Knights of the Platinum Dragon: A D&D Story

Chapter 10: Hopes and Prayers

The smell of wood glue was thick in the air around Logan, his gloves trying to get stuck in place themselves as he forced the cut parts back together and layered on splinters of fitting sized to fill out where parts of it had been smashed in or sheared off. Thankfully, the smashed door of the Cockatrice had been made of oak too, and the splinters Technus had made were good substitutes for what had been lost in the fight.

Logan dreaded to consider this, even for a moment... but he supposed that Technus' explosive from earlier had a silver-lining. Only a paper-thin one, though.

Once his shield's face was put back together, he pulled his gloves free from his hands and reached for his painting supplies. Dipping his thickest brush into the large pot of navy paint he kept refilling throughout his adventures, he painted a new coat over the entire thing save for the white griffin standing proudly rampant in the centre – so some parts of the blue wouldn't look faded compared to the others. Then, once that had dried, he took a finer brush and began to repaint the griffin itself, filling in any spots where the wood was visible and covering over any parts of the white that were turning grey or beige.

When all this was done, Logan propped the shield up on his knee and examined it closely, his golden eyes narrowing as he searched up and down for flaws anywhere, his brushes still ready to wipe them away.

Thankfully, he didn't see anything, though he couldn't help but double and triple-check for any mistakes or imperfections to the point where his golden eyes became heavy and sore from staring.

Caring for his gear had been a habit worked into Logan until it became an obsession – every evening, he worked to repair any damage that had been done to his effects so he could be ready for the next fight to cross his path.

After all, how could he uphold his duty with rusted armour and a dull blade?

Besides, the Realms were a dangerous place at the best of times, as today had more than proven – one moment, a calm evening in an inn, and the next a bloodbath.

Setting his work aside to dry, Logan's eyes drifted over to where his removed armour rest on a plain wooden chair, pauldrons, greaves and gauntlets rest on the seat while the chainmail shirt was slung over the back. It had been polished and repaired to the best of his ability, and with his shield now fixed, all that remained was his sword.

Rising from his seat and crossing the room, Logan scooped up his scabbard from where it lay upon the desk, just below his room's open window. His family blade rested snugly inside the sleeve of wood and blood-red leather, the edges of the sheath lined with brass. Once he was sat back down on the bed, Logan took a rag, gave the brass a good polish, then drew the sword out to examine the rest of the weapon.

The handle was smooth black leather wrapped over wood, with the gold-and-sapphire wings of the crossguard bordering it on one end, and the pommel depicting a griffin's head, beak open to unleash a mighty screech, protruding from the other. The blade itself was silvered, shimmering in the candlelight, the fuller inlaid with gold filigree and etched with runes that bore its name in the Celestial language.

Sacrifice – a longsword passed down in his family line for over a thousand years. Wrought of spellforged steel, it was light as a feather... yet it felt heavier than the world itself as it sat rested upon Logan's palms. Heavy with the legacy it charged him to carry along with it.

The House of Galehaut had a long history of members swearing themselves to the oathsworn life of a paladin, and some of the greatest heroes that the Realms had ever known came from their lineage. It was said that their family's founding, Sacrifice had been wielded for the cause of justice and righteousness, and this holy duty was borne with the blade as it was passed down their bloodline, the lineage of the Guardians of Frostpeak.