eyes even more radiant with its energy, his mighty arms infused with blessed power.
The lost Locket of the Covenant was returned to signify the promise made to Erkenbrand, or so the lore, while the thieves' cries at the pyre signified their promise to steal never more.
She had held Lost Pass Keep against orcish hordes with a hundred men, until its well-deserved name was Greenblood Hold. What a battle!
The Rotten Moor was fertile fields, the cultist coven cloven in twine one cultist swine at a time, and the black heart spewing forth corrupted waters doused with waters divine.
The dragon of Dunmere was found to be but a lizard overgrown, made more terrible by a greedy gnome and his tricks of legerdemain. Yet what is to do with dragons - they must be slain, whether fake or true? She brought back two heads, cleanly severed, although only one was due.
She even found Manzark the Blackened, in his hold of sorcerous ice. Instead of her turned to a frog, she led him to the army's banner, once more with the crown reconciled. Oh, she hoped that would suffice.
Shield raised, the authority of Brandburg clearly emblazoned across, and her flamberge raised and radiant with power, she felt her inner light shine forth as she charged. "Suffer my wrath, witless minions, or show me the path to the master of this place!"
Initiative 12, if you roll higher, feel free to talk before the fool who threw the spear gets two educational sword strikes, rolled 16 and 17 to hit, 28 damage total.