Firestorm - The Hrukvorn Lodge II - The Great Machine

Folkvar-Grimnir found himself surrounded by darkness. The air was cold, still and silent. The only things he could see were the cold, white lanterns that stretched off in a line into the abyss, their meagre light swallowed up by the black. He felt compelled to follow the lights, and so he did.

He walked on for what seemed like an eternity, though his instincts told him that this was a place where the normal laws of space and time did not apply. And so on he trudged.  He examined the runes hammered into his hands and his arms; they did not glow, and nor could he feel that constant, thrumming heat that he had become so accustomed to. For the first time in a long time, he became aware that he felt cold. He remembered that he had had a weapon, his Magmadroth... the lodge. Were they things that had been important, or were they the memories of another life? 

'It's been a long time, Hrokisson...' came a voice that at once was familiar yet strange, cold and yet warm.

From out of the dark emerged a shape vaguely duardin in shape, though taller and thinner that Folkvar. His face was obscured by the hood of the long, black cloak he wore, but a blue-black beard -  forked and fixed with silver clasps - spilled down the front of the stranger's black mail shirt. He wore a large sword crafted in the ancient duardin fashion across his back, and he puffed on a long, thin pipe. The embers of the pipe would flicker every so often and briefly illuminate the face, though never for enough to give Folkvar a good look at the stranger's face.

'Do I... know you?' asked Folkvar, struggling through memories that he was unsure whether or not even belonged to him.

'You weren't so interested in gods back then,' continued the stranger, 'but they've always been very much interested in you - and with good reason. Rare indeed is the mortal who has strode across worlds without the help of the Four - yet here you are. It seems I was right to trust you.'

'What is this place? Who are you?' 

The stranger strode over to Folkvar and peered at him with eyes as black as coals. He stroked his forked beard thoughtfully as he examined the runefather.

'To be expected, I suppose...' muttered the Stranger.

'You can't stay here - now is not the time for you, and you've been here too long already as it is,' continued the cloaked duardin. 

The stranger reached out and grabbed Folkvar's left hand with his own pale, spidery hand and gripped it tight. Folkvar's eyes widened at the affrontery and he looked the stranger in the face. 

'Go,' said the stranger, and he threw Folkvar backwards into the dark.


Folkvar's chest heaved up and down as he shot up awake and whipped his head around to either side. He touched his face and his hand came away covered in blood. He sat up and looked around again. Dead and wounded fyreslayers were scattered around about the Infinity Gears. The stink of blood and death and burning flesh filled his nostrils. He remembered the gate they had been sent to close and looked to the centre of the battlefield. A great, blackened crater was all that was left were once the realmgate has stood, and around about it the survivors of the battle were burning the slain orruks in great piles.

Folkvar felt something hard and hot push at his back and turned to see Brim, his faithful magmadroth. He pressed his forehead to the beast's horn lethargically.

'Good lad,' he said softly as he patted the magamdroth's scaly head.

'He stood over you the whole time,' came a familiar voice from behind.

Runesmiter Alsvir was limping over to were Folkvar and Brim stood, leaning heavily on his axe as he walked. Much of his crest and been shorn off, and his armour was battered and chipped. His body was covered in cuts and bruises - many of which had been bandaged with rags - but the Runesmiter looked as though he would live.

'The realmgate - did we...?'

Alsvir shook his head.

'I tried, runefather, but there were too many of them and I was alone...'

Folkvar nodded forlornly as he wiped the blood from his brown.

'Where's Hakon?' asked Folkvar.

Alsvir stared silently at Folkar from behind his ceremonial mask, then quickly shook his head.

Folkvar dropped his face into his open palms, then dragged his fingers down his face leaving tracks in the warpaint and grime that caked his cheeks.

'Skjor?'

'They think he may pull through but...'

'But what?' snapped Folkvar.

'It's bad.'

Folkvar stared out into nothing.

'How many did we lose?'

Alsvir remained silent.

'How many?' barked the runefather.

'They're still counting.'

Folkvar's head swam as everything came rushing back to him in a flood of woe. He remembered charging in the sea of green and red, hewing and hacking about him with his axe as Brim hurled the hated enemy into the air, roaring and laughing as the creatures fled before the advancing fyreslayers... only for hordes of them to pour forth from the gate in a tide of rusty cleavers and gnashing teeth. He had led the lodge here, certain of victory, and he had led them to their deaths.

'The manling,' growled Folkvar, suddenly remembering on whose advice he had undertaken this ridiculous crusade. 'Where is he?'

'He arrived not ten minutes ago,' said Alsvir. 'He came with a small band of outriders.'

'Take me to him,' said Folkvar as he donned his helmet and snatched up his grandaxe. 'Now.'