Musings on Tor'Praeth

[Celestial_Bleh 224]

 

 

 

 

Time bends all memory to its will. It carves the mausoleum of experiences out of a glossy marble. Separates the adult from the child, teacher from the student, master from the commoner. I know not who I will be in the years that follow nor if there is even a ‘me’ that will yet live. So let this be a capture of time to all who lay eyes upon its pages. A memory, protected from erosion, of the siren song of Redmont. 

 

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

 

  

 

 

Few venture to that barren volcano without purpose. Whether it be adventure, herbs, some ill scheme, or questions. I was of the latter. Burning questions that kept me from being turned away for, make no mistake, nature and the craft of man work in tandem to shunt all who do not belong to its fiery embrace. 

 

The volcanic terrain holds no path to aid in traversal, jagged rocks hiding pitfalls and the smoldering trough of some past battle. Liquid fire spews from crevices, a danger in of itself but whose glowing ire causes the very ground to heat with its fury. Ash-clogged air gives no rest to tired lungs. The sign of civilization, if it can be called such, does nothing for the heart. 

 

For the ebon stone of Tor Praeth echoes that flaming song, shadow of gabled roofs giving no relief from neither heat nor ash. Everywhere one looks, fangs are bared, eyes are watching. Iron gates lock away where drink and rest might be had. You, an intruder, stand at the foot of the nephilim, and they shall not suffer the chaff. 

 

Such has served to drive many away. If not from the intense conditions, from the resounding silence that casts judgement on all who linger. But there is a reward for curiosity. For an investigation reveals the most astonishing of notions— a welcome! 

 

Writings, freely given to the stranger, for who else benefits when residents slip to and fro, unheeding of what lies just outside the door, expound on Tor’Praeth and what may be found within. Market stalls, albeit some in desperate need of stocking, denote an open sharing of culture and resources. Even the gates do not serve to block a view of decorated halls and the red glow that lies behind them. Is it a taunting then? A dangling of what one might attain yet cannot? Perhaps a promise. A promise to be enjoyed if only one can pass the judgement. 

 

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

 

 

I would not suggest the method I used to gain entrance. Even now, I wonder at the miracle of my not having been eaten. Had it been some other member of Tor’Praeth to first come upon me, I might have been! But I was not.

 

What lies within mirrors what lies without. A sense of complicated history, knowledge both given and hidden, and the ever-present heat of danger. Just enough to be maddeningly tantalizing. Everywhere one looks, there is the mark of ages. Whether it be names long written or a relic that exudes wisdom from its very craftsmanship. Flaming shrines explain themselves in vague descriptors with references to long past beings whose influence carries on yet. Metal and machine are wrought in curious fashion, recognizable yet puzzling when viewed as a whole. 

 

Hidden halls spring forth if one simply knows where to look. The library exudes the same intoxicating frustration that permeates the very stone of Tor’Praeth: A puzzle piece freely given, but still only a piece. Do the rest lie behind locked doors or quiet residents? The ever present “eyes” stare tauntingly down at the fresh-faced seeker. You could know. You could see. If you could climb the mount. 

 

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

 

 

The true heart of Tor’Praeth lies hidden. A frustratingly exciting notion. For much as lava carves out its home, it is those that take up residence and study in its halls who have shaped the stones to their liking. They have set forth the puzzle and observe those who dare tackle it. 

 

Within is as without: quiet. Yet not the quiet of a snuffed flame nor the final bow upon a stage. It is the pause before the spark. That bated breath. For vessels of knowledge and fire, in all stages and manner of learning, flit about. Should one have the wherewithal to catch them, they would not be in want of intriguing conversation. 

 

Art is forged to a degree not seen outside of its walls. Battles waged with such an intense passion as to give death a laughing facade. What do those of Tor’Praeth wait for? I know not. But there may come a day when all the nations of thinking beings lift up their hands in either great fear or thanks. Perhaps both. That is for those flaming eyes in the dark to decide. Once they come upon what they are watching for. 

 

꧁ ༺ ༻ ꧂

 

Art by Donato Giancola (Edited)