Solomon Lancaster/The Final Act
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
The sky was black for the swarms of Rikti attack ships, the formations of destroyers and assault cruisers blocking out the very sun.
Between the advancing armada stood an army of men and women; some in brightly colored tights, others in powered suits of armor, others seemingly in street clothing. Among the throng of heroes stood Solomon Lancaster, the Arch-magus In his black and grey chain and leather armor, he cut a grim figure. The stern grey eyes peering through the helm did little to counter the image.
From his left, a man of olive complexion spoke. “Try not to die today, eh Sol?”
“Aye” the wizard nodded grimly, his steel grey eyes fixated on the invaders. “I will make a point not to, Andras.”
The man’s attention turned from the Wizard, to the steadily growing spheres of green light manifesting in front of them as the Rikti began teleporting in their ground forces.
The wizard’s grip tightened on the rune inscribed staff held in his left hand, as his right dropped to the hilt of the greek-style xiphos he kept at his hip. His fingers closed around the sword’s grip, his eyes closing as he spoke a simple prayer.
”Be this my final day, let it be memorable.”
With a smooth and well practiced motion, he drew the blade from its scabbard as the alien invaders advanced upon the line.
The order was given and the heroes sprung into action. Those capable of flight took to the skies to engage the assault craft, those who could not threw themselves into the advancing infantry’s line. The air crackled and filled with automatic fire and bolts of every energy imaginable as the heroes did what they came to do. They fought, selflessly and without hesitation.
And amidst it all, was the Arch-mage. The war mage. It was as a familiar dance to him; gouts of lightning and fire erupted from his staff devastating his foes as his steel flashed, every thrust and slash finding purchase in their alien flesh.
In the tumult, he lost track of his friend, but he did not worry. He knew the man was a fighter, and could more than fend for himself. He did not worry for his apprentices, for he knew he had trained them well. He did not about his loved ones, for he knew they were far from this place and safe. He did not worry about his survival, for there was only the present moment, and the fight.
Here at the end of the world, it was a poem that came to mind. A favorite from his childhood.
These woods are lovely, dark and deep...
A rikti soldier approached him, screaming a war cry, a large wicked looking blade raised over its head. The heavy blade came down slowly and clumsily. He dodged to the side and thrust with his sword, catching the alien in the heart. It fell lifelessly to the ground.
...but i have promises to keep...
He spoke a cantrip, and the very earth rose in front of a group of rikti, cresting and engulfing them like a crashing wave.
...and miles to go before i sleep...
Thrusting his staff towards and assault drone, he summoned his will. It coursed through his staff and towards the machine as a giant ball of kinetic energy, hitting the robot like a giant fist and nearly folding it in two. It skittered away, crashing through formations of its allies.
He turned to face the hordes, his staff readied at his side. He slowly raised his sword, point towards the enemy in challenge.
Miles to go before I sleep.
