@AureaLibe@MLP_officiel Merci de rappeler que la France n’était pas un état souverain en 1940 - avec des logiques comme ça on parlerait tous allemand aujourd’hui.
ENTIRE MINTOTAURS LORE COMBINED
CHAPTER 2 👇
The bells of Thar-Gann started to ring, their deep sounds echoing across the mountain peaks.
Torak Ironhoof: His boots clanging on the Colosseum's ancient stone, he entered. "Lyra," he asked, his horns tilting in irritation, "do we REALLY need to be ringing these bells?"
Lyra: She turned, her ceremonial robes swaying. "It was part of the covenant between us and Grimhold ages ago. Both sides agreed the Labyrinthine is off limits."
Torak Ironhoof: "Why didn't they just destroy the entrance like we did? Goblins are so strange," he snorted.
Lyra: "What they lack in conviction, they make up for in cleverness, Torak," she said gently. "Besides, we know how easily scared they are. Surely the bells will be enough to keep them away from the Labyrinthine."
Torak Ironhoof: "Well, if not, we might have to go have a chat with them," he said, his hand moving towards his weapon.
Lyra: "Intimidation isn't ALWAYS the answer, at least not outside the Arena," she replied, glancing at the imposing Effigy of Aurox.
Arak Stoneblood: He approached, his ceremonial armor gleaming in the torchlight. "Korrath's axe, what is so important that it delays the fights?"
Torak Ironhoof: His posture shifted to respect. "Of course not, Arak. Please, let the fights begin. I will keep watch at Stonewatch."
Lyra: As Torak left, she began her ancient ritual dance. The bells continued their warning.
Arak Stoneblood: His voice boomed through the Colosseum, echoing off the mountain walls. "IN THE EYES OF AUROX, LET THE WORTHY PROVE THEMSELVES THIS DAY!"
The crowd roared in response, their voices filling the mountain halls, then silence fell.
Metal clanged.
Roars erupted.
The cheers faded, but the ancient bells kept ringing, over and over.
Arak Stoneblood: He stood beneath the Effigy of Aurox. “They haven’t stopped.”
Lyra: She stepped into the stillness. “No,” she said. “They haven’t.”
Arak Stoneblood: His eyes narrowed. “Goblins don’t act like this. Something’s wrong.”
Lyra: “They’re not warriors,” she said. “They’re cautious. Quiet.”
Arak Stoneblood: “Then why so many near the seal?”
Lyra: “Something’s pulling them. And I don’t think they understand what.”
Arak Stoneblood: “You think they’re trying to open it?”
Lyra: “No.” Her voice dropped. “But maybe something on their side wants out.”
Arak Stoneblood: His fists clenched. “We can’t let this fester. Rumors are already spreading. Warriors whispering of war.”
Lyra: She stepped closer. “Then we cut through fear—with action. A small party. Watch. Listen. Speak if needed. No weapons unless we have no choice.”
Silence.
Then—
Arak Stoneblood: “I’ll go,” he said.
Lyra: She blinked. “You?”
Arak Stoneblood: “If Thar-Gann moves, it moves with strength.”
Another bell echoed through the halls.
Lyra: She didn’t argue. There was no time for debate. Only the bells.
Torak Ironhoof: He stood apart, arms crossed, watching the goblins below. They kept coming—quiet, curious, lingering near the old stone wall. One by one, they touched the handstone… and every time, the bells rang.
Arak Stoneblood: Beside him stood Arak Stoneblood, Master of the Colosseum. His gold armor gleamed in the dusk, each plate showing his victories. His helm had a frozen snarl—fury made of bronze. A face meant to be remembered.
Then came the others.
Ironbound: The first: a huge figure in a torn black hood. His body creaked with metal limbs and fake joints. One eye glowed red, the other blue. A green beard hung down his armored chest. He was Ironbound—one of the forge-zealots who gave up their bodies for steel. They called it ascension, but Torak thought it was a lie. Machines didn’t bleed, and they didn’t earn honor.
The Albino: Last to arrive was like a ghost in crimson robes. He was albino, as rare as frost in fire. Spiral horns curved upward, and between them floated a cloud of slow-moving ice that pulsed like breathing. His face was bare—no beard, no blade. Just a strange calmness. A magic-user.
Torak Ironhoof: He felt his teeth clench. Eyes shouldn't glow, and no warrior should ever float.
Together, they were a strange group: steel, spell, blood, and gold. Hardly a party Torak would have picked. But the Labyrinthine was calling, and the goblins were still touching that cursed handstone. ✋
Torak Ironhoof: “Let’s get this over with,” he muttered.
Behind them, the bells rang again—low and never-ending. A warning. A call. Maybe both. Or maybe it was some old agreement dragging itself back from the darkness.
They started going down towards Grimhold.