They come for me: upon their great winged beasts, they bear down upon me from the skies with their sharp lances outstretched. Great waves of them, never-ending hordes of wind-riders, born upon the backs of flying serpents. With vicious cries, their feathered steeds ride the winds, great and majestic and just as fearsome. They ride for their false king; our long-standing enemy from afar.
And if the enemy's wyvern-riding knights weren't trouble enough for me, I must always keep a constant eye on the pools of bowling lava below, where infernal demons from the fiery depths reach up and snatch any helpless creature from the air, lowering them down into their boiling maws to burn the flesh from their bones.
And as with keeping one eye on the unstable ground below, so too must I keep one in the clouds aloft, for I know at any time a vicious dragon may appear, enormous and indestructible, born upon the warm drafts rising up from the molten pools to feed on fleshlings like myself.
My only defense in this hellish world of fire and war is my own faithful, winged steed, who bares me upon his back and flies me fearlessly into battle. I do my all to hold my own lance aloft, hoping to pierce my enemies higher than they may stab at me. And after each small victory, after every man skewered and slain from the skies, an egg drops to the ground, ripe with life and waiting to be taken by a riderless wyvern to pursue me once more.
What manner of man is this? Will this butchery never cease? What must I do, alone and forsaken, to claim victory for my lord and king if the enemy riders are endless in number?
And what, I ask you, are the purpose for these queerly-named "Bonus Rounds?"