The Shield of the Horned Elder
Not all relics are taken from ruins. Some are given. The encounter with the Horned Elder came at the end of a road few merchants dare follow — a broken causeway of stone leading into high ravines where even the wind seems reluctant to linger. It was there that we crossed paths with an aged minotaur, broad of shoulder though bent with years, his horns chipped and worn smooth by time and war. He barred the pass. The Challenge of Custom Among his kind, passage is not purchased with coin or words. It is earned. The Elder spoke of old customs, of trials meant to measure resolve rather than cruelty. He did not seek death — only proof that strength had not fled the younger races. The battle that followed was fierce but measured. Each blow carried weight, yet none were struck in hatred. When at last he faltered and lowered his guard, the Elder did not fall in shame. He laughed. A deep, echoing sound that rolled through the ravine like distant thunder. A Relic Given, Not Claimed...