#dndpc

‘The Valiant…’

It may have been a bit silly, but Argynvost himself had strived to give everyone a title.

Rhys rarely ever felt like he deserved it. He had become a rather decent Exorcist in his time, but he also just played his dumb little flute or swung his swords around.

Despite it all, in his brief moments of addressing his order, the Silver Dragon was always so proud. His laughter would bellow over the keep, and he always greeted everyone with kind words or a scaly smile.

Rhys’ march came to a slow as more reminders of his failures drowned out any other thought.

His chest tightened and he held back a sob, ‘How did everything go so wrong?’

He was supposed to save them...

Godfrey had been teaching him how to keep the dead at bay. He was supposed to ward them off—let everyone else escape!

They had already lost half of their team: Caleb, Fern, Gwen…

His brother…

It was all he could see—A veil of memories billowing before his eyes: The blood, the screams, the fiery storm…

‘Argynvost falling from the sky…’

Of course, by the morning, these memories would fade; just like they had countless times before. He would wake up looking for their camp, asking anyone who would listen if they’ve seen armor like his…