Pathfinder Kingmaker

An Ending

With the help of Pik, the foul poison inflicted by Tessara was expunged from his system and Zion was finally able to try to get the rest he sorely needed to make a real difference in the defense of the kingdom.

His dreams, ever since he was able to take dragon form, had become more clear, and possibly a little clairvoyant. He dreamt of the war. The battles he was a part of but from the distance of miles in the sky. He flew as a separate consciousness. No physical form, no silver scales, nothing. Far below, a battle raged. It meant nothing to the formless thought that was Zion. His power was growing. Magic was consuming him but making him stronger.

There in the distance was Silverstep. Another physical manifestation of the physical world. There is something there but he is unable to grasp it. Further to the west. The capital on the Tuskwater. All these forms, the sounds. He felt himself absorbing their energy, he was detaching from the world.

Once again, the battle drew his attention. Lives on both sides were lost. He saw their souls depart their bodies, and move onto their final resting place. In the middle of the formed chaos came a roar of rage and pain. He didn’t hear it, but more felt it. Why? There were people dying all over this world? Wait….

Half-unconscious and soaked with sweat, Zion bolted out of bed and sloppily started to pull on his boots, getting only one on – on the wrong foot – before he gave up, stood, and to the shock of the attendant who’d barely had a chance to react, disappeared in a whirl of wind.

The air split and Zion emerged from a swirl of compressed air, dropping to the ground inside the ring of thorns. He didn’t know how he’d been able to appear right where it seemed he was needed; he felt something pull him out of his sleep and continue to pull him through void to this spot. Quickly surveying the scene, he saw Anton sprawled on the ground, smoking. The only exposed flesh – his right hand – was charred black. Reg was on top of Tessara, who was dragging herself from out under his brother. The mad druid caught sight of the disheveled silver-haired sorcerer and gasped, then screamed in blind, incomprehensible rage.

Calling down the last of her power over nature, a funnel cloud whirled into existence above Zion and stabbed at him from the sky, lightning firing around it. The sorcerer-king had little to respond with, and simply pointed a finger at the elf, from which pulsed a thin green ray. The elf, light on her feet still and her blood up from the long fight, moved to spring to her left and out of the way, but was caught and instead took the ray full in the chest.

The green ray, upon impact, knocked her flat, in place. As she hit the body of Reg beneath her she shattered into a million tiny motes of dust, which in a second disappeared, as cold breath quickly fades once exhaled. All that was left of her was her left boot, firmly held in Reg’s final grip.

Zion collapsed to his knees and yelled, “healers!!”


Stories spread in the days after the battle, as the troops and some volunteers cleaned up the battlefield. Almost half of the Mistmarchers who fought that day were injured, and almost half of that number died.

What would soon become something of relics from the battle were collected: war axes from the Nomen mosh leaders, and the fine pelts that made up their saddles. Individual soldiers took beaded necklaces off their fallen enemies as trophies.

It was a discovery, however, near the center of the field, that drew the most attention: King Anton’s lance, with two Nomen warriors impaled on it, and its tip driven into the side of a massive Nomen warhorse. The dead were carefully removed and the lance brought back to Tuskwater Castle, still caked in the gore of the dead invaders. The lance, dried gore intact, would one day hang in the Great Hall of Misthaven.

An Ending

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