Hear me those of the city and hear the tale I have to tell. A tale of heroes, of deed s and death. A tale from before cites echoing through the vaults of yore. The tale of Raelion and his shield and a boast made and bargain kept.

In the time before time seven heroes there were, each as different as a new day and each as much a hero as any could see. Above all of these was their lord and father, Lalendar by name, a man of sternness and kindness both, steeped in pride for his sons and proud indeed was he even as he ruled above all as was his due. Now came a day, when all were home, carousing in the feast-hall of Lalendar when the father, a vain and glorious man did cry, aided by his cups, that the gods were anathema and they did but toy with those who were mortal. “Entertainment are we, nothing more than chaff on the wind, to be used and discarded by those cruel gods above.”

And great was the cheering in the feast-hall, for all there had indulged in the warriors reward of winter. And there was no answer to the charge. Lalendar then cries once more, another horn drunk, “Ye any of my sons, brave heroes all could defeat any champion of the gods, were they not so craven as to lurk aloof and uncaring.” To this there rose a silence, the fires dimmed and the light faded from sight.

Three days mortal fool,” whispered a voice sowed with malice, “no longer shall we grant you. Then your life and your sons’ sons’ life shall be ended.” The silence lengthened, until the favoured son, Raelion, spoke. “I will champion my father and my kind,” he said, “and such a championing cannot be one sided. “Your forfeit should I win is that you leave, to slink away and nevermore trouble us with your dealings.” Quoth Raelion, radiant in the firelight, glided seemingly in flame. Silence once more lingered, “It is agreed,” came that whisper, ”dusk on the third day shall you meet your doom.” And the presence was lifted.

The filtering starkness of Dawn stained the windows and those who remained were fearful. His brothers stood and pleaded and begged that Raelion let them stand with him but all he rebuffed for his honour would not let him stand other than alone.

“Then let us aid you another way,” the brothers said and in this he relented for he loved them above all save his father. Then for three days they toiled each adding a little to their design. The first bent the elements and crafted a shield from the world itself, the second sang the songs of the sky to imbue the shield with grace and beauty. The third called upon the blood of beasts to help ward against the elements even as the fourth laboured to add the strength of the oak and the resilience of the rush. Lastly the fifth brother scribed words of war upon its face whilst the six knew not what to add to add except only his love and grief for Raelion.

On the third day it was finished, golden as the sun and as large as any man could lift, a disk to match the wielder.

Then it came.

A horror at dusk, twisted and foul. Fifteen feet tall and sinew and muscle. A Nightmare made flesh, four legs and arms, each gripped with a blade of chillest black. The initial clash of blade against blade was horrific, blow against blow, parry against parry. Block after block with his golden shield, Raelion held his own. A lunge, a strike each was even, for what Raelion lacked in size he made up in skill and of all those who were called hero he was the most skilled, even as the darkness crept upon them in the first ours of the night.

Then a log, part hidden in the murk did trip Raelion, off balance was he and his blade of brightest metal was smashed from his grasp, even as three aimed at his heart. Then he was upon the floor, with one mighty hoof his sword arm was shattered and he cried in pain. Another hoof and another and his legs were broken. The last hoof, struck, down and down as fast as an adders tongue and crashed upon that shield of gold and the horror of the Night cried out as if burned. For now the shield glimmered with light, the light of the sun itself, brighter and brighter, hotter than even a the forge of the smith and in pain it knew fear and in fear it new defeat as the misshapen thing recoiled then lunged once more, to rent the head of Raelion from his shoulders with a single tearing strike.

Unable to move, barely able to think, the mightiest hero of yore lay and saluted his father and brothers as he thrust his left arm towards the sky, as flecks of spittle rained upon him.

All was still, movement slowed until that great maw bit into light.

And exploded in a shower of rainbows, nothing but an azure mist remaining and the broken body of Raelion upon the floor. Solemnly his brothers made forth and removed his shield, then gently they lifted him upon that shield and carried him to Lalendar, each weeping tears of joy and tears of pride in their brother. “Father, it is done,” were the words of Raelion, “the gods are banished and we are free.”

And so the greatest of those heroes of yore died upon his shield and the gods did thus retreat, vanquished as never before. And yet the tale is not done as yet for gods are capricious and seek punishments for slights and insults and thus they cursed the family of Lalendar with those that are Nightmare, to harry those who are mortal for there defeat.

And what of Raelion? No man knows, he was buried with his shield in a mound raised to the stars and none now know where that is.