As the knight dressed in bright crystalline pink armour marched down the streets, armed with swords, shields, axes, spears, maces, crossbows and staffs; the people could not help but laugh. The Armour made of Artregonite looked ridiculous.



“Stop laughing!” one knight yelled. The people only laughed harder, and the knight wondered why she said that as it felt out of character for her.

Even the people invaded Thragon Manor, could not help but laugh - luckily this made them unprepared as the archers rained down hell upon the revolutionaries. Many of the revolutionaries were of magical ability, which made them wiser than others who were not able to see the injustice of the Duke clearly. Using their staffs, wands, hands, or by whatever method they used, they struck the knights with deadly spells and curses. But nothing happened. They were confused - how? How could this happen?

“This city must be militarised. No revolutionaries shall survive, and no Vakshi shall break in.” the Grand Duchess ordered the Duke of Thragon as the revolutionaries were slaughtered. A New Era had begun.

Epilogue

Under the city, and in the sewers, laid the syndicates of crime. There were secret bases and hideouts dotted all around the sewers - much to the dismay of the Slime-Folk - and the Leaders of the Prythonic Kingdom had no idea (or at least, most of them) - the city guard had searched for decades but to no avail.

But at the centre of it all was the Golden Palm. A tavern where all the criminals of the Underworld could meet up and mingle. Run by the Syndicate, it was a place used mostly for gambling, drinking, and meetings. Ebery gang or group or notorious individuals had their areas, their tables. Some weren’t even criminals, just hanged out there.

In a corner, deep into the bar was the Dungeon, the table belonging to Dread. Dread was a Trickster Goddess - a powerful being that was not a Deity but posed as one to cause havoc. Only fools chose to come to this table. The rest were either forced against their will, had no other option. Their was dark red aura surrounding the table, and within was manic laughter and the sound of rolling dice - the favourite playtool of Dread’s, used to decide a variety of things, not limited to the survival of others at the table.

” Natural d20. It looks like you’ll be dead… unless you help me. A group of adventurers are on a quest. Find them and bring them to me, and make sure they suffer.” Dread sneered.

“And what if I don’t?”

”You are in my debt. You came to me, wanting me to save your wife’s life. But that comes at a cost - you must play my games. And you failed, you died. You are dead. You are an animated corpse… but would you like me to revive you so that you can see your wife again, then you must complete my task.”

“You’re a monster.”

”Yes. And you’re a good man. Good people like you must be broken.” Dread disappeared in a puff of red smoke but her cackles haunted the air as the man set off to complete the mission.