by Tim Burke
The following is the first in a new series of stories called “Tales from the Tabletop”. Each story is a real tale of events at one of the games played at Dragon Gaming.
Whilst there might be some creative licence, the core of each story is true. Some are stories of incredible feats of heroism, others tales of great loss. Some are both, as in this account from a game of Dragonlance: Shadow of the Dragon Queen, recorded by the DM, Tim Burke.
And so, without further ado, we present…
The air in the Northern Wastes did not merely carry heat; it carried the stench of baked stone, burnt sulphur, and the bitter taste of dry copper on the tongue.
Across the sun-scorched, cracked expanse of badlands, The Entourage galloped for their lives. The hooves of their mounts pounded against sun-baked clay and crumbling shale, kicking up dense plumes of pale dust that burned in their throats with every desperate breath. Behind them, obscured only by the hazy, heat-shimmering sky, a terrible noise echoed across the canyons – the slow, heavy beating of massive leathery wings that made the dry earth tremble.
Ahead, cutting through the barren maze of stone plateaus like an open wound, lay a canyon fissure. It was a dark, narrow split in the rock – their only chance for cover. If they could reach those jagged shadows, the rocks would conceal them. If they stayed out in the open expanse, they were easy prey.
“Keep pushing them!” shouted Sir Dorian, his deep voice cutting through the roar of the hot wind.
He rode near the rear on Gwyncalet, his faithful warhorse. The knight’s heavy silver armour clattered with every violent stride, glinting fiercely under the oppressive sun. Even weighed down by pounds of steel in the sweltering heat, Dorian moved with an unyielding, iron resolve.
Suddenly, the hazy skies above tore open.
A massive, reptilian shadow descended with terrifying speed. It was a nightmare given shape – an ancient black dragon, its scales like jagged obsidian, acid dripping from its elongated jaws to sizzle against the parched dirt. The creature let out a deafening roar that shook the canyon walls and sent a shockwave of sheer terror rippling through the party.
It was angling straight for them, cutting off their approach to the fissure. The canyon lips were still a hundred yards out, but the beast was moving far faster than the lathered, exhausted horses could run. Its throat was already glowing with a sickly, corrosive green fire.
In that fraction of a second, Dorian made his choice.
Without a word, the knight hauled hard on the reins. Gwyncalet reared back with a defiant whinny, turning his back on the safety of the rocks.
“Dorian, no!” screamed Vaylen, twisting in his saddle with a trembling hand outstretched.
“Fly, you fools!” Dorian roared, his voice echoing off the canyon stone. “Get to cover! Now!“
He did not hesitate. It was an impossible, glorious, terrifying sight. The knight lowered his lance, dug his spurs in, and charged Gwyncalet straight towards an ancient god of destruction. Dorian roared a war cry, drawing the beast’s full, terrible focus away from the fleeing party.
The dragon shifted its descent, its jaws opening wide. A torrent of black, steaming acid erupted from its maw. Dorian guided his lance straight into the monster’s chest, the strike connecting with a cataclysmic impact that lodged the steel deep into obsidian scale. But the wave of corrosive death overtook them instantly. Gwyncalet collapsed as the acid hit, his loyal heart beating its last for his master.
As his steed fell, Dorian summoned the last of his magic, vanishing in a swirl of silvery mist and reappearing directly onto the dragon’s back. He struck again and again with his blade, buying every second he could as the beast thrashed in fury.
From inside the lip of the canyon, the rest of the party scrambled from their mounts and tumbled into the dry, dark shadows of the rock. They pressed themselves flat against the canyon wall, white-knuckled, weeping in silent, helpless horror as they watched through a gap in the stone.
Dorian’s sacrifice had worked. They were safe in the deep rocks. But their champion lay broken out in the open.
High above, the beast let out a low, triumphant hiss. A massive wing buffeted the knight, sending his bruised body tumbling to the dark clay below. The monster’s talons closed around Dorian’s limp form, lifting him high into the sweltering air before banking over the canyon floor.
For a terrible minute, the dragon circled the sky above the fissure. It could not see the small figures huddled in the deep cracks of the stone below, but it did not need to. It knew they were there.
And it had brought them a message.
Clutched in the massive talons of its foot was the broken silver form. Dorian’s cloak fluttered uselessly in the slipstream, dark with acid and baked mud.
The dragon levelled out over the fissure, its massive shadow eclipsing the relentless sun. Then, with a casual, cruel flick of its claws, it let go.
The silence of the canyon was shattered by the sound of the descent. A sickening rush of hot wind, followed by a heavy, bone-breaking thump that echoed off the dry rock barely a dozen paces from where the party cowered.
High above, a voice like grinding tectonic plates rolled across the barren expanse, dripping with dark amusement and ancient malice.
“You took something of mine,” the dragon bellowed, its roar vibrating through the stone. “I took something of yours.”
With a massive sweep of its wings, the beast rose higher into the heat-haze to pursue some unknown prey, leaving behind only the howling wind and the stillness of the grave.
For a long, agonising second, no one moved.
Then, the illusion of discipline collapsed into raw, unfiltered panic.
They spilled out from the shadows of the rock, scrambling across the sun-baked gravel.
“Dorian!”
It was Meg who reached him first. The druid dropped to her knees in the dirt, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. The sight before her was horrifying. The knight’s silver armour was cracked and warped, the steel melted where acid had eaten through. His eyes were wide, staring blankly up at the pale sky. There was no rise and fall to his chest.
“No, no, no – by the Green, no,” Meg whimpered, tearing her gloves away with shaking fingers.
She slammed her bare palms against Dorian’s cracked breastplate. She poured every drop of her essence into the ancient, forgotten magic of the earth. Green, verdant light burst from beneath her hands – the stubborn power of wild roots and blooming growth – forcing its way into the cold flesh beneath the steel.
“Live,” she begged, her voice cracking. “Dorian, live!“
The light flared, flickered, and died against the dry heat.
She tried again. And again. She pushed harder, burning through her inner wellsprings of power until the air smelled of scorched moss and ozone. But the stone of death refused to yield. Green sparks danced wildly across her skin, blistering her palms and searing her fingertips, flesh charring under the strain. Still, she pressed down, weeping hysterically, her raw, bloodied hands trembling violently as her magic sputtered out, leaving only ash and raw skin.
“It’s not working,” someone whispered, the sound choked with grief. “Meg, stop, you’re hurting yourself -“
“I can’t lose him!” she shrieked, collapsing forward over Dorian’s chest, her scorched forehead pressed against his ruined armour.
Around them, the rest of the party fell into a hollow silence, kneeling on the baking ground.
At the edge of the circle stood Vaylen.
The apprentice wizard stared at his own hands, then at the broken body of the knight. He had spent years in dusty libraries, memorising intricate gestures and precise geometry, learning that magic was a science – a strict discipline of logic and formulas.
Yet in this moment, every formula in his mind vanished.
A terrible, hollow ache tore through Vaylen’s chest. He dropped heavily to his knees in the dirt beside Meg. He did not reach for his arcane focus. He did not recite an incantation.
He simply buried his face in his hands and let out a broken, anguished cry.
“Mishakal…”
The name left his lips not as a scholar’s invocation, but as a raw plea from a shattering soul.
As Vaylen squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear slipped down his cheek. It fell through the hot air, crystal-clear, landing directly upon the acid-scarred steel over Sir Dorian’s heart.
The instant the tear struck the metal, the sweltering wind died.
A soft, brilliant pulse of sapphire light emanated outward from the drop, rippling across the knight’s broken armour like a pebble dropped into a still pool. It was not the wild blaze of Meg’s nature magic, nor the volatile crackle of an arcane spell.
It was an overwhelming wave of pure peace.
The suffocating heat of the Northern Wastes seemed to melt away, replaced in an instant by the gentle warmth of a summer sun and the faint, impossible scent of fresh rain and crushed lilies. The sapphire light washed over the entire party, smoothing away the agonising dread in their chests, hushing Meg’s desperate sobs, and soothing the blistering burns on her hands.
Where the blue light touched Dorian’s shattered form, the sound of grinding stone echoed – bones mending, metal easing, life rushing back into a cold vessel.
The sapphire glow flared once, brilliant and soothing, and then sank deep into the knight’s chest.
Sir Dorian’s eyes snapped open. A violent, shuddering breath tore through his throat as his lungs filled with air, his chest heaving against the warped steel of his armour.
Silence fell over the canyon once more.
Meg gasped, her healed hands hovering over Dorian’s moving chest in utter shock. The rest of the party stared, breathless, suspended between terror and absolute disbelief.
And in the middle of them all sat Vaylen, trembling in the quiet, finally realising that the magic he had carried his entire life had never come from books or arcane formulas at all. He’s not a wizard, he was something else, something new – perhaps even something ancient and long forgotten…
