Editing BW XXIV - Dafydd

Dafydd’s prayers were interrupted by a woman’s voice, clear and persuasive, “Watch acolyte; understand that there are others not so ready to turn their gaze from your dominion.  Watch, listen and learn of those that were once your universe and how they will, again be true. No longer does the debate hold: love lost or love found; your Lords are embroiled and the certainty of change through fire and destruction consumes them.  Yet there is another way…”

The cleric’s vision clouded and the same voice grew softly in his mind. 

“My Lord, whilst you may not care to witness the changes on the Prime or the courage and fortitude of those who know us not, I have witnessed their strength.”

At first Dafydd saw a bright white glow, which slowly cleared to reveal a broad, circular marble floor; at the centre of which protruded a dais which supported an ornately carved ivory throne.  On the throne sat a powerfully built, once-handsome man in his late fifties with a white, curly mane of hair which tumbled from his head onto his shoulders, where it was reinforced by a lengthy, well kept, snow-white beard.
“Daughter, do not provoke me again.” He dismissed the female voice with the wave of a broad dark-tanned hand, “I have surely researched their particular strengths with you on numerous occasions and fail to understand your distinct interest in them.” The man feigned tiredness and cupped his broad forehead in one hand whilst pulling idly at his beard with the other.
A beautiful woman, dressed as a warrior emerged from the cloud that wreathed the edge of the marble floor in a billowing white glaze.  On her shoulder sat a large owl which looked on impassively, moving only to blink, “Father, we must not turn from them.” She stated as she walked slowly towards the throne before coming to rest and, leaning lightly on a golden spear, bowed deeply.
His retort was powerful and direct, “Why not?  Their own gods have.  What interests have I in souls destined for another realm?”
She gave not an inch; once again continuing her approach slowly and purposefully, “You have not forgiven them, have you?  What a childish retort: they show you no interest so you do the same.  You are as bad as they!”  She stopped, gauging the reaction.  Had she gone too far? Had she pressed too hard?

“Go!  Go before I crush them!  Go before…” his reaction was typical but his bark was often worse than his bite.

“Before what, my Lord?” she had been here before.  He would see reason, he always did.  “Go before you defile everything you hold dear?  I know you love them; you desire to be like them, feel what it is like to be mortal and to have that sense of unknowing. I feel it too.  Do not turn your back…”  Continuing her path, the female warrior spread her arms and lowered her spear both in a gesture of compliance and a plea for the man’s objectivity.
He recognised the posture and was almost powerless to maintain his anger, “Lady, go before I weep; go before my tears wash their homes to the sea, the strength of my sobbing blows away their crops and my unrequited heart ignites the core of the Prime.” A tear rolled down the man’s cheek as he looked at the beauty before him.  She also shed a tear and knelt at the foot of his throne.
“No father,” she had won, “your heart is full of love which soothes burning passions and quells hatred, your tears provide life for all that grows and is good, and your breath is the air which surrounds everything.  So let it come; out with your emotion, for we know well enough that no harm will come to your beloved peoples.  Look how they fight; look how their passion flows like the River – enduring, everlasting…”, her left arm swept across the marble floor in front of the throne revealing a battle between Gith and Elves on a dull-green backdrop, viewed from the sky above. 
“Why forsake me then?  Why turn to others who care less and prophesy doom?” he turned from the scene, away from the woman.
“They are young and desperate, lost in a world and time with little memory and great chaos.  They need your guiding hand, soft voice and patience.  They will love you again, father.” Hearing her plea, he turned back.  Her bright blue eyes held his gaze but momentarily, for even she could not withstand his full attention.
“There are some that do?”  A child now, his voice was laced with the optimism of youth. 
“Yes and there will be more.”  Energised and eager to capitalise on this moment, “Look,” she points back to the unfolding scene of the clash between elves and Gith, “she is turning from the cold, dour realm and seeks a brighter path.  She is less afraid to believe that there is an alternative to annihilation and rebirth.  There are many others.”
“Are there heroes?  Warriors deserved of my attention?” he leans closer, “Are there villains, brigands and murderers more suited to my brother’s throne?”
“Yes there are both and they would at once war or settle on differing concerns, one with the other, as we in your house.  There are more of the latter, however; more even from the lowest planes that seek to plunder and pillage the Prime.” Her concern for the plight of the eldest still battling in the image below the Throne was clear.
A moment’s pause revealed a beautiful female elf, dressed in weather beaten travelling clothes, wielding a long and short sword in mortal combat, at the head of a beleaguered force of her folk.  It is clear that she had opened a gap in her enemy’s ranks but at considerable cost.
“Do they seek us out?  Do they feel in their hearts the need for our love?” Childlike, the man mused, tugging at his beard, desperate for the adulation to which he once was accustomed.
“They begin to; some do now.  Look,” the vision switched to a dark cavernous, underground hall, illuminated only by the fires which consumed the many dead littering the vast, hard stone floor.  Orange light reflected off the shining mithril armour of warrior dwarves engaged in desperate combat with darkly clad Gith, Trolls, fell men and creatures of the lowest planes. Dafydd saw a Dwarf whose red hair was tied back and plaited, threaded with silver ribbons that hung down his back.  His small helm was beautifully made - a simple dome with cheek and neck guards it was ornately decorated with a scene of a mountain range where dwarven kings stood proud. His burnished mithril coat was studded with emeralds, over which a breast plate of burnished gold had been drawn, carved in the shape of a large tear drop.  His cloak was fine blue cloth (enhancing the colour of his eyes), trimmed with ermine and embroidered with a depiction of an owl.  His legs were covered by riding britches of hard leather onto which had been fastened thigh and shin guards, both highly decorated and studded with gems.  His boots were armoured with metal, though pliable enough for riding.  His axes were across his back and he carried a crossbow.  At his sides were empty quivers, slung like bandoliers.  His face betrayed not an element of doubt or concern and his voice resounded in the cavern.  “Drive them back! Create a path to yonder arch!  We must not be embroiled, keep moving!  For the survival of the House of Dor!”  Dafydd noted that all the dwarfs fought under one banner: Ѫ.  

“Impressive struggle and I note he wears your sign daughter.  Where else?” 
“Here.” again the lithe arm passed over the marble floor and the vision changed.  Dafydd saw and ongoing battle between dwarves and trolls, with the dwarves holding a narrow promontory whilst the trolls climbed up a sheer cliff, some three hundred foot high, to do battle with them.  There appeared to be a score of trolls and only a few dwarves, but the defensive position was strong and they were holding their own. The real threat, though, was from a large band of ogres assembling siege engines with which to fire at the position; there was nothing the dwarves could do whilst engaged by the trolls. Dafydd realised he was looking at something he recognised…Yes, there he was, with Milai, Lanzi and Hintzu approaching the position which resembled a hand coming out of the rock.  They were on the carpet flying close to the side of a great mountain of rock.  As the party approached, the dwarves at the back of the position let off a volley of crossbow bolts, clearing part of the wall for the others to tip burning oil over the edge, giving them some respite. The trolls, for their part, were trying to let down rope ladders to allow a quicker assault. Yes, Dafydd recalled, Melai and Hintzu firing arrows at the trolls, killing two who took another with them as they fell. The dwarves hacked another apart as it reached the edge of the platform.  Milai and Hintzu’s arrows killed another half a dozen or so before Lanzi could be of any help. Half a dozen more were felled by arrows before Dafydd saw himself sending a lightning bolt, which emanated from his crown, into the ogres to disrupt their work. A few more trolls fell to the rapid fall of shot before Lanzi finished his chanting, but the effect was worth the wait. He befuddled them into being exceptionally clumsy, causing them all to miss their handholds or footing and fall to their death. Melai finally sent a fireball into the pile of broken bodies at the foot of the cliff to be sure that none of the trolls would be back to fight again. 
“Who are they?” the man asked, “What have they got to do with me?  They are Norse, are they not?”
“Yes my Liege, but they fight for your devout worshippers.  The King of those dwarves is Hasfast, a hero of some renown, who bears one of the Prime’s ancient artefacts.  You see how that acolyte of the Norse pantheon aids your followers.  They are united by the need to rid the Prime from the invasion of beast from the lower planes.   Hasfast accepted those Norse into his home and has since, because of them, forged closer links with the gnomes who are their neighbours.
, ђ,

“And of Men?”
“Here my Lord,” She shows the men of Farass fighting on the plains
“And of their support to her offspring?”  he glances at Leto (motherly) in a corner watching benignly.  “Those of the Abyss, why do they seek dominion on the Prime?”
“They do not, unless it is to usurp the other.  No, they seek an artefact – a stone – of such power that wielding it would give them advantage over their dominion.”
“Would they use it more widely?”
“They might.  You wold do well to fear that which was dragged from a place even your brother has not yet venture.”
“Would he?  Would he venture there?  I mean should the Prime fail and this stone be lost, would he venture there?”
“I would…”
“Ahhh, now to the heart of it.  Do you fear this power?  Should I worry about the Prime, not because of my love for those upon it, but because of what exists there?”
“In part…Your brother would also dearly love the souls that count themselves amongst the host that follow other ill paths.  He would also dearly wish the stone to be his.  This, my Lord, is a game of the gods to be played out on the Prime.”
“Not for love and not for their recognition of me, but for the defence of Olympia and my own realm.  No, this has not come yet…I will not be undone and the doomsayers will be silenced.  Find me the Hero; find me that which would closely resemble us and our thoughts.  Make our realm secure and destroy this stone, this trinket, before it falls to my brother, for he will bring it here; he will thrust it forward like a spearing sword, aimed to unseat us and make us all low. No, that will not happen!  Athena, my beloved daughter, wiser than all my offspring, you are to defend s from this fate. “
“Then your thoughts are again turned to the Prime?  Your love restored?  Your forgiveness offered?”
“Yes, yes, yes!  Leave us…my aching head is crammed with your visions of doom and prophesy of destruction.” quieter, not to be heard by his wives, “Leave us and seek out those amongst the children worthy of my particular attention.  Inform me of where my considered and direct influence would be best placed.”