Visitation

Baldrix – Dwarven Cleric of the Argent Flame

Torch – The Argent Flame

Everyone stared absentmindedly into the minuscule fire burning in a portable pit some distance away from the Ratatosk camp. It was Ratatosk elder Glittereye who finally broke the silence.

“Again, I’m sorry my friends. I would never want to slight you of any hospitality we could extend. But the mother tree has made it clear.” With that, Glittereye turned from the glow of the fire, took a step, then turned back to the party, “And thank you for everything.”

Arnell stood and stated, “Well, I’ll head back to the pocket dimension and make preparations for departure.”

Simon jumped up and added, “I’ll help finish identifying the last few items with the materials Verdis supplied through Thallis. We’ll be able to make quick work of those remaining.”

Baldrix had sat quietly listening to the proceedings of the evening. Over the previous week, many had already gone on their separate ways. Giles, Oath, Tina, and Vara. And now, it seemed to Baldrix that he would join them as simply another character that the party used to know. Across his lap, sat the Thief of Charms, a rod of 18 inches topped with a cylindrical orb of glass encircled about with a faint glow of energy.

His quest was drawing to a close.

Baldrix chanced a glance at the faces of Kya, Kavyr, and Windwalker, who remained around the fire.

He went to speak, but Kya beat him to it, “If we’re headed out tomorrow, I’m going to go spend what time I have with the Ratatosk. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Baldrix watched her leave and thought it for the best. He wouldn’t get Windwalker alone as Windwalker had been watching Kavyr with significantly more interest as of late, something he would have been interested to watch play out.

But it was Windwalker who broke the silence next. “It’s not like we didn’t know this was coming. You indicated yourself that the spells you used to lengthen our stay were becoming weak. If Glittereye hadn’t said something first, we would have had to move on anyway. We knew their stores were running lean.”

Baldrix took his time to respond, “Aye, and I should have left when the others did previously. I’ll get started out tonight, rather than wait for the morning.” 

As Baldrix stood, so did Windwalker. They clasped arms and each considered the irony of stereotypical relations across their respective racial divide. Windwalker in-particular was grateful for the dwarf as he alone had proven a force capable of neutralizing his superior martial talent when overcome by false realities. Both benefited from longer memory and thus slower impulse. Kya and Kavyr would have otherwise been the death of them all.

“If you decide to rejoin us, we’re headed to the small keep just inside Sundrek Forest. You can meet up with us there.”

Baldrix expressed his thanks and got details on how to find the keep, knowing full well that he wouldn’t be returning. He walked right past the false Kavyr as he stood, denying him the opportunity to tarnish the farewell.

---

Baldrix played over all the happenings in his mind as he walked in what would have been the pitch dark for any of his surface-dwelling companions, or what used to be his  companions. It had actually been some time since he had traveled alone.

For all intents and purposes, Baldrix should be celebrating. He was headed home to  great halls in the Dwarven nation. His father would greet him with open arms, welcoming the hero home and congratulating him on a task well done. There would be feasts and celebration. His sister would be returned to former glory.

The thing was, it would all be short lived.

Certainly, his name would be carved on some statue in some hall. But seeing as he was not a crown prince, just another prince in a lengthy list of brothers - his deeds in this matter would be known for little more than a generation before crumbling into obscurity.

But this was duty.

And dwarves held duty in far higher regard than any of the surface dwelling races. 

It was in this vein of thought that Baldrix was too preoccupied to see the sliver of flame split between the weft and weave of the fabric of this dimension. He was nearly on top of it before catching himself. He quickly stowed the Thief of Charms and readied his ax and shield, as a 6-foot being wreathed in flame stepped from the gap.

Baldrix raised his ax, but found both it and his shield so intolerably hot that he was forced to release them, smoke rising from his palms burned through heavy gloves. Finding that same heat beginning to envelop his armor, he instinctively reached for his holy symbol, the silver disk with a flame relief cutting into his fingertips and cried a prayer of protection from the element of fire. The being that had emerged from the tear continued its leisurely pace toward him and almost off-handedly chortled and breathed the answer, “No.”

Through the searing pain, Baldrix recognized it, that same refusal - rejection of his supplications for food and sustenance in the camp of the Ratatosk where stores grew scarce - at once, a playful suggestion to move on as well as a stern rebuke at remaining idle. Baldrix dropped to a knee, enduring the otherwise intolerable flames that enveloped him by will alone.

This was the Heart of the Forge, the raw element of passion, the inspiration for every artisan who worked stone or metal. The only member of the pantheon to give and take with equal plenty, unparalleled irregularity, and dealt out with an indifference only emulated by death itself. This was his Argent Flame.

Torch, as she was known among her peers, eyed the young dwarf with some sympathy. He was mesmerized with her beauty, bronze skin tones, cascades of fiery red locks in vibrant hues shifted about her bare shoulders. She was barefoot and little more than sheer veils whipped about as flames clothed her extremities, while the brightness of her core blinded the brave observer where brass did not otherwise cover and reflect. She smiled as she ran an index finger along his forehead and down to his chin, lightly searing his flesh along its path.

The dwarf was ruggedly handsome, as far as dwarves went and it wasn’t that she intended any ill will toward him. But there were times, oft times, that warranted a medium that would impress with the same level of severity as the gravity of the message itself.

“Not all of the pantheon choose champions to themselves. It requires taking a portion of your own power and imbuing an individual who has not otherwise attained it. But the errand I need, even for as remote a risk it is, requires a more delicate approach.

“The denizens of the deep grow weak, victims of attrition and their own Far-Shore accursed civil war. Dark Waters drown their patron god who convalesces; victim to her own hubris. However, the elves of the deep are amongst the most talented with the magics most closely associated with the wounds sustained by my sister.

“Far-Shores claim her, the Grieving Mother still slumbers, victim to wounds of her own received from one who vowed to protect her. A sacrifice she willingly paid to protect all of her children.”

Torch looked intently into Baldrix’s eyes, still not really seeing him, “She must live to continue to be his folly. The balance must be maintained or his fall ensures Dark Waters down us all.

“The threat Southern Shores raised to fill the Mother Spider’s place brings ruin upon her own people.” Flames seared up Torch’s hand. “And it is for this remote threat that I cannot risk my own participation and must send a champion to neutralize the threats to the failing noble deep. Sleeping gods must asleep, but none should be afforded the opportunity to take their place. Least of all this Black-Beach Born thief with stolen magics.”

The flames subsided from Torch’s hand and she looked again in Baldrix’s eyes, and saw him for perhaps the first time. But he was not for that moment intent on her. Baldrix’s eyes had wandered over to the family crest on his smoldering shield. Torch released Baldrix, both from her grasp and from her magics.

Taking a step back, “Oh no, little one, for this role you must have no thought of returning to your own. Certainly if you did, you would be held in…some esteem…for the remainder of your days. But you cannot follow my path if that is your aim. You will never return to them should you cast in with me. The Palisade or the Southern Shores will long have claimed you.

“So, is it better to be remembered for a time in warm regard amongst your own or to be rendered completely unknown amongst them while being immortalized in infamy, baptized by Dark Water - your name similarly an expletive to those who threaten what you hold dear?”

Torch leaned in close and gave him a searing kiss on the lips before Baldrix woke with a start.

The insufferable heat was gone, but the memory was fresh and he struggled to shake it off. He must have dozed off staring into the flames of the fire. Looking around, he found himself in the company of Giles, Tina, and Vaya, well ahead of the rest of his companions on their way back to his native plane. Baldrix stared into the flames again, repeating to himself what Torch had asked.

A short lived fame or infamy forever amongst your enemies?

What role does duty play? Is his true duty to the family he knows, or the family he chose? Knowing what he knew now, would going back be abandoning a duty he now had to all living things now threatened by a mad god?

After a while, realizing he had already made up his mind some time ago and his hesitation now was only to build up the will to act. Baldrix withdrew the Thief of Charms from his pack and lay it carefully on his shield, ‘Return with it or on it, my son.’ His father’s words echoed from a distant memory. Hurling both with all his might off the great limbs of the world ash he allowed them to disappear into the night. Seeking a different comfort, he retrieved his  axes and slumped again by the fire.

As he idly ran his thick fingertips on the wooden haft of his axes, he found them scorched with a handprint of delicate features, having penetrated the magic that protected each. Almost subconsciously, he touched his lips to find they had similarly been burned.

As he drifted off to sleep, branding into his memory was a promise, and warning, “I now shelter thee from Death’s grasp, Baldrix, Favored of Torch. But a caution, Dark Waters run deep and there are fates far worse than Death.”