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Palesun (June) 8th, 2400
Prince Amund of Angnord

Celebrations were in full swing in the city of Watersbend to celebrate the arrival of the Mithril Sceptre, the legendary artefact passed down through the line of the rulers of Angford. Every noble of the realm was present to witness Prince Amund receive the proof of his inheritance. The prince himself was in deep conversation with Lord Lyrion of Goodrich, one of his closest friends and advisors.
“Finally, father has run out of excuses to keep the Sceptre in Huntington.” Prince Amund spoke with a quiet rage. “Opposition from the church, the dwarves the elves, bandits on the road. Any further delays and people would have started to believe the rumours he wants me disinherited.”
“Amund, whilst King Amyst is not the man he was in his prime, he knows you are a worthy successor to the throne. I suspect he has been poorly advised by barons opposed to the reforms you have implemented here.” Lyrion replied.
“Well regardless,” the prince said having overcome his irritation. “The sceptre is here now. At least the people will have something to talk about other than the latest raids from Mittleheim. Speaking of which, still no news from the commander at Xanders Keep? I had expected his report on security at Haltice by now.”
“No my Lord, strangely we have had no messengers or travellers from anywhere West of Shrewsbury for several days now. I had expected the mayor of Rivermyst to be here before the sceptre arrived. There’s been a strange quiet over the Desryn valley recently.”
As the prince stood to address the gathered nobility, the great double doors of the throne room were thrown open and General Tyralis of the Watersbend guard strode with haste towards him, the old man’s face ashen.
“My Lord,” he began with a slight tremor in his normally implacable voice. “Crows Hold has fallen, the garrison there wiped out almost to the last man. The survivors insist that before the assault, the walls were destroyed by the great dragon of Ymirrenvale, Draca the Dreadwyrm.”
“Impossible,” gasped Amund, “Draca has guarded his hoard in the Heimdalls Mountains as long as anyone can remember.” His face drained of colour as he realised the motivation behind the dragon’s attack, “The sceptre, he’s come for the Mithril Sceptre.”

Over the next week panic engulfed the city. At first the veteran city guard prepared to endure a siege but after seeing the size of the Dreadhoard assembled by the dragon and his human servants, the nobles and soldiers evacuated to the port town of Donsborough. Prince Amund fled to Guildford where he swallowed his pride and asked his sister Princess Krystalis for aid. Emissaries were sent to Angford to beg King Amyst to advance on Watersbend from the West and to the elves of the Beegwulf forest to threaten Draca’s southern flank.
The war of the Mithril Sceptre had begun.