It's time to announce the winners of our "Put Your Name In Camelot" contest. We've received so many wonderful entries and the competition was fierce! Hold onto your dragon armor, here are the results:
First Place Winners
Albion: Los Ortiz of Guinevere
Hibernia: Chareos of Gareth
Midgard: Amaravasa Das of Guinevere
These players will have an NPC named after them that will take up the dragonslayer's post in allied towns of the dragon zones. These NPCs will have portions of their stories referenced in their text as well.
Honorable Mentions
Albion: Alisagne Mabon of Percival
Hibernia: Raykahn of Lancelot
Midgard: Togh Gnot of Palomides
These players will have an NPC named after them that will be located in the allied towns of the dragon zones.
Thank you to everyone who entered and contratulations to our winners! The winning stories and screenshots are listed below.
First Place Winners
Promises by Los Ortiz of Guinevere
He took a deep breath as he lowered his visor, never taking his eyes off the ruins of Dartmoor Castle, the Dragons lair. This was it he told himself as he silently counted the Giants protecting the Lair.
He assured himself his courage would hold, that he would charge through them and slay the Dragon, freeing the land once and for all from the terror of the Dragon and it’s misguided followers, fulfilling his promise to Lady Elia and the people of Ludlow.
All the while one thought dominated his mind, not fear of death, he had abandoned that fear long ago, no he thought of his Wife, who would be waking soon to find him gone, soon she would be reading his letter explaining why he had left, and how the realm needed him.
She would be reading about how much he loved her, her and no other, and that even death could not bind him from her and she would be crying, fearing he would never return.
The thought of her crying slayed him like no blade or arrow ever could as he gripped the reins of his horse and readied his lance.
Upon his right Lady Muselyte peered over the hill top where she and the others hid.
"Well? What’s he doing?" asked Sir Sabbince.
"He is sitting tall in the saddle, his lance ready." answered Lady Muselyte.
"When he has drawn out the Dragon, we will join the attack." Sir Sabbince reminded the brave souls who had come to rid the land of the Dragon. "Lady Muselyte…" he started to say.
"I shall keep him alive or perish with him." answered the determined Cleric. You shall not make a widow of your wife this day she silently promised as he spurred his horse and charged.
I Am The Puller by Chareos of Gareth
Great, Chareos thought bitterly, I should have let the hero do this, but NO! I had to open my big mouth.
Sliding through the shadows of this cursed dragonsworn land, the lithe ranger moved ever closer to his target trying to avoid the roaming patrols of Glimmer Knights and Deathwatchers. He slid along the edge of the ruined wall with long practiced ease remembering all he was taught by the master ranger that took him in and showed him the trade.
I am going to end up inside this dragon’s gullet, a tiny morsel of flesh before he devours the rest of the champions!
The thought made Chareos smile suddenly as he eyed the huge beast before him, an image of the dragon coughing and choking on his little ‘keen body came to mind. He loosened his blades in their scabbards just in case he did actually get swallowed. He’d give that dragon a right nasty taste of steel from the inside.
Judging the distance to his target to be at its farthest with a practiced eye, the ‘keen ranger called the most powerful spell shot to mind and drew an arrow in one swift motion. He settled into his shot and drew a deep breath letting only a small bit out as the bowstring locked into the corner of his mouth. Arm locked and steady, Chareos slowly pulled on the string even further and opened his fingers. The string twanged and he watched as the shaft sped towards the dragon.
All eyes turned on him as he popped out of stealth while a horrendous, deafening roar told him that the arrow hit its mark. Here we go again, he thought as he crested the hill where the other dragonslayers waited, blades and spells at the ready.
For Midgard by Amaravasa of Guinevere
"Battlesinger! Amaravasa! Tell the story of the three dragons?" piped a chorus of small voices insistently. Tiny hands touched the hem of the skald's resplendent cloak reverently. The children's eyes widened in awe as they fell on her two fearsome swords.
Laughing, Amaravasa twitched the hem of her cloak away from the inquisitive fingers. "Again? Are you not yet tired of that tale? I have sung of nothing since of late!"
The sea of children shook their heads solemnly. They would never tire of the tale, Amaravasa thought to herself. Ah, the world of children, where all was safe as a faraway story. She smiled.
Amaravasa strode to the Circle of Ceremonies, and bowed her head to invoke Bragi's blessing. Raising her head, she began to recite:
Three dragons there were,
Deep in Gjalpinura's lair.
Their fiery breath and fell magics
Scorched Malmhous's air.
On the hillside there stood
A force assembled to fight
These deathbringing dragons,
To bring back the light.
The Hibernian dragon
Fell first to our might
Our ranks never faltered,
We slew Cuuldurach that night.
But hark! There was more!
The dragon of Albion attacked.
We picked up our weapons
And fought Gorestadt back.
Not a moment's respite
Were our numbers allowed,
For Gjalpinulva swooped in,
Like a wrathful cloud.
My sword was heavy
But I hefted her anew.
Her shining blade sung,
And, as always, struck true.
On we pressed! Onward!
Charge the lair!
Soon will we be known
By the title Dragonslayer!
Together we fought,
Drawing upon each other's might.
Gjalpinulva fell to our force
At the dawn's first light.
Hark! The land has been saved!
All soon will be aright!
The brave horde of Midgard
Has again brought back the light.
She looked at the children and smiled. All was made well again.
Honorable Mentions
Alisagne of Percival
Alisagne tossed her fiery red curls over her shoulder and shrugged on her armor under the guise of night for today she would travel to the lands of the stones and wage battle against the dragons that had overtaken their villages, plundering the people of supplies and security. The guards’ journals indicated that there were several renegades residing in the area, recruited by the dragon king to aid them in their swath of destruction. Alisagne had managed to solicit the services of evicted villagers and others like her, who merely sought a good cause for which to raise their swords and they would meet at daybreak to begin the journey.
The air was rife with the stench of sulfur and the smoke rose like mist from the valleys where green fields once flowed. Together they defeated the hideous beasts, battling one after another until at last they came to the final dungeon, the lair of the greatest dragons.
Alisagne turned to face the army, tugging her helm down and wiping the sweat from her brow with the tattered cloth.
“You have fought with defiance against these invaders of our homes; they who stole from us and coerced others to be thieves! Their roar has come down on many an innocent one from above, forging our heaven to be our hell. But soon their proud lips shall kiss the brimstone that they call home and we shall again be free!”
And with a loud battle cry, the army brandished their swords high over their head, storming the lair as the dragons did fight their final defense. And as the final of the three dragons did drop its mangled corpse upon the blackened earth, Alisagne smiled at her fellow dragon slayers and raised her arm high over her head, proclaiming loudly, “We have won!”
Raykahn of Lancelot
Raykahn tapped his fingers on the table. He had ordered his crepe fifteen minutes ago and it still wasn’t here. It was bad enough that he had to stand in as a guard at Tir na Mbeo with all this dragon nonsense going on, but to be stuck here and have bad service? Unacceptable. As Raykahn looked dazedly out a window he saw a group of people walking towards town from the forest.
He got up and walked to the window. The small group of people were carrying oddly marked banners and wearing a strange style of armor.
“Blasted illusions,” he muttered to himself as he rubbed his eyes. He was starting to regret eating that Forest Heart earlier.
An arrow slammed into the shutter next to him. He stopped and stared at it for a moment, reached out, and calmly closed the window as a second arrow landed next to the first. Turning around, the whole tavern was looking at him.
“Umm….right,” He said, thinking for a moment. He went to the door, opened it, and yelled, “Dragonsworn are coming! To arms!”
Raykahn hurried over to his companion, a huge Firbolg druid that was staring at a wall.
“God, you’ve been staring at that wall for hours.” The Firbolg turned to him, smiled, and stared.
“Right, uh…make me stronger and stuff.”
With a few gestures Raykahn became battle worthy. The firbolg turned back and stared at the wall again.
“Creepy,” Raykahn said walking around a building; he noticed a raider sneaking into town. Casting a spell, he forced the raider’s will to bend to his own.
Raykahn said “Go sacrifice yourself for me on your brethren,” and it immediately obeyed.
Raykahn sighed and muttered, “Some days are just easier than others,” as he ran off to face the raiders.
Togh Gnot of Palomides
"Yes, troll hearts are made of stone.
Children of the Trollfathers were made with the bones of the world.
Better to ask: is a troll's heart small as a pebble or big as a boulder?"
-- Commentaries on the Trollfathers
We came to Galplen years ago, frosty-eyed, our skin unweathered, seeking fame and honor for our families. Humble Galplen's poor stone walls seemed ready to burst with trolls of all shapes and sizes. We were fleet of foot and younger than any self-respecting rock would ever admit to being.
Many brothers and sisters, in their young disregard, would seek out trouble where there was peace. The priests of Ymir, under whose tutelage I was entrusted, had just taught me to see today's actions affecting tomorrow's world. With this lesson newly learned I came across my siblings killing svartalf outcasts.
The svartalf of Myrkwood were a quite abused people. Enslaved by Arachites, at odds with Werewolves, some of these gentle souls took shelter on an island near Galplen. When the petty children of the Trollfathers made sport of them I put a to stop it, saying, "Trouble not the shy svartalf, for there will come a day when you wished you were in their good graces!" Some laughed at me, but many did listen. I have defended the svartalf my whole life.
Imagine my surprise meeting the svartalf envoy from the deepest valleys of Malmohus! When I heard his plea for aid to fight Gjalpinulva I joyously rode to Svarhamr carrying letters and messages from the svartalf of Myrkwood. The retiring svartalfar of Malmohus uncharacteristically greeted me with open arms and I did my best to help and serve them.
As the priests of Ymir say: Ymir goes around, then comes around, and so it is with the rest of the world.
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