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

From the ground, he lifted his shield — massive, scarred, and darkened with age. It bore the markings of his tribe: horn-sigils etched deep, edges worn by countless clashes, its surface marked by repairs made across generations.

He pressed it into my hands.

This shield had belonged not only to him, but to those before him — carried in rites of passage, border wars, and oath-bindings. To give it away was no small matter. It was a declaration: that the trial had been honored, and that the Elder’s strength had been witnessed and respected.

I accepted, as custom demanded.

Not all present agreed.

The Murmurs of the Herd

Other minotaurs watched from the heights. Their displeasure was plain. To them, the shield was not a prize, but a living memory — one they believed should never leave their people.

Their stares followed us long after we departed the ravine. No blades were drawn, but resentment clung heavier than fog.

Such is the weight of relics.

A Place Among Stone and Iron

Now the shield rests within the Hagglestone shoppe.

It is not for sale. Some things should not be bartered. Instead, it stands as a reminder of an older truth — that honor transcends species, and that victory does not always mean taking by force.

Customers often pause before it. Some feel unease. Others feel awe. A few swear the air around it hums faintly, as if remembering the roar of the Horned Elder and the battles of his youth.

Whether the minotaurs will one day come to reclaim it, we cannot say.

But until then, the shield remains — a relic earned, not stolen, and a testament to the strange paths that lead fine additions to a merchant’s hall.