━<><><>< ??? A.P. ><><><>━
Brazier, Blade and Cloak.
The tools of Gazul, the first to find, the second to duel, and the third to conceal. Given to him to carry out the deeds of the Ancestor when need necessitated it. His Gift and existence allowing him better use of them than any within the Cult. It was an Honour he quietly accepted and secretly dreaded, for the times he wielded them were when things were darkest.
Thorgard feels the weight of history and expectation in his hands and around his shoulders. Behind him twenty-two Runesmtihs and fifty-five Watchers, the eldest of those with the greatest traces of Thungni's blood, stand waiting. He looks to the tripod in front of him, and then to the structure looming behind it.
The triangular portal is massive, as tall as the gate of Azul and built to the exacting specifications that Lord Gazul gave them before His departure. The three incomprehensible Runes, taller than a Dwarf, that had been carved into the corners of the massive triangle stared at him through the dark.
They were and forever shall be, beyond the ability of mortal folk.
They were the work of Gazul, Uncle to Thungni, Slayer of Beasts and Guardian of the Ancestral Halls.
There will never be their like made in this world again.
They were little more than dull grooves in the rock. Expected to be nothing more than a final testament, a relic they would never understand but need no other reason to defend than the fact that it was His last tangible work in the world.
Until Now.
The Runes that Gazul carved were incomplete, the Ancestor's work unfinished before His disappearance.
They demanded power, to ignite, to
awaken.
Power beyond what Thorgard or any like him could bring to bear without fear of death.
Power from the Ancestor.
Or, Thorgard muses as he stares at the blade, glowing dimly in his hands,
the power of their works.
"Let it begin."
He places the Brazier onto the tripod, unsurprised when it lights up without prompting.
Knowing. The blade is next, its tip buried in the Brazier's unending coals and its flame joins to make the pyre even brighter.
Lastly, he unclasps the cloak, feeling shadow recede and clarity fade as his senses return to normalcy. Even without its supernatural insight to guide him, he knows the last step by heart.
Sacrifice. Ore is burned to metal is forged to tool, but never without cost. Every ounce of sweat, every aching muscle, every spark lost, and fleck of hammerscale is part of the price to make better from the things of this world.
The cloak is hung on the sword's pommel, hanging limp and untouched by the inferno that erupts beyond the Brazier's borders, consuming all three tools within fire that radiates no heat but that Thorgard knows will incinerate all who would dare touch it.
Together with another Runesmith and two of the Watchers, the four of them use long iron poles to carry the fireball that is the Brazier towards the portal.
None say anything as the flames are sucked away by invisible winds, none say anything as the fireball shrinks and shrinks and leaves nothing but the now empty tripod behind.
Tools return to their master.
Only when the three Runes roar to life, awakened by sacrifice immeasurable, does Thorgard allow himself to huff in silent relief.
The world quakes.
Six presences stir at the head of the table, five look to the one who appears conspicuously nonchalant.
The portal opens, and as one they kneel before the swirling gate of glittering light.
The smell of food and good ale flood Thorgard's nose, the sounds of a feast hall, rowdy with raucous laughter and bawdy songs fills his ears. For brief moments he can see an endless table, lined by an infinite number of Dawi.
Six shining figures at the end, forever distant but infinitely close.
Our kin call, a chorus from beyond thunders, rattling the cavern enough to knock dust and rock loose,
from the world of Duty, Honour, and Burden you intrude upon our rest...Beyond the chorus like a mountain looming above, and below it like the bedrock of the World, Six Somethings loom. All but the Fourth bear down upon him.
Strength floods his veins, from the crowd of voices he can pick out a few that he cares for most with ease.
The Fourth intervenes, shielding them.
Our son..../Brother.../Uncle.../Papa....The First twitches, then glares at the Fourth, who merely whistles.
"Hail," Thorgard chokes out instinctively, more feeling in that one word than the past three centuries combined.
The First relents, moved by care.
WHY, they thunder, a throng of voices whose eternal feast was interrupted by unexpected occurrence,
WHY, OUR KIN, OUR CHILDREN, DO YOU CALL?
"Great battles lay ahead, great trials to come. I—the cloak has granted me visions, premonition! Fate conspires against us. I—WE ask you, honoured Elders," Thorgard shouts back, daring to stare up at the portal even as his vision begins to fade from exposure, "AID US!"
The Sixth relents, driven by duty and empty void of the Third.
YOUR BURDEN, YOUR DEEDS. WHAT NEED HAVE WE TO TAKE UP OUR AZ BEARDLING? The chorus roars, Thorgard
feels the clanking of tankards on tables and the crinkle of unimpressed brows in his bones.
SHALL WE PUT YOUR SHOES ON FOR YOU TOO?
"No reason!" Thorgard answers honestly, "and
every reason!"
Vision fading, he feels as if he's going blind, but he refuses to look away.
The call of the First draws the Fifth and the Seventh, chastised. Earning the grumbling annoyance of the Second.
Vision returns, and Thorgard rises on jellied legs, held up by invisible hands.
Our duty is done. Our battles over. Your fight is your own, your trials not ours, the chorus declares—
The First tuts at the Second, and a contest of Wills that lasts for an eternity and no time at all ends the only way it usually does.
—but a helping hand once in a while ought to be fine.
━<><><><==><><><>━
:^)
