You passed your agoge trials quite handily, and had earned the respect of both cadets and instructors, but not necessarily friendship. Matthias was still odd, an outsider, and your penchant for looking to the stars made most everyone uncomfortable. 

You recall that Akroans, nor most other societies on Theros looked to the stars. Even for navigation. They discovered other methods to find their way across land and sea. 

They did not look to the skies. For the heavens were closed.

The gods, they say, had long abandoned Theros, if they had ever engaged here at all. 

Remembering this, you also remember never seeing or hearing of anyone anywhere with the ability to perform magic. Whether conjuring a teleportation circle or summon spirit guardians or your own divine smites and banishment–even the advanced power of Absolution,  magic does not exist on Theros.

Clerics do not exist, Sorcerers do not exist. Warlocks and Paladins and especially Wizards do not exist on Theros.

Wild and remarkable creatures do, however. Both humanoids like, centaurs, humans, leonin, minotaurs and satyrs–and monstrosities like giants, hydras, chimera, and and others, dwell in the lands of Theros. 

Ruins of temples built for long forgotten deities still pock the landscapes of more rural areas, indicating that once upon a time believers roamed the world, preaching their prophecies with religious zeal. But those voices have been long since quelled. For when the archons enslaved Theros, it was the strength of the arm of men that liberated the world, not the intervention of unseen machinations of divine essence. 

The might of men and kings are worshipped. Not the stars. Or those who profess to dwell among them.

Still, the dream of magic and the avarice it conjures among those accustomed to acquiring power thrives in the elite halls of Theros. 

In the military, you were again recognized as a powerful individual force, but your oddities kept you from advancement. Ten years as a hoplite, you saw most of your initial unit, known as “The Unbroken,” advance or die. But you survived. And that is something, as your unit was often assigned as the tip of the spear, or the strength of the shield. 

But finally the call came. One of the Dual Kings of Akros called you personally to his tent while the Akros armies gathered on the plains of Pheres. He told you of a treasure rumored to be in the ruins of temple near the Crypts of the Lost, an unsettling honeycomb of tombs where countless undead creatures gather, having dared the perilous path of Phenax to escape the Underworld, but have nowhere now to go, known as the Returned. 

The treasure is guarded by a creature only known as Tymaret, the Murder King, and his horde.

The treasure, a large, jagged claw of dark blue crystal. And the king desires to raise it to a  pinnacle of Akros. And, he says, knows you are the soldier for the job…Captain.

He gives you command of your own unit, a group of competent, loyal, and fierce hoplites. And gives you the honor of naming your new battalion and orders you to retrieve Tymaret’s Claw.  

You make your way through the wilderness to the barren wastes of Odunus, a necropolis for the Returned.  Immediately you notice a community of confused, distracted greying individuals wandering the streets, neither alive nor dead, as if trapped on this material plane. 

A few have made enough sense to interact with others. Gray-hooded figures with carts full of goods, a motley cluster of materials with no rhyme or reason peddle their wares. One pulls her cart up in front of you and begins to bark, listing the many benefits of her wares, a jeweled necklace stolen from the tomb of a noblewoman thought to bring good luck, a sword stained with the blood of a thousand minotaurs, and the like. When you ask about Tymaret’s claw, the merchant stops her barking, covers her goods, and picks up her cart, toting it away without another word. 

Finally, after an hour or so of randomly asking about the Claw, you hear a soft voice from a window of a dilapidated two-story building telling you he has some information that might be of value. 

You enter the building to find shelves upon shelves of bleached scrolls rolled thick on wooden rods stacked high.  The figure, scraggly haired and disheveled is plowing through a particular pile of scrolls, introducing himself as Malagaston, an anographer, a scribe of the Returned. Not a Returned himself, but one who has dedicated his life to recording the half-remembered names, images from dreams, and descriptions of places and people that might once have held meaning. A keeper of the scraps of memory they retain before all their precious knowledge is lost. He is convinced that clues to ancient mysteries or hints to the lost identities of the Returned. 

He shows you a series of scrolls that either reference the crystal claw or Tymaret. You spend significant time and with the cleverest of your team you piece together, the location of the claw and the legend of Tymaret, which causes you and your team to let out a resigned sigh. 

One particular scroll describes an unremarkable soul in the underworld called Tymaret, who witnessed Phenax escape the Underworld, and then told the god of the dead, Eberos, who rewarded him with a cursed blessing: Tymaret would be restored to the mortal world, but bas a Returned, tasked with slaying Phenax. As Phenax was masked when he escaped, Tymaret had no way of identifying him, so he began slaughtering every mortal he encountered confident that one day he would slay the fugitive.  Phenax, left the mortal world to join the gods, but Tymaret and his legions of Returned to eternally kill in Eberos, the keeper of the Underworld’s, name. 

Malagaston also points you to a half-formed memory or ramblings recorded about the claw itself. Something about the repelling the magic of Nyx (the name by which the material plan is known on Theros) and keeping the heavens closed.

Finding your way to the site of the ruins, you begin to hear the clanging of sword against sword, in a rhythmic, ever-growing cadence, soon to be layered with a howling moan of men’s voices. Louder and louder until you see the humanoid forms emerge from the shadows, each of their faces donning golden masks with only their eyes and mouth showing, each of them carrying broad longswords. 

“Those who desecrate the realm of the Murder King will face his wrath and join the wretched of the underworld,” they cry. 

The countless horde attacks, but the hoplites of Akros fear no horde. 

A  fierce battle commences, your fearless warriors hewing down the forest of Returned with each blow, you hack through the horde, sighting their leader, the apparent murder king, attempting to reach the tyrant and end this maddness. But Tymaret was formidable, deflecting your first attack and knocking you prone. You roll out of the way of his fierce blow and attack with your own also deflected. A flash of his sword draws first blood across your abdomen, but awakens the fury within, A massive drive of your spear pierces deep into Tymaret’s chest lodging your weapon into his decrepit flesh. You unsheathed your longsword swinging furiously at the Murder King only to be parried at each turn. 

Finally understanding Tymarets attack, you’re able to feign and thrust your longsword, once again piercing his chest, close to the empty heart chamber. 

“I know you…child of the stars…”

Asteria. 

“You arrive beyond hope,” he wheezes. “The veil of darkness already begins to cover Theros. And only the gods can save you now. But alas, the claw avows a tight grip on the lock that keeps the gods and their gifts out of reach! And I, Tymaret, and my Horde will be the point of the spear, aimed at Akros, for in Akros I will find Phenax the disguised…and the city, will burn.

Suddenly, Tymaret unleashes a ferocious scream and the entire horde immediately disengage with your warriors and head towards the ruins exit.

Hundreds if not thousands of gray skinned evil pour from the halls and crypts, between tombs, from the darkness and towards the entrance you know is just a few hundred yards away. You race on the heels of the horde, pushing several of the Returned out of the way, caring not a button for their groans and blades of protest or the wounds they inflict upon you. 

You must reach Tymaret before he leaves the tomb!

Your soldiers are right behind you, pushing and hacking away at the tangle of Returned. Finally, you glimpse your prey. The rage builds within you, warm and stinging, burning from inside. He will not escape! You ignore your gathering wounds pushing towards Tymaret when suddenly you see it. The entrance. You calculate the distance and speed and with a panic deduce the inevitable, even without the snarl of undead to hack through, you will not reach him in time. 

Still, you push forward, and with the help of your soldiers you fling the enemy from side to side, strength increasing with every step. Perhaps…perhaps it is possible. 

Ten feet away, you can smell the necrotic stench of Tymaret, but alas, gates draw too close! His legion finally turns towards you, grappling, attempting to slow you down. You shirk them away but not fast enough. If he leaves through the gates, you know he cannot be stopped.  His entire legion will swarm upon Akros, overwhelming its forces. 

The fury builds within you to bursting. You grab the end of the spear still jutting from Tymaret’s chest, wrenching it out and jamming it back in, once, twice- until finally, light explodes from the weaving birthmark, consuming each of the Returned within ten feet of you, the brunt of it focused on the Murder King. The walls shake and crumble. Tymaret coils in shock and terror–this burning energy piercing him like nothing he’s known. He attempt to strike at you but you simply brush away the sword, and strike once more against more of the horde attempting to hew you down, but are also consumed by another burst of radiant light. You can’t control it, You fear for the collateral damage. The walls tremble at the radiant force, the gates collapse, and you see the opening give way to wood and stone, trapping all inside. Tymaret wails and limps into the shadows, his legions following, terrorized by the new light. 

Finally, you realize that you yourself, at the very core of the radiant force were affected as well, the burns inflicting your arms, hands, face and exposed neck and chest. 

Your last thought was for your men, and hope that the rushing of footsteps toward you were them…before you black out.

You awake, as once before, in an infirmary, familiar to you, though not the one of your youth. You are back in Akros. It takes a few days, though not as long as expected for you to heal up suitable enough for trial. That’s all anyone would say to you. A court martial awaited you once you were well enough to stand. 

The dual Kings of Akros presided themselves. As  you stood there you were finally told the crime: killing Akroan soldiers. For a soldier to kill another soldier was unforgivable. The punishment was death. You learned that of the 16 men that accompanied you, only three were left to tell the tale and to bring you home.  Three were hewn down by the Returned, while ten, already wounded by the battle, were consumed in the radiant light emitted by you. 

You learned that only two were caught in the first burst of light. The other seven would not leave your side, chopping down what they could, keeping a space for you to focus on your target. They would not leave you, despite the danger. 

You learned that you sealed the gate, and only through sheer will and strength unique to Akroan soldiers did they burrow a way out, then sealed it once again. The three testified that had it not been for you, Matthias, the city of Akros would have been threatened with a necrotic destruction. That somehow, you took the bulk of necrotic strikes, attempting to focus the battle on yourself, but took far less damage than the rest of your men. 

The Kings were forced to reconcile your heroic deeds with the death of their soldiers. 

“Did you find the claw?” they ask before the verdict. 

In your mind’s eye, you flash back to the beginning of the encounter with Tymaret, and behind him, a glimmer of dark blue, jagged and pronged curved from a base, like an oversized claw of crystal.

You answer in the affirmative but take full responsibility for not retrieving it. In vain, and perhaps unwise, you ask for a second chance to retrieve it and bring it back to honor the kings.

They do not answer. 

They do not consider.

Instead, they announce the verdict and the sentencing. 

Guilty. But because of the veracious testimony of your loyal soldiers, the punishment will not be death, but banishment, to be sent forthwith to the deserts of Nokros, where fate will decide your end…