BW XIX - Morwath

Dafydd’s Vision in Ishtur

Not long after the glorious battle against the enormous beast, but before he felt able to commence his routine of worship, Dafydd had a long and fitful dream plagued by visions of the underworld and tormented elves. The elves Dafydd saw were typically dressed in colours of the spring forest, common to many High Elf races, and they bore the mark of a river flowing through a deciduous forest. Central to the theme was the ram-like face of Orcus peering out of a smoky gloom-laden battlefield, on which was strewn hundreds of elven dead. As the sun set slowly in a blaze of red, orange and yellow, Orcus’ huge frame came into view, surrounded by flame and smoke, and holding aloft his hideous ‘wand’ – a massive mace with an oversized human skull cemented to the top. His words were unrecognisable but in response the ground appeared to open and the bodies of the dead elves fell into the abyss. Next to the demon, stood a humanoid figure dressed in a long grey-black cloak, with hood up hiding a face that Dafydd knows not to be there. The figure is the Lich, Guerin, who watched every movement of the gigantic beast next to him. His sword, Rakos, was drawn and faintly glowed a neon purple light which failed to pierce the blackness surrounding the Demon. The 7-pointed crown, which sat squarely atop the Lich’s cowl was the brightest blue, contradicting the darkness. “One has arrived recently and has many of the artefacts for which I search.” The disembodied voice hissed from under the cowl. “Yes, he hides with the elf-mage, just beyond my reach.” The Demon looked briefly down to where Guerin stood before returning his gaze to the forest. “Aah, my Lord, thank you. I will use the ancient paths to find him; he has an item of particular importance to our cause.” “Indeed, that ancient stone should never have been lost – the meddling gnomes will be brought to account.” More flame and smoke billowed forth from the Demon, obscuring the Lich from Dafydd’s view. “Yes, my Lord. I will enter their halls soon, although they will not know it.” “You have a request from the Drow Queen, I believe?” “My Lord, as ever, you are well informed. She would have me find the friends of the one who hides here.” The Lich pointed to the forest which stood unrelenting before them. “All in good time; find this Morwath and bring him before me. He may have more to offer than just a shard of a gem.” “As you wish.” The Lich bowed and strode toward the deep green tree line.

The vision changes

“Walorin, my friend, I am truly glad to see you alive!” Morwath stood in a hall, not much more than a 15’ cube, as if he had just arrived through the only door behind him. The hall was decorated with all manner of mythological scenes – Odin, Thor, Frey, Freya, Fenris, and Loki. As Dafydd looked, he noticed the scenes change, almost imperceptibly as if coming alive momentarily before returning to the maple wood from which they were carved. “Well, friend Morwath, it has not been through the enemy’s lack of trying; I think they would like little more than to visit me in the halls of Hel.” A middle-aged half-elf, dressed in shades of green and wrapped in a rufus-coloured cloak, replied from the middle of the room. He stepped forward with his arm extended in a manner of greeting. With arm outstretched, Dafydd noticed the finery – rings with large gems, golden arm bands, and a platinum bracelet. The half-elf also wore silk, finely woven with gold and silver to form a mystical woodland scene, which extended from Walorin’s breast to his arms. His blonde hair was partially plaited, through which was woven silver and gold thread. “As you can tell I received your message, although my journey here was a little tardier than I had anticipated.” Morwath clasped the outstretched arm in a brotherly greeting. Walorin’s deep green eyes seemed to acknowledge more than just Morwath’s presence. “I am very grateful, we need all the help we can get. You see, we are once again surrounded. Orcus in the East and South is aligned with Malor in the North. My request for help was precipitated by the fall of Haverel to a combined army of evil, the like of which has not been seen since the First Age. Efferendil is all that is left.” “I fear the enemy know where I am – they are able to discover the whereabouts of something of great evil that I bear.” “I have seen it, Morwath; you have others of Lastar’s artefacts, do you not?” “I do, but it is that particular gem that has the most power; indeed, I am in constant struggle with it for possession of my own mind.” “And what does it want of you?” “It wishes that I use my powers against the elves of this land, claiming that they are the ones that bring war to the natural world and, without the meddling of Lastar, the Prime would have been unsullied,” “Some of its message appears for sooth; however, as you know, the elves are far from the enemy.” “Do not worry, Walorin, I still have my mind. How does your work fair?” Morwath nods to the shifting images. “Aah, not as well as I had hoped. The messages come through and many I am able to interpret and direct but I struggle to defeat the enemy’s ability to manipulate the signs. Since we discovered that this tree was a gate to the outer planes, or more correctly a part of the Tree of Life, I have worked with it to decode the messages which fly across the branches and out onto the planes. Unfortunately, like so many other things, the understanding that I lack appears to have died with Lastar. As you know, there are so many parallel mythos, each with their own and often overlapping belief systems, it is hard to know where to start. I have chosen the Norse mythos, as it is close to home but have little control over it; indeed, the Drow know far more of this than I and the artefacts themselves, corrupted as they are, manipulate what is seen.” “Then perhaps I can help? It might be easier to start with another belief system, one as old but long forgotten by most.” Morwath appears animated, leaning forward and staring at the images as they move.. “Which would you suggest?” Walorin appreciates the genuine interest. “The Rodrus dwarves remember it well enough and have passed it onto some of the House of Dor. It is a Pantheon of Gods born to a Father named Zeus. They could better describe it; however, from what I have seen, the dwarves of the House of Dor, that live to the north of Keffendir, are guided well by their gods.” “That is intriguing. I get little that has not been bent and twisted by Loki or his minions, and then there are the lies of Hel and her witch. It is as much as I can do to separate truth and lies; on almost all occasions, I fail to ensure that understanding passes to the recipient. You have met with the lost souls of the north?” “That is a long story Walorin, my trip here was not direct!”