egate Lazarus, lord of the Sixth Legion, watched in horror as his warriors made a final stand against the hordes of chaos. Their shields tall and broad held firm against the round shields of the enemy, blocking off all the swords and snarls that fell upon them.

"No! Do not give in to fear, do not give in to hate!" he cried, swinging his sword over his head.

Over his head dragons soared, battling like two tempests. Day and night fire rained, dousing the clearing in abysmal dread. Overrun, but never outdone, they jumped from one point to another, denying defeat as long as possible.

"Soldiers of Alinor, keep your heads high! For the Motherland!"

"Fight! Fight!" the words echoed loud and clear, bursting through the morale of the enemy like a dart through paper. There was no way they could win, they knew it, but they fought on regardless. And Morthaur bowed to them; in his black heart he knew no hatred for them.

And thus Lazarus beheld, as he looked around: the demise of his legion: ten thousand souls squandered on the field of battle. Who would remember them when they're gone? Who would retain memory of the brave warriors who died defending Caravir Dragon-Master?

"I do not want song or epics for us," he lamented, "but only that those who come after us should laud us as those who would not give in. Like a forest we stood against the storm, and like a forest we fell – let it be known!"

And the soldiers echoed his desires, giving their best against the enemy; there was no use to it, but still they did. And no song of valiance they desired, but just to serve their motherland.

Tell me now you folk who inhabit mansions on great mountains: who were they who took it upon themselves to defend Caravir, whether of the Alledor themselves or their allies of renown? They were the folk of Lazar: folk of Legion VI, who gave their lives there that day.

Hearken now to Aginor the Bold, skilled in killing his enemies, and Miloš the Brave, Knight of Alinor, who slew daemons great and evened the score twice that day.

But as hope faded and the last centuries met their end, Miloš gathered his companions: Kolan and Dyril, and charged out atop their mighty steeds, trampling many a foe under their feet.

Ere long he rode, swinging his blade of blue through the flesh of his foes, reddening the glinting metal with unholy blood, his lance struck a shield and snapped like a twig. Five foes he slew then: two by lance and three by sword, trampling through a great many as he passed through the horde.

...

But the way was shut: fire-daemons of great power spawned before him, taking him and his horse off-guard. Miloš retreated, disappearing from the sight of those who want to harm him and into the forest, his companions following. Ere long he rode and then was seen no more.

On the other side Lazar held his own with great force, striking down fifteen foes with ease, neither mail nor helm could stop him. All who stood before him crumbled and withered, fear in grasp of his might.

At last a sword struck his breast and a spear thereafter, for long he battled bravely and mightily, until at last he met his demise. A stern pike nine feet long moved towards him and into his eye, seeping his life out of him.

There in the middle of his praetorians he slept in steel and silver, blood gushing out of his eye. Over him he saw Caravir curled up between two fell dragons, struggling from his wounds and tattered wings.

Lazar watched as Caravir, Lord of the Forest Dragons, plummeted to the ground injured and maimed, and rose again to fight on, and longer he fought, and kept on fighting, until he could no more. Like the heroic beast he was, he fell in battle and passed into the Halls of Kaal.

And then suddenly, to all their horror, his eyes opened again green and pale: their magic was working on him.

"Watch as your loyal defender now turns into a servant of Lord Morthaur," a crackling voice laughed, much to the dismay of Lazar.

Somewhere at a distance a wizard stood, thumping his staff on the ground, summoning forth hordes of daemons to replace those lost in the fighting: he was the source of the incursion, the captain of Morthaur. Glancing at Lazar he cracked a smile, knowing now that he had won.

But just as he lowered his guard, a storm struck him like a shadow unseen: Miloš and his companions charged out of the forest, slaying the bodyguards of the wizard with ease.

The wizard shot at him with bolts of dark energy, killing his horse but not the knight himself. Once again he struck with his bolts of chaotic fire, but like an ancient tree in a meagre flood endured the elf.

"Why won't you die?"

The wizard looked in horror as with a dying breath Miloš the Brave pulled out his dagger and slipped it into his enemy's eye, piercing his socket and brain and his skull behind. Like a snake he twist it, snapping his foe's neck with the motion. "You can break our bodies," he replied, "but you cannot break our spirits."

A minute passed: both his companions died, the wizard died, Caravir collapsed ere the spell took hold of him entirely, crumbling to the ground like a house without a foundation, and Miloš followed.

And so it was: the demise of Legion VI, half the legion squandered and broken. Remember now the story of those who gave up their lives that day, for their gift to the world shall be remembered forever.