BW XIX - Hearth

“Most mighty Hursht, I welcome you to my humble home.” An odd looking man says, standing on a green pentagram in the middle of a circle inscribed in tourmaline on a white marble floor. He wears a dark blue tunic, a grey fur cloak, high soft leather boots and a small ermine trimmed hat. The man’s face is round and supports a rather bulbous, reddened nose. His grey eyes are oval, bright and alert. Hintsu guesses that he is no more than 4 foot tall. In front of him is a great Genie, towering over the stunted figure, wrapped in fire and smoke. Its skin is bright red, its hair and nails black. Hintzu knows it to be an Efreeti. “I have no time for pleasantries, Orodruin, you tell my servants that you have something that I would be interested in and that you are prepared to deliver significant wealth in return for some Lore. My servants tell me, Orodruin, that you have discovered a substance of incredible strength?” “Yes.” The diminutive humanoid swallows hard and the answer is barely audible. The Efreeti presses on, “But you cannot forge it – you have the heat but not the Hearth and Anvil in which to contain and use it?” More composed, Orodruin responds “As I have said, Lord, I do not know of a way to control the power of Malek so that I may use this metal.” “Ahh, we have had the same difficulty,” the great Genie nods and continues, “Why would you wish to manipulate such a metal?” “Do not fear, Lord, our intent is to do no more than sell weapons and armour on the Prime so that our folk can prosper rather than becoming enslaved by the newcomers.” The words come from the heart and convey a plea for help. Hursht wants reassurance, “What guarantee do I have that your weapons will not find their way to my home?” “We understand dweomercraft – we can restrict the effects of dweomer placed on these weapons to the Prime,” the reply is confident. The interest is obvious, “And what is to be my receipt for such knowledge?” “What you desire most: beautiful objects created for trading on your Plane,” the man smiles broadly as if sensing a kinship – one merchant talking to another. “Then you have a deal, but the knowledge I now share will not please you I fear.” It is the Efrreti’s turn to smile. “Oh? How so?” a worried look appears on Orodruin’s face. Taking his time, enjoying the obvious pain, the Efreeti replies, “well, you seek a hearth that was created in the mists of time. We made it for Urdlen the Dark so that he might manufacture great excavating tools with which he could exorcise his anger on his Plane in the Abyss.” Hursht commands the attention of his audience. “Go on, Lord.” “Ahh well, the Abyss is not a place to have anything of value unless you are prepared to watch over it constantly and have the strength to keep it from all manner of dark creatures wishing to deprive you of it in an attempt to improve their lot.” The Efreeti smiles, revealing a neat row of extremely sharp black teeth. “So Urdlen was deprived of the Hearth; where is it now?” Orodruin presses, anxious to hear the end. “The Demon Prince Orcus took it from Urdlen whilst he was occupied with meddling with Prime – something to do with a Gem, I believe.” Hursht makes a steeple from his long digits and presses his forefingers to his lips. “Does the Demon have it now?” Orodruin’s frustration is brewing. “He does.” “How can I retrieve it?” Why will he not just get to the point? The Genie paces, spewing great gulps of smoke and flame to the right and then the left as he does so. “You know of the Gate?” “I believe so…The one at Morgul?” This was the only portal Orodruin had heard of. “Yes.” Then it dawns on him, “You expect me to use the gate to travel to the Abyss and steal the Hearth from Orcus’ home?” “Unless you have another idea..?” the Efreeti’s smile threatens to split his face in two, “Do not look so worried, I have spies that can tell me when Orcus leaves Everlost and, when he does, you can slip in and slip out undetected.” “He must have thousands of guards…”, the worried expression returns. “Oh no, that’s just it: Everlost is empty…”

The forest burns. All Hintzu can see is fire, death and destruction; he shudders in his sleep. Parting the billowing smoke and striding through the piles of ash that were once mighty trees, the Demon comes. It is surrounded by creatures from the lowest planes of the Abyss, each with cruel weapons and each its own mockery of prime material beings, some so decomposed that it is wonder that they move at all. Fear is all around and the few that face the onslaught falter and break ranks. In the centre of a thin line of elf warriors stands Morwath and a middle-aged half-elf, dressed in shades of green and wrapped in a rufous-coloured cloak. With arms outstretched in defiance of the approaching beast, Hintzu notices the finery – rings with large gems, golden arm bands, and a platinum bracelet. The half-elf (Walorin) also wore silk, finely woven with gold and silver to form a mystical woodland scene, which extended from his breast to his arms. His blonde hair was partially plaited, through which was woven silver and gold thread. Clearly someone of dweomer, the half-elf casts spells, uses wands and a staff to create all manner of effect on the enemy ranks. Similarly, Morwath, in his element in the natural world, uses some incredible dweomer to destroy the enemy hoard. But nothing is stopping their advance. Finally, the Demon is in range and more the elf ranks break and flee. Hintzu sees Morwath reaching into a bag at his side and produce a small, unremarkable green gem. “No Morwath! That is not meant for our use!” The half-elf screams as the first rain of arrows strikes the ground around them. “But we have to try something before he takes it all.” Morwath’s eyes are wide and his brow deply furrowed in concentration. “No! You must fly!” The half-elf indicates a direction to his rear where trees still stand. “That will not help; you need me here. Only I can turn back the abomination – fight fire with fire!” “Morwath you must take Lastar’s artefacts to Gwendolyn before it is too late.” The half-elf pleads in between casting spells and firing great blasts of flame from what looks to be nothing more than a well preserved twig. “Why did you summon me then? Surely you meant to use the power I have? Perhaps all your dream-watching has affected your mind.” Morwath turns now to look at his friend, ignoring the enemy which fly at them. “It is not my mind that you should be worried about”, retorts his friend, taking a second to return the look before throwing more dweomer into the melee. “What do you mean? The father has no impact on my judgement, my will is my own!” Morwath looks down at the stone in his hands, curling his fingers tightly around it. “It appears your judgement is becoming clouded, but we have no time to discuss it! You must leave before all here is lost. Go back to the lost souls for they may offer you sanctuary.” The half-elf pleads with Morwath and a look of desperation comes to his face. Morwath puts the stone back into its bag and pauses to ask, “And what of you and Efferendil?” “You cannot think of that now; I will battle here to defend the tree if nothing else. Go now!”