Dreams of Jora's Memories

You dream of a far, far away land that’s a little too warm for your taste but with a pleasant breeze that keeps it nice and cool despite the bright sun. The land is full of wheat and grazing cattle. As you get your bearings a young man with blonde hair and dirty grime-covered full plate strides through the fields. He’s locked eyes with something and the stress and worry that was held in the creases in his face slowly fade away. His armor is ancient, and of a design you have only read about. You hear him call out in a strange yet familiar accent. “Kayel!” and you awaken.

When you wake up Jora is there and he seems confused, “How are you friends with a massive 3-headed dog?”

You are in the middle of a battle, fire, blood, and wet earth saturate the air making it taste foul and bitter. That man in the antiquated armor swings a brilliant sword aflame in light, against a horde of screaming and crying undead. They cry for their families, for mercy, for help, and to be killed, not like regular zombies. Their eyes have a glint of light, betraying their intelligence. The man looks up, his hair covered in blood and mud, his face wild with rage. For a moment it seems like he’s looking right at you, and his eyes gloss over. He reaches for a horn and shouts “Sound the retreat, fall back to Argantus!” and blows a dull note across the battlefield. In the distance, a massive impossibly high wall can be seen piercing through the storm clouds.

You see this man, exhausted from days upon days of travel arguing with a priest inside a run-down temple. A stocky equally exhausted dwarf is not far behind him nodding in agreement with this man in the old armor. The cleric shakes his head, “It’s unfit for a chosen champion to behave in such a manner. You know this, which is why you hid your sins from Anir.” The warrior’s face turns bright red and he storms out of the church knocking several dirty and hungry peasants aside, clutching a small wooden box in his hand as he departs.

You see Jora, riding upon a glowing pegasus, with several other elven riders ridding griffins, hippogryphs, wyverns, and even a green dragon. They are assaulted by gargoyles and a black tide of skeletons who launch themselves from the massive gate of Khoven. Several riders are knocked from their perch and nearly a mile towards the distant battle on the ground. They’re near the top of the gate, upon which you stand. Several other men and women in black and red robes are hurling spells of various potency down upon Jora and his companions. The dragon is charmed, and barrel rolls, smashing its elven rider to paste upon the wall. Jora screams for his lost companion and narrowly avoids being swallowed whole by the dragon. You see a golden aura envelop Jora, it grows in power and crackles. Then nothing. The pegasus he’s riding turns suddenly and flees from the wall leaving his companions to die, while Jora screams in outrage at the betrayal. The only survivor is the green dragon, who remains enslaved to the will of the evil mages.

You see Jora his armor ragged and tattered from months of neglect. His brilliant glowing sword is wrapped in a cloth. He’s traveling with an older bald man in red and black robes. The pair are in a ruined church of Anir, still smoking from the fire that had destroyed it. Jora seemed distraught, and like he hasn’t slept in days. The bald man finishes drawing a magic circle on the ruined floor of the church and purple and red flames erupt from the circle in a violent unearthly scream. A tall red-skinned man with curved horns, cloven hooves, white hair, and black eyes steps through the portal. A billowing cloak of shadows twitches behind him giving the illusion of wings. He gives a mirthless smile, “Greetings young Paladin. I am Mephistopheles, I understand you’ve had a change of heart.”

When you awake, Jora looks more serious than you’ve seen. “Who is this high and mighty asshole in your life who has spears in the shape of lightning bolts?”