The winter snow came down in sheets as they rode out of Le Elorean and crossed the Marellocoile to the south-east of their previous location. "Why are we going to Drakoria, Percival?" Metimafoa asked, his voice containing a slight frigid vibrato. "Last I heard, it was razed to the ground."

"Two reasons," Percival explained, "the first and foremost being that as we found Simon in Elorean, we have to assume we will find some loyal dragonborns, and they should be of great avail to us. Their racial ability should be enough to concern Gyges, at least enough to make him accept a duel."

"I still don't think this will work, Percival," Faramaureä stated for the sixth time over their journey. "Gyges may be a miserable excuse of a man and an utterly despicable individual, but he isn't an idiot. He knows he will have the better terrain, being in a castle, better supplies, having access to the entire Kingdom, and a larger army. Why would he risk it all on a duel?"

"You're the one who mentioned his egotistical self-image," Percival answered. "If he cares so much about how the people think he looks, he won't have a choice."

Faramaureä was disquieted, but she held her tongue, instead only thinking the phrase. We might need a greater incentive than that... Percival was unaware of this thought for obvious reasons, and rode his horse onward, until they could see the village in the distance. Smoke rose from its obsidian buildings and yellow uniforms marched throughout the piles of rubble, with some picking up the purplish-black rocks and loading it into carts. The Vilzriquathtorixen Hall was well lit, as residence had been taken up there since the two heirs had stayed in its torrid halls. She saw all of this and knew that Gyges had taken the city. "We can't go here, Percival," she stated, "The city is far more occupied than I had predicted. There must be a hundred soldiers there."

Percival had stopped on his horse and was looking at the village before them. Even now, he wished for the warmth of the Obsidian Hall, and even more so, for the Halls of Meneltarma. He wheeled his horse to face his siblings. "Give me our Banner."

Metimafoa was speechless for a moment, but he recovered enough to say, "You can't seriously still intend to go in there. There are only five of us, and there are a hundred of them." He paused when Percival gestured for him to hand over the banner anyway. "We'll be butchered like lambs at the slaughter!"

"No, you won't, Metimafoa," he said with maddening calm, as he rode his horse over and pulled the pole from his younger brother's hand. "I'm going in alone."

"Not a chance in the Halls of Mordelisk!" Canoelloestel exclaimed. "Are you mad, Percival? Even your family couldn't face up to eighty guards, and there were eight of them. You want to face odds of a hundred to one."

"I won't be alone. I said 'I'm going in alone,' not that I would be fighting alone." He pointed to the village. "In that village, over a hundred Dragonborns are living under martial conditions. They will fight for whoever comes to free them, and avenge this razing of the Drakorian folk." He away toward the village. "I trust you will come when I call, but apparently I trust you more than you trust me." He spurred his horse and rode off, leaving them all where they sat.

Percival entered the city perimeter moments later and dismounted. Immediately going toward the centre fountain, he was stopped by a officer. "What is your name?" The woman asked, gesturing for some of her men to stand by.

"I am one who bears a name known to all of you, but I am known to none of you." He held up the banner, and said, "I will give you this one opportunity to flee, but if you do not take it, I am not responsible for what happens to you."

The woman looked enraged, and gestured for the men behind her to raise their arrows. "How dare you speak to me in such a form of indifference. I'll ask you once more: What is your name?"

"I speak to you like that, because, when last I checked, a King outranks an officer." He pulled on a string, and the banner unfurled, a purple sheet marked with a large orange gem, woven of copper wire. "I am Percival Estelondo, son of Saironellotoron II and Morelanor, and the Rightful King of Meneltarma. I hereby claim this City under the Line of Estelondo, and you owe me your allegiance. "

"Like hell we do," she cried, and gestured for the men to fire.

Their arrows released, but he put up a wall of fire and threw it at them, burning their arrows up, and sending them fleeing, and the launched wall blasted one of the houses nearby, disappating over its obsidian surface, and drawing the attention of all of the nearby guards, who drew their sword and began their charge.

Drawing his own, Percival raised its cobalt blade and said "Rally to me, Drakorians! Rally and rise to be free!" He stood with his back facing the banner and the fountain, and stood as the force of twenty before him charged as one. His sword swung once, causing several to jump back, but had to backswing quickly to prevent any from filling the gap. They stilled for a moment, and he stepped back into the fountain, barely avoiding a blow from a shortsword that chipped the edge of the fountain. A man went to climb over it, but Percival stabbed him in the right shoulder, leaving him to fall back into his compatriots. Two more went to climb in, but he slashed twice desperately, forcing them back.

"Archers!" a voice called, and the force spilt for several men to run in with crossbows. Percival barely submerged in time to avoid the six bolts that struck the statue behind him. He stood up, but three men had entered the fountain, and more were following, as he jumped-hopped to the other side of the statue.

More piled into the fountain, ten or more, as he jumped out the other side and cried out, "helimosêr!" A ball of lightning flew out of the end of his sword, striking the water, and electrocuting all inside of it, and with a collective groan, they fell dead. The others ran around the fountain, and had surrounded Percival completely, where he stood, having scrambled to his feet.

"To the King," cried a voice from his memory, and the guards turned to face this new threat. Behind them, Drakorians were filing the street and charging. None of them had traditional weapons, as their weapons had been confiscated, but they had armed themselves with whatever they could. Some had boards, some had rocks, and one had a pair of lanterns noticably. But this was the army of a king; not some group of well-armed, well-trained, despondent soldiers who were doing no more than their jobs. No, The Army of a King is not one based on law but passion, and these dragonborns, no more than thirty at first, were far more passionate than any of the soldiers who had destroyed their homes. This angry throng fell upon the forces of Meneltarma, and the forces scattered, cast aside by these large, empassioned men and women clad in their scale armour of red and white and blue and green and black. Percival raised his sword and cried "Rally to me, Arckrhasek, son of Charflesidek and over throw those who have usurped us." He clambered up the fountain statue, and was paid no mind by those who were defending against the Dragonborn Horde. "Come, Siblings and General! Rally to me!"

The sound of horses hooves did not add much to the din, but in they came; three horses, and three more fighters for the cause of Estelondo. But his sister came not forth with them, and he was wondering where she was when he felt the rumbling beneath his feet. He turned his eyes back to the volcano in the distance and realised what was about to happen. She wouldn't... Oh shite.

He threw himself down into Gyges horde and started swinging like a madman, calling out "Flee! Flee if you want to live!" And with a madman falling into their midst from the sky, their resolve broke. Without order, they rose as a snake after a great fall and fled with a much tact.

Percival gave no chase, and the mountain continued its rumbling, drawing his attention once more. As his eyes locked on the house where he and his sister had once stayed. The lad who had called out earlier ran over to him. "Percival, you witty worm of a boy, how are you?"

Percival turned toward the red dragonborn with fear in his eyes. "You can't control lava by any chance, can you, Arckrhasek?"

"No," The lad said, following the Prince's previous eye lock. "Oh Merdae. Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be, given that its rumbling is new."

"How long do you think we have?"

"I'm not sure," Percival answered, his eyes going back to the plume of smoke that was billowing out of every window in the Obsidian Hall. "I don't have much experience wi--"

At once, the ground rumbled so fiercely that most of their force was knocked off their feet, and those that remained standing only did so by clinging to nearby structure. Percival waited no longer. "Everyone retreat! The volcano is stirring! Flee for all you hold dear!" Percival took, Arckrhasek's hand, as the Drakorian Heir had already risen, and both of them waved people onward toward the road. Looking around to ensure that everyone had gone, they started to run. They ran as fast they could, not even bothering to mount the horses. A slap on the rump sent them running, and together this crowd of nearly