Morwath - Gem of Benevolence
Morwath’s Object readings – The Gem of Benevolence
Mowath sees a flare of light break the darkness, at last he has company. A face looms close and, whilst typically dwarven, it lacks the shaggy unkempt appearance of that race; instead, the dwarf has short hair and a full, neatly trimmed beard and moustache. His helm bears the mark Ù, glinting in gold from the light of his torch. Bending, he reaches out to Morwath, muttering, “Is this Frastor’s Bane?”. A voice from behind calls, “Beware!” Everything goes dark but Morwath hears a distant voice, “Grundoil should know of this, my Lord”.
Shouts of combat ring out against the clash of metal and blasts of fire. A voice shouts, “Look to Kûlar, the Demon has him!” Morwath’s eyes open to be confronted with the horrific image of a huge Demon with the body of a giant ape, 2 tentacles instead of arms and 2 jackal-like heads (Demogorgon). They are in the open, high and to the right is a huge black tower, rising from a craggy, broken mountain side the foundations of which are an escarpment a thousand feet high. It is raining heavily and the sky is an ominous purple. Fighting the Demon on every side are dwarves, each bearing the symbol ﭲ
Falling to the ground, Morwath looks up to see the Demon wrap one tentacle around a dwarf and plunge the other into his chest. The dwarf is allowed to fall dead, uncoiling from the Demon’s grasp his helmet rolls towards Morwath showing him the mark Ù,. In a swift movement, the Demon lifts Morwath and darkness engulfs him once again.
As if in the abyss, Morwath wakes to find himself surrounded by all manner of demons and Tana’Ri fighting one another. Elves, men and dwarves add to the chaos, fiercely fighting all manner of evil creatures - clearly this is the Prime. Before Morwath stands a huge ram, with bat wings and human arms, one of which bears a short, fat staff at the head of which is a large human skull. Fire briefly engulfs Morwath and is replaced with darkness. After the immense noise of combat, the silence is deafening. Eventually Morwath sees a crystal clear blue sky; surrounding him are the rotting corpses of the dead, strewn across the battlefield lying atop a new growth a bright green grass.
As if woken from a deep satisfying sleep, Morwath slowly comes to his senses, the deep green of the grass imprinted on his mind. The air is fresher now and the bright sky replaced by fleeting white clouds. Another dwarf is near, staring at Morwath as if deciding what to do. He looks at his 5 comrades behind him but says nothing. Turning back, as if his mind is made up, the dwarf moves closer. Morwath sees a ﷲ mark on a gem encrusted necklace worn around the dwarf’s neck. He appears to have been travelling: he wears light armour (leather), carries a battleaxe across his back under a large round shield; his cloak and boots are mud-spattered and his russet beard unkempt. As he approaches, one of his companions calls, “Our Lord Marin must know of this.”
The closest dwarf falters momentarily, “You’re right, as usual.” Under his breath he continues as if to himself, ”Although it is a handsome prize… It would buy us many mines in Ishtur…”; the dwarf leans over and, before all goes dark once again, he says out loud, “You never know, Marin might reward us - for this is no trinket, I’ll wager.”
The darkness clears abruptly and Morwath feels as though he has been woken from a deep sleep. “My Lord, I realise that this would be of great interest, not to mention value, to you,” the voice of a dwarf breaks through the silence, “though I seek no reward.”
“You are truly a Prince among your folk my friend. Yes, I have been looking for the relics of the Great Mage for many years now and this would be of fabulous value and not just to me; many have suffered and died at the hands of our enemy for just such treasures. Morwath sees a middle aged half-elf with dark hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. His deep-set, sparkling eyes match his sky blue robe.
“How are Catherine and the youngling – Aran?”
“They both fare well, thank you, although they miss their beloved Ythanos.” The elf looks genuinely pained, as if struck by some hidden arrow.
“Ah yes, I’m sure they do – I did not mean to open old wounds my friend. We care greatly about the sanctity of the men that keep this hallowed place free.”
“I know you do, my friend; I cannot help but feel responsible. Aran does not blame me though I sense that Catherine would rather not look upon me.”
“That is to be expected. I must return to my home soon; please come and visit us – you are always welcome. It may do you good to travel once more.”
“Perhaps when the Castellan is of age... Thank you again; I cannot tell you how much this means to me and my kin. You are a good friend to our races, Pralk, and I will ensure that we never forget your help, counsel and generosity. If ever you need us, you only have to ask.”
“Think nothing of it. What I do is without need of repayment. It is good to see you again my friend. Let’s hope we can meet again soon.”
“No…No…they mustn’t get it….Where can I hide it? Oh, think you fool! What ever possessed you to come back here? You knew it was not safe. I why? Idiot! Think…think. Yes! Where was that text? Ah…perhaps this might work…?”
Morwath is disturbed, uncomfortable and at the same time curious – what is going to happen? There is a sense of fear – an unspoken threat, a malice which looms out of a recently awoken from nightmare.
“She must know this is from me…Why did I not explain my thoughts? She is a bright girl…yes far brighter than I. Oh, you fool! Wait, they come now. Ah the trap is sprung and it only a matter of time…Kal
To what text? Something that may help her find my treasure, lead others to or away? Oh that requires such clever judgement of the future - I have sought that for so long…What of the prophesy? Yes she will know that. She needs to know where he fled and how to get to Andurin’s home.”
The sound of a quill scratches on vellum. “She will guess why I omit this band of gold…Ah, this Ring needs to be sent back through…She will surely find it in His tower.” But not the Gem, that would be too much of a risk. I need to hide that before I am taken. Oh…” The sounds of battle drown the whispered words, spoken by the aging half-elf so familiar to Morwath. The noise is mixed with fire and ice, with light and darkness and the stench of death. Finally, Mowath is return to darkness…