https://www.deviantart.com/pm-artistic/art/Dark-Fantasy-Mystic-Wizard-Version-2-936896840

With time to finally think again, Gregor stared hypnotically at the pieces of armor that floated in the air before him. The light from the fires that still burned around him, played off its many folds, bony ridges, and its plates. They also overlapped each other much like segmented armor and had spiked shoulder guards, a horned helmet, and a symbol embossed into the chest. Set in the very image of the demon he had slain, Gregor wondered if Farghoul had created this armor for himself. And yet as he gazed at each piece, its helmet, pauldrons, gauntlets, greaves, and chest plate, Gregor had to admit it looked much too small for him.

His fingers itching to touch it, he almost forgot about the man that hung above him, when Falgorn spoke again, “help me...please.”

Still not bothering to look up, Gregor released a heavy sigh and rolled his eyes. Why in the end did it always come down to him to rescue someone? Why not some other soft-bellied fool? This was just the type of thing that Gauldryon would have loved doing. And yet as he heard the man plead for his help again, Gregor knew he could not leave him up there. Perhaps that fool paladin’s notions of honor had rubbed off on him, but in either case, he would need to find a way to get the man down. He also wondered what had happened to Daria. Had she been able to rejoin her friends? Was she even still alive? Better he did not get the answers to those questions.

Searching the empty chamber around him, he found nothing but the demon’s corpse, its body congealing in a pool of heavy blood, and in its hands the mighty greatsword. Much bigger, and heavier than Lost Flame, Gregor wondered if he could use it to knock the black spikes free.

Hefting the massive weapon in hand, he finally looked up at Falgorn, and said, “This is probably going to hurt, so bear with me.” He then clasped the weapon in both hands, planted his feet to get as much leverage, and struck the spike that held the man’s right hand.

Releasing an otherworldly scream, Falgorn's skin grew paler if that was even possible, and he bit down on his tongue. But with one arm free, Gregor knew this would get a bit tricky, and he swiped at the next spike. This time, however, Falgorn let out an ear-piercing shriek, before he swooned, his face becoming a sickly purple as he hung by his feet.

Quickly moving as Gregor felt his arms begin to tire, he attempted to knock the last two spikes in one final blow. Greatsword sweeping out in a blinding arc, he all but hit them one after the other and had to drop the weapon with a clang as he caught the frail body in his arms.

Unable to believe how this man could even be alive, Gregor lay him gently down on the ground. While a part of him wondered now if it was time to go. After all, there was nothing else that he could do for the poor bastard, but as he started to turn away, he let out a short gasp of surprise. The man’s wounds vanished one after the other until he was completely healed. Naked, and shivering on the stone floor, Gregor lay his bearskin cloak over him, and again wondered who he was.

But eventually, his gaze returned to the floating armor, and slowly he reached out for it. Inches away from making contact, he felt a jolt of pain and pulled his hand back. Swearing loudly, he reflexly apologized to Kira, felt a stab of annoyance that she was not here with him, and again tried to grab the chest plate.

Thrown halfway across the room by a blast that caused his hair to sizzle, Gregor shook his head, and let out a loud cough. He supposed he should have known that it would be guarded by magic, but how else was he supposed to take the armor? With no flows of energy, glyphs, runes, or anything to even say it was guarded by magic, Gregor wondered if the pain was all in his mind. He had heard of such psychic spells that could do something like this, spells undetectable to the naked eye. If this was one of them, brute force would not work, he had to sense it somehow and unravel it. The problem of course with such things was time, Leyora could be dead by now, her army destroyed, as was his only way out of here.

Thinking it better to move on, he had to admit he was disappointed to lose such a prize, when Sarsonel’s voice spoke in his mind, “Falgorn is the key. Use him.”

But as before, before he could even think to question her, or ask her for help in searching for Kira, he felt her presence disappear from his mind. Damn that blasted witch, and her witchery ways, he thought grumpily as he knelt down beside Falgorn, and shook him by the arm. “Wakey, wakey, mudsap, I need your help.”

Bleary blue eyes looking up at him, Gregor was surprised that despite the dozens of scars on the man’s pale face, he was quite young. With a square jawline covered in brown bristles, dark sweaty hair, and rough skin, Gregor would have thought this Falgorn a soldier of some type. He had the wiry build and sinewy muscles of someone that knew how to fight.

Slowly getting up, he murmured, “thank you, stranger, you have no idea how long I’ve been hanging up there.”

Remembering Kilgorn’s story, Gregor let out a dry chuckle, and replied, “Oh, I have some idea. You care to tell me how it is that you’re still alive?”

Gregor's bear skin cloak wrapped around his shoulders, the man licked his parched lips and smiled, “it is a gift from a friend long ago. Although for the past hundred years, it has felt more like a curse. I’m guessing you wish to know how to break through that shield.”

His head nodded in mute reply, Gregor looked back up at the floating armor, and grunted, “You’d be right. What is it? And how can I break through?”

His now frail hand reaching out, Falgorn closed his eyes again, and as his back straightened, the bearskin cloak was transformed into fine fur-lined robes, a globe of light burst to life in his hand, and his eyes began to burn a fiery blue. “By the powers of Lord Sezarath, God of Death. Show me the hidden, break the world free of webs, and bring forth what is veiled from sight.” His booming voice took on a strength Gregor could never have imagined of the man as his stooped shoulders straightened, and he stood tall. The sharp explosion of light that pulsed out of him, revealed currents of red energy that swirled through the air around them, before the bubbles of magic dissipated.

Breathless as he stared from the wizard to the armor, then back to the wizard, Gregor could not believe the man’s power. But with his attention drawn once again to his prize, he stretched out his hand, and unlike before, he felt it come alive. The molded plates unraveled and reshaped themselves around his body until he was covered from head to foot.

Shaken at how light it felt on his skin, he gasped as the helmet reformed over his skull, and a voice spoke in his ear. “Guardian form activated.” Stunned by the strange voice in his head, he held up his arms and watched in blind fascination as flames gleamed on bones mixed with red slivers at the joints. “--How?”

Falgorn’s lips twisted into a broad smile, the powerful wizard replied, “another gift of mine from a different lifetime. May the armor of Bethal’Mashar serve you well as it did me. And now it’s time that I leave.” The man’s swirling robes began to break into white mist, when Gregor desperately cried out, “Wait! I came here in search of a young woman! Her name is Kira! I need to find her!”

Blue eyes gleaming with amusement, the wizard laughed, “why she has never left you, Gregor, she is right here. She watches you from the shadows.” Then just like that, the man was gone, and Gregor was left to figure out what in the hells he could possibly mean.

With the oppressive dark closing in all around him, Gregor decided it was time to leave, and noticed the fires dying down. The mass of congealed blood at his feet had turned to ice, and Gregor saw movement from the shadows.

The voice of the armor, inquired, “shall I create light?”

Startled again by how the voice spoke to him, Gregor replied, “yes, give me light.” The soft glow that surrounded him, revealed dozens of lumpy black masses that fled back into the shadows. One of them even disappeared between cracks in the wall. What in the blasted hells were they?

And again it was the armor that responded. “Errhlings, otherwise known as shadow-nymphs, are creatures that exist in the underworld, can take any pleasing form that you desire, and can drain the soul out of your body. Primarily located in the Shadow Realm, they are considered quite lethal.”

Muttering an oath about how he much preferred that he did not know, he quickly headed back the way he had come. The lightning obelisks that now sat dormant, began to hum with strange energy as Gregor hurried past, and stumbled back through the archway.

Catching his breath as he remembered the feeling of all those hungry eyes upon him, he asked, “what? Who are you?”

“I am Bethal’Mashar, your humble servant.”

Still not sure what to make of the new voice inside his head, Gregor started towards the opposite archway. It was time to see this armory and get out of here. Feeling much safer now, he strode through the opening into a grand hallway lined with braziers. The sudden shift from a cold drafty tomb was replaced with warmth, steam, and a light mist that curled up around his feet. It was like nothing he had ever expected, each brazier that he passed by, lit up as if sensing his presence, and as he neared the end of the hallway, he found a wall of ice formed into the maw of a dragon.

Glaring down at him with its jaws wide open, Gregor half imagined the huge beast coming alive, which he chided himself as being foolish, but as he stepped forward he noticed the mist fade away, and a series of tiles appear before him. Arranged in columns with several rows, the first began with a dragon in flight, the second a skull with crossbones, the third an old frail woman, the fourth was a griffin, and the last was a basilisk.

Delayed once more by yet another possible trap, Gregor had a dark feeling that things were just about to get harder for him when Bethal chimed in. “My lord, if you wish, I can offer you some assistance here. My knowledge is quite vast, and I believe I understand the meaning behind these tiles.”

Unable to believe his good fortune, Gregor replied, “well? Go on then, tell me what they each mean.”

“Beginning from the far left we have Lord Tazrael, God of Fear who is often depicted as a dragon. The skull and crossbones are connected to Lord Sezarath, God of Death. At the center is The Mother, believed to be the creator of Coroleya. The fourth is Galtier, Lord of the Sky. And the final tile is that of Sarsonel, the Lady of Sorcery. Being the most elusive and dangerous of Sezarath's children, she is often seen as a basilisk.”

Letting out a rueful laugh at that, Gregor could well imagine and felt a sharp stab of pain in his mind.