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TO KEEP FIRE

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Manfred Barclay sat on one of the logs beside the Haense Inferi camp. “Prepare your equipment, we must be ready to aid any and all.” He said simply, as he began to sharpen his sword.

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[MUSIC]

 

dwarf_forge.jpg

 

Within the bowels of Kal’Evraal, Jorvin Starbreaker, Grand King of Urguan and most vengeful of Gotrek’s sons is hard at work. His sweat-soaked and scorched shirt sat long since discarded upon the floor behind him, and unfathomable heat of Urguan’s geothermal forge caused even his durable skin to blister. It was in this chamber beneath the Dwarven hold, that the Hammer of Paragon Gotrek, sung in the deep, its steel-song joined by the bubbling of magma, and creaking of the earth.

 

Sparks flew with every strike upon the Dwarven anvil, beating molten steel into submission, shaping it little by little. There was the occasional wince of pain as sparks touched the Dwarf’s bare skin, but it did too little to disrupt him from his work. The toil came naturally to him, far more than the bureaucracy of kingship, and so he continued, only ever stopping to sip from his waterskin. Before long, a weapon of war was shaped, and another came after it, and many after that.

 

Jorvin prepared for war, it was something he was intimately familiar with, there was comfort in that.

 

 


 

Elsewhere in southern Arcas, a lone rider travels down the King’s Road that ran along the White Mountains, before turning eastward along the coast towards Almenor. He stood aside from the hosts of warriors that marched towards Caras Sylvadrim, riding apart from the crowd. The isles were not the quiet place he remembered, though that was natural as they were preparing for war. As he reached the outskirts, the rider felt an odd feeling overcome him.

 

It had been many years since he’d entered these woods that were meant to be his home, it was a feeling of unfamiliarity and not wholly being welcomed. He shook his head subtly beneath his helm, it mattered very little now. He adjusted his panoply of war, the crimson cloak strung atop his armor, the bow over his shoulder, and the arming sword that hung from an ornate scabbard at his side, his leaf-like heater shield hung from the saddle of his armored stead, a white Destrier.

 

Finwë Sylvaeri, Firstborn of Sea Prince Fëanor Sylvaeri of Elvenesse, long since vanished son, paused in thought before the treeline. He hesitated, not out of fear of what was to come, but more of wondering what to say once his presence was revealed. He decided it best not to dwell on such, as for now, his father needed warriors, not a quarrelsome son. If his years away had taught him anything, it was that he could at the least put his confidence in his steel. Finwë lowered the visor of his helm, and urged his war-horse forward as the citadel of his line arose in the distance...

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