Vorax's Humble Hammer Stirs

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

A dwarf scratches at stubble growing in where there should be a beard. The scratching pulls the skin away and leaves nothing but loosely attached skin and raw flesh. The dwarf seems not to notice though but instead continues to lie as though asleep. The arms are black and charred with flesh beginning to flake off.

It's morning...or is it dusk? How long has it been? Two weeks now? Three? No....longer than that. At least it seems likely. The light is coming in at a strange angle. A dwarf looks up and sees that it spills in through a window near a fireplace. He sits in a stone chair before an elaborate fireplace. When did he get here? Wasn't he in bed? The fireplace stares back at him blankly and unlit, yet the fire still burns. It burns to the very bone. And the ees stare back from within it. Eyes of red malice laugh in triumph. The flame burns. It burns. It burns deep. There is darkness.

A dwarf sits looking devoid of any life at a sturdy wooden table. There is a stone bowl of uncooked soup upon the table. A weak arm lifts a spoon of the substance to a face with scars for lips. The cold concotion falls from the spoon down the front of the dwarf and over the table. The spoon drops into the bowl and creates a splash. The dwarf slumps forward, his face landing in the bowl.

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

A dwarf lies naked and sleeping in a posh bed, tossing fitfully about. Puss and some blood ooze from charred skin across his forehead and chest. The tossing turns into thrashing until the dwarf suddenly bolts upright in his bed in a scream of pain. Slowly, the dwaf's breathing returns to normal. He looks about the chamber his face contored by a mixture of pain and confusion. In the darkness he lowers himself from the bed and takes a tentaive step towards the door. The dwarf manages to slowly make his way to the door between shuffling and stumbling. With great effort the dwarf opens the door and steps into his changing room. He steps on something soft, and winces. A robe he has just stepped in has pulled more skin from his foot. The dwarf hobbles his way through the next door. Strewn in a line from the door across the room are various articles of clothng, obviously left to lie where they were removed from a tired individual. Despite his maticulous manner the dwarf simply leaves the clothes.

No light breaks through the window. It must be night. Or perhaps it is simply a gloomy day. The dwarf staggers over to a window to gaze out. Leaning his face against the cool glass he peers out into what is now confirmed for him as night. The dwarf's eyes begn to fall shut, he is drifting off again when a small campfire is lit out near the lake in front of his house. The erupting flame is far off and somewhat dim, but it startles the dwarf nonetheless. The dwarf shots up in a fright and begins to shake his head about and placing his burnt hands up in front of his face as if to ward off a blow.

"That face....those burning eyses...NO!"

The dwarf falls backwards against a bookcase knocking off a number of volumes. His head strikes the wall. Blackness consumes all.

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

A faint light cuts across the room from a window illuminating the room in shades of pink and red. The dwarf begins to stir, his eyes slowlbegins to take the face and bodyy flutter open. The gaze is cloudy and unfixed. A first attempt to sit up fails miserably and the dwarf slumps over onto the floor. A book lies uncomfortably beneath his head. With effort the dwarf reaches beneath his head and pushes the book aside. The result is his head landing on the floor with a resounding thud that bring a look of anguish to his face. The eyes roll back into the dwarf's head for a moment. It appears he is about to pass out again. His head rolls over to one side. Relaxed peace begins to take the face and body. Darkness comes again.
  Hours pass and the light from the window fades into night. The dwarf rouses from the void once again. The room is in darkness, but his dwarven eyes can still see the bookcase next to him and the books about him that were knocked off. On the floor in front of his face lies a book he vaguley remembers causing pain. Pain. That is all life is now. Blinking blistered eyelids. Breathing through burnt lungs. Pain is the focus of his being. It is the beginning and the end of his universe. Pain unimaginable. Pain follows him everywhere. Even during times where he finds himself having slipped into the void of nothingness, pain finds him there. And it laughs at him from behind a hideous skeletal face with burning red eyes. He is a failure. His cause and all hope is lost. More pain. A coffin of fire enshrouds him and he screams unendingly inside his head. Madness begins to creep in. But then the void receeds. Then there is simply the pain of the body again. Those eyelids. Those lungs.
  The darkness in the room grows deeper as no moon casts light this night. This thought simply floats about the addle-brained dwarf's head until he sees a word upon the spine of the previously offending book.
  Lightbringer
  The word pierces the fog of the dwarf's mind, even going so far as to bring a near chuckle into the scattered thoughts within the dwarf's savaged mind. Slowly the dwarf reaches out and touches the book. The dwarf laboriously props himself up against the bookcase and pulls the book to him.
  Lightbringer
  The word stikes another chord. Totally unaware of his actions, the dwarf mutters something unintelligable. Suddenly he and his closest surrounding are illuminated by a brilliant white light. The dwarf shrieks in fright and retreats into a ball in terror dropping the book. The dwarf sits huddled and shivering  in a mass of charred skin, puss, and blood with his eyes shut. But closing his eyes brings another terror. A hideous face with red eyes gleams back at him. Once again a coffin of flame leaps for and enguls him as the face mocks him. His is finished. He is a failure. There is no hope. His mind begins to tear to pieces. To run away from the madness the dwarf opens his eyes again with a start. They open and gaze upon the book once more. Now fully illuminated the title on the tome is fully legible.
  The Chronicles of Kothac Lightbringer
  Recognition pierces the dwarf's gaze. Slowly he reaches for the book once more. Pulling it closer he opens the cover and gazes at the Dwarven Runes that sprall across the page. The tone of the written words is soothing. Slowly the dwarf untenses and begins to relax. The dwarf slowly begins to read the book. Many hours pass and the dwarf continues to read. Finally the dwarf finishes the book and slumps backwards against the bookcase. The void once again takes a hold of the dwarf's mind and he falls into unconsciousness. But this time a new feature marks his face. Tears run cold down either cheek of the dwarf.

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

The darkness of a familiar void enshrouds the dwarf. The darkness is cold and unfeeling, but familiar. It starches forever in every direction. Suddenly a brilliant flare erupts like the striking of a match in a dark room. Within the small flame a deep menace exudes. The flame grows larger, and as it does a shape takes form. A hideous skull with eyes of crimson resides within the flame. Then the flame begins to dart and dance about splitting into many small flames, each controlled by the face of evil.   The dwarf watches the face, but this time, this time something is different. This time the dwarf stares back at the face and looks deep into the crimson eyes. The eyes flare up and the many small flames each grow in size until each becomes a mini-inferno the size of a fire giant. Still the dwarf does not avert his gaze. The infernos take the shape of flaming elementals and begin to assail the dwarf. Still the dwarf does not thrash or scream. The eyes gaze back at the dwarf. The flames begin to devour the dwarf eating him alive. The smell of charred flesh and hair reaches his senses. The sound of crisping skin echoes loudly. Still the dwarf does not wail out of pull away.
  “Defiant one! You are lost!” the skull booms out.   The flames grow in size ten-fold. The dwarf is now in another familiar place. A coffin of flame now envelops the dwarf’s entire being. Flesh is charred away. Fat begins to melt. Bone is exposed and charred. The face of the dwarf becomes a molten mass with two sockets for eyes. Bit where previously there had been a screaming chasm for the mouth, there was now nothing. Still the dwarf does not wail or thrash.
  Suddenly a change occurs. Tears stream silently from each eye socket. Where they fall and streak the flames are quenched, and the features of the dwarf restored.   The skull reacts in rage. “Insolent fool! You have failed! There is no hope! There is no future! For you there is only pain and suffering! You are forever lost!’
  As the tears continue to slowly roll forth the dwarf continues to sit in unmoving silence.   “You think to defy me?! You think that a pitiful soul trapped in a mortal vessel as broken as yours can stand before me?! Then you are not only a fool, but have finally gone mad!” screamed the evil skull.   Still the dwarf stood silently.

Rage crosses the maniacal face controlling the flames.
  “You cause is lost! Your allies are consumed by Fisterion, brought to their slaughter by you and you alone. You have no clan.  You are nothing but a broken fool of a mortal who will be forgotten by all. Who do you think you are to stand here before me?! YOU ARE NOBODY!”
 
  As the skull utters these last words a violent storm of fire erupts from his gaping maw. Just before the flaming tempest crashes into the dwarf, a very, very small smile becomes perceptible on the face of the dwarf.
 
  The flaming tempest crashes into the dwarf and he explodes into a million pieces.
 
  The dwarf wakes up to find himself lying naked in a dark room on the floor before his bookshelf. A familiar smile still accents his scarred face. Quietly, as though no sound other than screams had uttered from the lungs and lips of the dwarf for ages on end a voice speaks calmly and clearly.
 
  “I am Thordan Ironheart, Battle Priest of Vorax.”
 
  Thordan lifts himself off the floor, goes over to the nearby fireplace and lights a warm fire. He looks deep into the fire for a few moments, reaches down absently, grabs a log from the tinder pile and tosses it onto the flame. The flame grows immediately larger filling the fireplace with a radiant flame, and the room with a soft light.
 
  “That’s better.”
 
  With that Thordan pauses and sniffs the air, then looks down at himself and sniffs again. He looks about the room taking in the disorderly mess. Smells of rotting skin, urine, fecal matter, mold, and other unpleasantries assail his olfactory senses. Thordan looks down and sees a familiar book at his feet.
 
  He picks up The Chronicles of Kothac Lightbringer and places it reverently back into its place upon the bookshelf. He then exhales the long sigh of a tired person with too much work left to do.
 
  “Well, fist things first.”
 
  With that Thordan draws a bath of cool water, crushes some curative herbs into it and climbs in. He submerges himself fully for a brief moment and then comes back up and takes a full and deep breath filling his lungs with air. He lets the breath out slowly, closes his eyes, and leans back against the side of the tub.
 
  A void comes again and envelops the dwarf. This time Thordan simply smiles as the peaceful sleep of the just takes him and caresses his senses. Just as he drifts off into slumber two words mutter from Thordan’s lips as the smile remains on his face.
 
  “Goodbye Drezneb.”
 
   
   

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

The doors and windows of the Ironheart home nestled high in the Serpent Mountainsvhome all stand fully opened. A fire burns in each of the fireplaces. The smell of roasting boar wafts out from the kitchen. All the books have been tidily arranged on their selves. Every stitch of clothing and gear has been returned to its place. In the common room all the crockery has been put away. Throughout the house the floors have been scrubbed clean, rugs and tapestries have been beaten clean, and incense has recently been burned excising all unpleasant odors.
  Out the front door and down the hill a bit, Thordan swims through the cool, crisp waters of his small lake. Excessive scarring covers his arms and torso, but no puss or blood oozes forth and thecharred skin is all gone. What is left is simply a scar-tissue reminder of a horrific torching. After completeing his swim Thordan heads back to the house and enters his storage and armory closet. He glances about still breating heavily from his exertions in the water. Upon the farthest wall he sees what he is looking for. The hammer emits a holy glow reminding all that it is an instrument of Vorax, and not a tool of the weilder. Thordan crosses the room and hefts the hammer. He then goes back outside and begins a series of martial exercises. Having just begun though Thordan finds his wrists tiring and his technique getting sloppy. Even slowing down he finds he can only weild the hammer in the most basic of techniques. Nodding silently to himself Thordan returns the hammer to its place on the wall and retrieves the one next to it. This one does not give the holy glow of the other, but instead radiates a faint green and white light. A perfectly balanced head atop a finely crafted mahogany shaft. An inscription on the head reveals the master crafter who forged the weapon to be none other than Dorand's High Priest himself.
  Thordan takes up the hammer and returns to his martial exercises. This time the exercises come a bit easier, and the hammer obeys his will without difficulty. Still, it is obvious by the end of only one cycle that the hammer arm has grown weary. Veins and muscles bulge as the dwarf continues trying to weild his hammer.

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

With a grim look Thordan returns the hammer that all have come accustomed to seeing him with to a rack on the wall. He then goes and draws himself a cool, crisp bath and drops some various herbs into the water. After cleaning thoroughly and caring for his tender skin Thordan returns to his martial training. He goes once more to his armory and pulls forth an exquisite piece of armor, the finest armor of a Voraxian Battle Priest anywhere. It has recently been carefully polished. The padding has been carefully replaced. Not a blemish exists on it. Great care has been taken by a skilled armorer to restore this piece to new condition.
  With reverance and care Thordan begins to don the armor. After slowly getting into his armor, beng careful to avoid chafing his skin Thordan once again goes outside to exercise. Within only a few short minutes it is obvious that the burden of such heavy platemail is too much for the dwarf. With a grim look upon his already stoic demeanor, Thordan takes off the armor, adjusts the straps and cleans the plates. He then returns it to its place in storage and dons a fine garment of reinforced vestments of his Order.
  With shoulders slumped and an aura of dread about him, Thordan retreats to the itchen to check on the roasting boar. Pulling it out of the large oven he sets it on a sideboard to rest. He draws himself a large flagon of water and places some herbs into it and sets it out on the table with a stone cup. He then returns to the boar and slices off a few pieces and sets them upon a plate with some raw vegetables. During the course of the meal Thoran begins to talk to himself.
  "You knew it would be difficult. You can't expect to just jump up and pretend nothing ever happened."
  "But how in bloody blazes am I going to be able to serve ifn I don't even have a suit of armor to wear?"
  He then sigs and takes a long swig of the herbal water. "Idiot! Yer a fine blacksmith getr yourself some bloody ore and make yerself some different armor to help ye build yer strength back up."
  Thordan then nodes to himself. "Aye. That's what I'll do. This was the plan, I need to stick to it. I NEEDED to be defeated in order to win my victory. And I did. I jes need to remember that. I won and he donnae even know it."
  With that Thordan finishes his meal in silence, cleans up the table, cleans up the kitchen, dropping the boar into a salt bath, and pours himself yet another cool bath with herbal water. After once again treating his tender skin Thordan returns to his library where a small table is set nearby. Upon the table are several large rool-out parchments covered in what appear to be technical sketches. Going to the nearest bookshelf Thordan reaches up and pulls out an old and battered tomb. Thordan walk over to the table and opens it up and sets it beside the drawings. It is obvious that Thordan is making comparative notes between the old and seemingly incomplete tomb and his drawings. From time to time Thordan shakes his head as though confused about a minor detail here or there. After a number of hours go by Thordan wearily rubs the back of his neck and sets down his work. A look somewhere between concern and confusion etches itself deeply into Thordan's face.
  Slowly Thordan prepares himself for bed. He spends an unusal amount of time in meditative prayer, as though reasserting some part of his faith. He then rises from his meditations and retires for the night. As he makes himself comfortable in the darkness of his sleeping chamber a long, slow sigh can be heard followed by a small whisper.
  "Rainstorff what were you thinking?"

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

More time passes and Thordan's days continue much the same. No longer though does he attempt to train with his divine hammer, or does he attempt to don his exquisite armor. Instead heseems resigned to his short-comings and seems more determined to make inroads on his technical drawings. Thordan spends hours each day going through his library doing research in old manuals on strategy and tactics. He spends his evening at the table making notations and changes to his drawings.
  Then one night Thordan emerges from a late evening swim only to notice that something seems amiss in the direction of Dalanthar. The small city noth of his mountain is usually dark from his place, and even when well lit can barely be seen in the distance on a clear night. This time however, things are different. This time there is a definate glow coming from the direction of Dalanthar. It is a glow Thordan is only too familiar with. It is a glow emminated from the fires of destruction. With great chagrin Thordan goes inside and dresses himself in his stately robes, grabs his old, familiar Dorandite hammer and grabs a bag filled with bandages. Making the trek to the village takes time, but there is no place better to be at this point.
  Upon arrival in the town there is chaos evrywhere. People are running around and screaming, babbling incoherently. SOme claim that the undead attacked. Others claim a dragon swwoped in from the skies. Thordan does what he can going from place to place trying to provide what healing he can to those injured. Eventually his presence and calm demeanor help those in charge of the city and the outlying areas to compose themselves. Thordan allows them to take charge, not wanting to renew old arguments over who governs his mountain. Finally he is able to pull someone aside and gt a clear recounting of what had happened. It was neither the undead or a dragon seperately, but one being the other. A Bone Dragon had been seen and created havoc.
  This troubled Thordan greatly.Although not a sage of arcane or necromatic lore, Thordan knew the ways of his enemies. And one thing he knew he was relatively sure of is that such a beat could only come from reanimating the remains of a fallen lizard. To this point Blood had not used this weapon, a trump card if ever there was one. That meant it was fresh. But who? Certainly not Fisterion. Had the great Red of Firesteep fallen, the war would be over already. Blood would have won. No. It was not Fisterion. Perhaps the Blue of the Aunuroch? Blood had already sent his minions to try and kill the beast once when Khain invaded Dregar. But certainly no army had landed on Dregar and continued the assault. Had Blood come himself and finished the job? It seemed unlikely. Blood was not one to reveal himself so oppenly so close to his opposition. Likewise it seemed improbable that he would have assailed the Black in southern Mistone, the one continent that he held virtually no sway upon thanks to the diligence of the Seven Sisters, Moraken, and others. One place Sinthar certainly could weild power and influence was in the Underdark. But the great evil that lurked there was already a controller of undead while not being one itself. Did shadowy based creatures even have skeletal remains to reanimate? That left the Green. Thordan thought on it. If ever there was a place removed enought that housed a great enemy of Sinthar's it was the home of the Green. Far removed from any form of government that cared, and surrounded by Blood's influence, the Green certainly was vulnerable.
  All this however was merely speculation on Thordan's mind. No matter how sound his strategic thinking was, it was all speculation. He needed facts. Facts were not something he was likely to get holed up on his mountain. Thordan spent the rest of the evening providing ministrations for the wounded and then headed back to his place atop the mountain in the morning. He spent that day resting and regaining his strength from having een up and exertinghimself for the last 48 hours. That evening he took his technical drawing, wrapped them neatly, and securd them within his travel sacks. He went into his armory and packed his exquisite armor and his divine hammer. He took down his shield emblazoned with the crest of Vorax and polished it up. He cleaned up the rest of his home putting everything away. He then spent a few hours in prayer, took another cool, soothing, herbal bath and turned in early.
  The next day Thordan arose early and adorned himself in his sturdy travelling vestments of faith. He donned his travelling sack and drew forth from a very small pocket a tiny stone key. Going through his kitchen to the pantry he unlocked a door at the back of the pantry and opened it. Inside was a faint yellow glow. Looking at the travelling portal Thordan let out a deep sigh. "There's only one place to get the answers I need."
  With that, Thordan aligned the portal to focus upon Mistone and stepped in muttering, "Take me to Hlint," and vanished.

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

As Thordan stepped from the mystical portal beneath the familiar tower inhabited by Moraken, he took a slow, long, deep breath.  
  

“It’s been a long time,” he whispered to himself.  
  

As he makes his way through the moonlit north gate of Hlint, he is approached by an armor-clad figure diligently walking the street. “State your business stranger”  
  

Despite only catching a glimpse of the man in the pale light, Thordan recognizes the voice immediately. Saying nothing Thordan simply looks up into the face of the most prominent of town guards and waits for him to approach. As the man approaches closer his radiant light casts itself upon Thordan’s weary face.  
  

“Ironheart! I didn’t know you were still around. Go right ahead.”  
  

Silently Thordan continued his way through town thinking that perhaps Garent might have gained a few pounds, but at least he was finally questioning strangers in the night. No one else walked the streets that night. The only signs of activity were coming from the Wild Surge straight ahead. But that was not to be his destination on this night. Coming to the split in the road, Thordan wandered left a bit and crossed over the road. There before him stood the tallest structure in town. It was dark against the night sky, and even somewhat imposing. But only the wicked had anything to fear in there.  
  

Thordan climbed the steps to the Hlint Courthouse and opened the massive front doors. He paused momentarily once he had fully entered the Great Hall. Things had not changed here. Across the front there still stood the chairs of Councilors. The room was well lit. The rows of benches were clean. Thordan strode past the rows of benches and past the seats that looked out from the front of the room. On his left stood the small door in the corner. He went through it and followed the small hallway around to another door, this one with a strong lock upon it. Thordan reached into his tunic and retrieved a key from a thin chain around his neck and slipped it into the lock. The key turned quietly within the lock and tumblers could be heard falling out of the way. Thordan pushed upon the door to open it and was rather surprised to find that it barely moved. The door seemed stuck in place. With a frown of consternation Thordan squared himself to the door, placed both palms upon it and shoved with great might. A loud groan and a bit of screeching metal from poorly oiled hinges could be heard resonating throughout the building.  
  

Thordan strode into the room beyond the door. There inside the door was the flint for the oil lamps. Thordan struck it once and the room surged to life. Thordan set his pack against the wall inside the door and began to pace about the room slowly. His eyes would close from time to time as though he were lost in memories. After a few more moments weariness began to creep into his legs. He found that he had wandered toward the head of the room where the large seat faced out at the High Council Chambers. Thordan sat in the chair and leaned back a bit looking out at the room, glancing from one seat to the next. Just as he glanced back to the entrance a man appeared in the door.  
  

“What’s going on in here?! Oh, Master Ironheart! I didn’t expect to find you in here.”  
  

Thordan stood to address the man who had entered the room. Before he could respond though the man continued.  
  

“How did you get in here? The door should have been locked and I have the keys.”  
  

Silently Thordan slipped his key back within his tunic. “What are you talking about?”  
  

“Oh, I guess you haven’t heard yet. Well, I might as well tell you now. The High Council has been disbanded. Sees they were too spread out to be able to continue their works. Tarradon Duvall sealed the room and handed me the ring of keys. This room was to remain sealed until a new Council had need of it.”  
  

A very confused look of concern, anger, and sadness crossed Thordan’s face. “Apparently my absence has been more profound than I thought. So the High Council no longer exists huh?”  
  

The clerk shook his head, “I’m afraid not sir. But you can take care of whatever business it is you have in here I suppose. I’m sort of busy, just close it all up on your way out.”  
  

Thordan acknowledged the clerk with a grim nod and the clerk left the room. Quietly Thordan sank back into the large chair at the end of the room.  
  

Where were answers supposed to come from now? It was those that had been called upon and entrusted with this duty that Thordan had hoped to learn of the events that had transpired during his convalescence. Things were certainly more grim than Thordan had thought. This meant only one thing though, there was even more work to be done. With a heavy sigh Thordan lifted himself from the seat and walked over to his pack. He hefted his pack onto his shoulders and extinguished the lights in the room. He then took an empty water flagon and filled it with some of the oil from the wall lamps, went over to the door and poured the oil liberally over the hinges. Thordan then closed the door and locked it using the key about his neck.  
  

“I’ll be keeping this,” he said quietly to himself.  
  

With that Thordan left the building and descended the steps. He threw the oily water flagon in the nearby trash and then looked about slowly. With a sigh Thordan looked down the road that would lead out of town towards Fort Llast.  
  

“Alright then, where’s that bard?”  
  

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

Thordan spent the next several days wandering about Hlint taking in all the news he could. He listened in on stories that Ozymandias told to others, even when some of the details changed from time to time. The important thing was to get the jist of what was going on. The details that did not come to light on their own could be sorted out in time once the bigger picture became clear.
   

Some novice adventurers came stumbling through Hlint rather beat up soliciting help from any who would listen to save some comrades still trapped within the haunted Dire Wood. Thordan used this as an opportunity to try and test how much his strength had returned. Along the way he found the hammer and shield still very burdensome. However, his faith in his abilities granted by Vorax was quickly confirmed as he found himself acting frequently as a medic to keep his wounded companions from slipping into death.
   

So his body was still not prepared to enter into combat. This did not mean that there was not still work to be done. Quietly Thordan made the walk to Blackford Castle. He hoped desperately that neither the Highstar nor the Queen would take active notice of his coming or going. They would have questions for him that he was still not yet prepared to answer.
   

Upon arrival at Blackford Castle Thordan went to the large storehouse within. There he walked purposefully to the wall and stopped. He stood there for some considerable time simply staring at the wall. After what seemed an eternity Thordan merely nodded his head ever so slightly and retired to the library.
   

Within the library Thordan found what he sought, another mystical portal, this one with only one possible destination. He stepped within the portal and immediately the tingling sensation washed over him from his toes to the top of his head. The next instant he stood on the Elven island domain on Voltrex. Before him sprawled a well-tended courtyard leading up to the grand building that was his destination.
   

As Thordan silently approached the doors to the Great Library he couldn’t help but notice two statues that flanked the entry. He was immediately taken aback and forced himself to look closer. He knew these likenesses. In fact, he knew them well. Memories briefly flooded his mind of many adventures which he had shared with these two figures now carved in stone. Memories of the fight to heal the Broken Forest. Memories of challenging the authority of the treacherous god Pyretechon at his own temple on the doorstep of Firesteep. A satisfaction welled up within him that the human of the two had managed to have her soul saved from its eternal damnation by renouncing the evil god.
   

Thordan smiled the smile of a proud father and simply shook his head slightly. But as he started to walk in the doors something else about the statue of the human woman caught his eye and made him stop short. He looked at the statue again closely taking in the features and the engraved details. Then he turned slowly to do the same with the halfling statue. But all was right with the halfling statue, including the name.
   

Triba Gues.
   

Then Thordan turned back to the human statue and once again looked it over from head to toe. He then closed his eyes and ran his fingers lightly over her face, then over her arm and nodded to himself. He opened his eyes and stared into the blank ones that looked out from the stone statue. Then he merely nodded gently.
   

“I know it is you lass, despite what these scibbblins say.”
   

Then Thordan slowly left the statue inscribed with the name Eldárwen Hilliaraname and passed through the doors of the Great Library, a look of concern upon his face. Quietly he could be heard asking the empty air in front of him as he continued to walk with furrowed brow, “What happened to you Miss Serenity?”
   

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

A number of days passed for Thordan in the Great Library. Or had it actually been a few weeks? One thing was for certain, the peacefulness and serenity of the Voltrex certainly was not overstated. And though Thordan had not left the library compound, he could readily see why the elves of the continent guarded it so thoroughly. As Thordan prepared to leave he once more went over his pack to make sure he had not forgotten anything. At first glance one might think that the dwarf was absconding with books from the sacred treasure trove of knowledge. But closer examination, or having watched the dwarf in diligent study since his arrival, would reveal a number of recently transcribed notes, bound by a cloth ribbon, the work of many sleepless nights and early mornings. With an approving nod Thordan finished checking his gear and departed the Great Library. Before heading into the mystical portal that would return him to Mistone he took the time to look about once more and breathe deep the fresh air of Voltrex, a small, sad smile crossing his face as he did. He stepped through the portal and into the library within Blackford Castle.  
  

Having returned to Mistone it was time to give matters of the mind a rest and turn to more immediate, practical matters. Thordan’s body was still thin and the muscles had not yet returned to form. As a result, the dwarf still had no armor that fit to help protect his already weakened body should he encounter a fight. That meant obtaining a suit to wear until his body once again found its strength of old.  
  

Thordan arrived in Hlint and perused the various armors available through general merchants and so forth. Almost immediately however he became acutely aware of the lack of fine dwarven craftsmanship available. It was apparent rather quickly that the only way the Battle Priest was going to find a suitable set of armor was to make one himself.  So he went to the bank and left his newly made bundle of notes within the safe and withdrew enough coin to purchase some miners picks.  
  

Before he knew it, Thordan was walking the all too familiar streets of Haven where once there had been a great temple to Vorax. Now however only a token shrine remained as the dwarven god’s influence waned from the location. Warrant Officer Kit Ironfist was seen as always walking her diligent rounds maintaining vigil against encroaching ogres. This night she would receive help in her appointed task.  
  

Thordan strapped his shield tight about his arm and drew forth his hammer. He wore naught but the fine robes of his faith. But he was convinced of his ability against lesser trained ogres. The going was slow as the ogres turned out to be tougher than his memory recalled. On no less than two occasions he found himself needing to stop to dress wounds that bled a bit too freely. By the time he reached the first level of the ore, his hammer arm was becoming quite tired. Just another glaring reminder on how Thordan had been away too long was tht the ogres flocked to him in swarms. The numbers were large and they no longer feared him like they had in the past.  
  

Despite his weariness, there were ogres to dispatch and mining to be done. With his hammer starting to hang a bit low Thordan decided it best to make the work as quick as possible. Once the ogres were finally quelled he started in on mining the iron ore. Though his body was weak, his mind and eye were still sharp. A careful eye told Thordan when he had finally mined just enough for a fine suit of dwarven plate mail.  
  

Emerging from the mines a short time later, Thordan once again found Kit checking defenses and making sure that the town of Haven was safe. He gave her a subtle smile and a nod and she returned it. “I expect that the ogres will become a bit more cautious again Master Dwarf. It is good to see you again.”  
  

Thordan merely nodded as he made his way back to the Tobur Xin Smithy in Hlint. Once in the smithy Thordan took a long look around. He took in the sights and smells and paused a moment to reflect upon the peaceful joys associated with good, hard labour. He let the loving warmth of the forge embrace and surround him. Slowly he made his way past the anvils and the racks, leaving light caresses upon them as he passed. Looking into the cooling bath he saw his reflection. Finally he took a deep breath and headed to the forge to smelt his load of ore. So caught up in finally returning to his love of blacksmithing, he was entirely done smelting the iron before he realized it. He took the newly forged iron and put it near a large anvil, and took out a simple blacksmith’s hammer from his pack. Slowly, meticulously, Thordan began to pound out the metal into large sheets. The pain and weariness in his hammering arm soon disappeared, and all Thordan knew at that moment was the loving song that the anvil and metal sang as his hammer stuck them repeatedly.  
  

With great pride Thordan etched his crest into the inside of the suit of armor when it was done. Afterwards he cleaned up his station, looked around the smithy once more and smiled. He took his newest creation with him and retired to the Wild Surge. There he took a long bath to clean away the grime and stink of the Haven mines. Once clean and dry Thordan walked over to his creation and tried it on. He nodded in approval as everything fit just as it should, and left him with an unexpected freedom of movement from something so bulky. “It won’t protect from much, but it will do far better than my skin,” he muttered. Then he sighed.  
  

“It wonna ever be a proper Battle Priest’s armor without certain accents, but I wonna find those in these parts. Seein me in funny lookin armor is still a far sight better than seein my mangled body. The time’ll come. Someday my strength and agility will return. Then they’ll see my properly attired again.”  
  

He took off his armor and lied down upon a firm bed in the corner of his room. No sooner had he hit the mattress then all the weariness of the last few days caught up to him. His muscles immediately softened and relaxed, and he was asleep in mere moments. For the first time in many months, Thordan not only slept peacefully, he slept the sleep of the happy and content.  
  

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

The priestess of Kithairien stepped from the night shadows in the residences of Hlint’s Eastside. She was dresses in a nice, simple, yet attractive dress. It had been long since Thordan had last seen her, and even longer since he had seen her in anything other than the garb of her faith. It took him a moment to recognize her as she quietly spoke his name.  
  

Once he recognized however, he was glad. Finally, a face from before his absence that he recognized and had trust in, even if she did serve The Runner. At the very least he had to have respect for a lady nearly as skilled in forging weapons as he was that did it out of love of the art and not for profit.  
  

“Hello Miss Andraia. It’s been a long time.”  
  

She smiled at him and he could see it in her eyes. Something in her had changed. After a few moments of polite conversation Thordan was certain that this proud and strong woman had undergone a change.  
  

“I’ve sold my house here in Hlint. I’m going to go back to Haven and settle in.”  
  

So that was it. She was getting out. For a brief moment Thordan felt the pang of yet another ally lost in the fight against Sinthar. But the pang was fleeting. Instead a calm sense of rightness blanketed Thordan. This decision was likely the best. Andraia had always been a conflicted sort, always at war with her inner self. Despite her skills on the anvil, and her devotion to her god, there was always an incompleteness that followed her about. Perhaps leaving behind the life of high adventure was best for her. Perhaps settling in to a place that welcomed her home would give her time to find that part of her that was missing.  
  

Thordan wished her the warmest of farewells he could muster, and then was on his way again. As much as he might want to sit and reminisce with an old acquaintance, such an action was not going to help Thordan figure out what had happened in the lands since his absence. Nor was it going to help to physically prepare him for the upcoming challenges.  
  

More time passed as Thordan started venturing out more and more each day, testing his recovering strength and giving minor aide where possible to adventuring parties seeking to better themselves in their various trades. During one of these escorts Thordan heard various rumors that Dreger was once again suffering. Not only had the Green been slain, and then risen again to serve an evil master terrorizing the northern reaches, but now there was something else, or perhaps even a number of somethings amiss.  
  

With renewed determination Thordan made a slow, careful trek to Port Hampshire where he chartered a vessel to Point Harbor. Crossing Rilara Thordan was acutely aware that Milara’s evil had indeed intensified. It was nearly palpable. Ever so carefully he made his way to Karthy where he finally managed passage to Lorindar.  
  

The crossing was uneventful, but for Thordan the downtime was rather beneficial. Some basic calisthenics upon rising in the morning, followed by a small but filling meal and then hours of relaxation time did wonders for Thordan’s body and gave him time to reflect upon another issue that had been plaguing his mind. Even if Thordan were to fall before completing his task, the mission still had to go on. The ways and means of warfare in all of its forms needed to be passed on to those that would stand before the evils of the land. To prevent everything being lost upon the event of his demise, he began writing an organized body of work outlining his teachings on the subject for others to study and learn from.  
  

By the time Thordan landed in Lorindar he had nearly filled the one sole leather journal he had packed to take with him and found that he was still on merely introducing the concept of war. It became readily apparent to him that this was indeed going to be quite the project in terms of undertaking, and reaffirmed his belief that this was a necessary task. It also came to mind that having only one copy of such works was both hazardous and made it difficult for others to study. So upon reaching the rand city of Pranzis Thordan commissioned a scribe to transcribe two additional copies of his works. One set was to be sent off to the Great Library. The other was dispatched to the Temple of Vorax within Ulgrid’s fortress.  
  

After spending another few weeks in residence in Pranzis writing as much down as he could, Thordan finally found what he had been looking for. A trio of fellow Red Caps came through the city with a large band of adventurers seeking to help prevent the rise of Shadison the Viper. The Red Caps, fellow adventurers of a like mind in the eradication of evil, were certain to know of the grand events shaping the world. Setting aside his written work Thordan took up his hammer and leant his aide to the cause.  
  

Though great confusion abounded on the quest, much was resolved in Thordan’s mind. Furthermore, this reuniting with the Red Caps did much to gladden Thordan’s soul. When a lull came and the group disbanded until further study showed where next to strike against The Viper, Thordan spent time again relaxing in Pranzis where he could discuss the developments that had occurred since his last ill-fated adventure with the only soul left alive that knew just what happened in those days against Drezneb, Enzo Reynolt.  
  

During the time that Thordan had remained laid-up in his mountain home, Enzo had even acquired a bit of a gift for Thordan. During his many journies since then, Enzo had acquired a small stash of the richly red ore, adamantium. He lacked the skills however to forge it into a fine piece of art. This brought Thordan once again back to the forge, where he would again be tested. Would his hammer arm hold up? Would his strength have returned enough to work such a dense ore?  
  

One again Thordan bathed himself in the smells and sounds of the smithy. With loving care he attempted his first masterwork piece in what seemed like ages. The work was slow, but it was soul-cleansing. It continued to exercise the demons of doubt and lack of self-worth. By the time the work was done, Tordan had created the finest blade he had ever fitted to a shaft. Looking over the fine work Thordan felt that such a fine dwarven warxe simply would not do just on its own and decided then and there that his skills truly had returned to him. No longer did doubt and fear of failure plague him. Instead, he was instilled with a vital confidence found only in those with a crystal clear sense of purpose. With this newfound confidence it took little effort for Thordan to place the most powerful enchantment he could upon the fine blade before returning it to Enzo.  
  

With his confidence restored he took once again to writing his treatise on war. The work was now up to four volumes and growing. It was also not long before his most hated of nemeses visited yet more pain and suffering upon the lands.  
  

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

The nearly bald dwarf sat back in his stone chair and let out a deep, slow sigh and gave his neatly trimmed goatee a single stroke. “Finally done,” he muttered aloud to the air. Before the dwarf sitting upon a writng desk were two leather bound volumes in a firm dwarven script. The dwarf closed the books. He then took one of them and wrapped it in some butcher’s paper and sealed it with a red wax seal. The package was then quickly addressed to the Church of Vorax at Ulgrid’s Fortress in Mistone and then set aside.

The second volume the dwarf took and carried over to a bookshelf in another room. Here he placed it along side a number of other similarly bound tomes. Then he stepped back and looked at the collection for a moment simply admiring it. Giving the view a nod Thordan retreated to his back room and retrieved his pipe from the fireplace mantle. He lit a very liberal bowl of herbs and then reclined himself into a comfortable stone chair next to the fire. Thordan slowly puffed upon his pipe taking very deep drags and allowing himself to relax and reflect. Slowly the dwarf’s eyes closed as he continued to tug contemplatively at his pipe while allowing his head to lean back.

Life had been a very confusing and busy whirlwind of late. It was time to slow down a bit and get a better perspective on things. Dire events had taken the Dark Forest on Dregar. Drezneb had been seen leading an advance army north along the roads on Mistone. Real headway was being made in terms of developments for the Academy. Enzo Reynolt was now the second in command of the Wolfswood Ranger Corps. His superior had gone abroad and not been heard from since. An odd assortment of folks had apparently been trying to find Thordan looking for pieces of knowledge. A Treatise on Warfare had just been completed moments ago after months of work. The last volume would go out in Dalanthar’s post dispatches tomorrow. The constellations in the sky had become active again. The viper had struck out at Rofirein. That thought caused Thordan to pause and to open his eyes.

There it was, sitting upon the mantle waiting to be opened, an official dispatch from the Church of Rofirein, bearing the unmistakable seal of the High Priest. Thordan couldn’t help wondering if the recent celestial events and the letter were linked. The last time he had heard from Quintayne was when the High Priest had been tasked by Rofirein himself to bring closure to a matter of missing historical artifacts. Shaddison had been involved in that as well.

Thordan slowly got up and went over to the mantle to fetch the letter. He then returned to his seat and continued smoking his pipe as he carefully peeled away the seal to see what messages lay within. Thordan slowly read the contents once, and then twice. Finally Thordan carefully refolded the letter and closed his eyes for a moment collecting himself. “So much for the whirlwind dying down and relaxing a bit.”

Thordan took one last long draw from his pipe and then walked over to the fireplace. He emptied the bowl of the pipe into the fire and set the pipe back upon the mantle. Next he went over to his desk and prepared a short response to the letter he had just read.

   High Priest Rosewyne,

You may of course expect my aid in this unpleasant task before you. Our faiths have always worked together may they forever continue to do so. Expect me within 2 days of receiving this reply.

THORDAN IRONHEART

Thordan sealed the letter with another red wax seal and addressed it to the Citadel of Rofirein in Pranzis.

Thordan went to the supply room and found his traveling pack and proceeded to pack it for a long and dangerous trip. From the wall Thordan retrieved his prized hammers and the new shield bestowed upon him by the Church. He checked the straps and hinges on his armor and made sure the robes were crisp and clean. Once his traveling gear had been inspected and packed Thordan went over to a small area where he had a prayer mat laid out and knelt in prayer to Vorax. Then he closed the shutters on his home and retired early to bed. “Best get a good night’s sleep. I doubt I shall rest well even once after we get to the Underdark.”

A few days later Thordan met up with his long-time allies and friends the Rosewynes. Kasha seemed unusually on edge. Just when Thordan was preparing to inquire what was wrong Lia Di’Makir walked into the room. Thordan bit his tongue. He knew the reason for the angst. Lia was an unknown factor in any situation. Her methods and means often left much to be desired and her motives were always suspect. However, her usefulness on this adventure could not be overlooked. Whenever entering the Undrdark the more help available the better.

Using various clues Thordan was able to help the party find a previously unknown entrance to the Underdark from the Mosscrypt. That however, was the easy part. Once the party entered the subterranean world they beset upon almost immediately. Beyond the wandering Drow raiding parties the Rosewynes, Thordan and Lia also ran into some unexpectedly heavy resistance along certain choke points. It was fairly certain that someone at least had an idea that they were coming. In the Underdark, that is never a good thing.

The party pushed forward through furious fighting. Only Thordan was able to truly deal with the mob of Beholders that descended upon them in one particularly abysmal cavern of the Underdark. Finally they came to a crest just short of a passage that lead out to yet another path. But this one seemed different. This one showed clear signs of being near the end of their rigorous voyage. A vicious group of Drow and their underlings was prepared for them. A horrific battle ensued. Thordan helped to lead the charge through the fray. Just as the party was entering the passage a loud scream came to his ears from behind. As Thordan ducked through the passage he looked back over his shoulder to see that Kasha had fallen and now lay among the corpses of defeated Drow and their angry compatriots.

Regrouping in the passage Quintayne and Thordan prepared to return for the fallen priest’s wife. With Lia’s help and the help of her familiar, a flighty fairy dragon, the two companions re-entered the chasm where Kasha had fallen. Their foes had taken to clearing away their fallen and kicking around the dead woman. Quintayne and Thordan looked towards each other from under cover of what they thought was a shroud of invisibility. Taking a dep breath and focusing in on Kasha, Thordan began to move forward. Just as he neared his fallen comrade one of the nearby Drow cried out and assailed him. Thinking to by time for Quintayne Thordan held his ground for a few moments. But when he looked over his shoulder Quintayne was naught to be found. Suddenly Thordan realized that not only was his cover blown, but he had missed a signal from Quintayne. Now he was here on his own.

The battle was a lost cause. The only recourse was a retreat. Thordan used every trick he knew to extract himself from the melee and began to make his way from the fray to an area of safety, or at least back to Quintayne for aid. But the Drow and the Driders were on to Thordan’s plan. One fell, and then another. Then suddenly Thordan found himself entangled in something that he could not see. Another Drider fell upon Thordan only to be turned aside by hammer and shield. Finally Thordan extricated himself from his mystical bindings. He looked towards the passage he was making for and took a mighty charge towards it.

Darkness overcame him. Although Thordan felt no pain, he found himself blind and deaf. He could not move, nor feel his limbs. Suddenly a chilling feeling came over him. He realized that he had somehow succumbed to his assailants. But this time something was different. He felt his soul slipping away, not fighting to remain. Then it came. He had seen the beast twice before, and once over his own body. He recognized the demon immediately. This was the Harvester of Souls. Then he saw her, the one with the delightfully wicked smile. She reached down towards his heart wherein he could feel the very essence of his faith beating. Steadfast in his resolve Thordan scoffed at his new assailant. She would not get what she came for. No, she could not. There was still far too much to be done. The Church of Vorax was at a crossroads. It needed strong believers in every corner of the world to spread it waning influence. He had just been blessed with the Peacemaker. These sort of blessings were not for those about to die. These were the sort of blessings for those destined to carry the word of Vorax far and wide. The Academy had just begun it’s development in earnest. His leadership and his assets were needed to make it a reality. Sinthar was not yet defeated. The usurper Milara still threatened the heavens, and thus Vorax. No, there was too much to do. Thordan could not allow himself to succumb to this vile woman. Vorax had sent him back to the mortal realms from that snowy mountain years ago for a reason. Te Dwarf Father would not have sent him back to die so inglorious a death. There was no honor in succumbing to an unknown Drow attack. No, Thordan was meant to live still.

A terrible pain pierced Thordan’s heart and the beating of his faith was ripped from his chest. All went black. Suddenly a mist rolled past Thordan and he found himself staring at the doors of a great fortress. The fortress reached high into the sky and was so vast that he could not see either end. Though he had never seen this place from such a vantage before he knew what stood before him. These were the Hallowed Halls of Vorax.

This wasn’t right. Thordan did not belong here. There were still many important works to be done, and all too few people that seemed to care one bit about doing them. This wasn’t right. Thordan did not belong here. He did not die an honorable or glorious death, even if it was a death brought about by trying to save a fallen ally. No, this was not right. Thordan did not belong here. He was not worthy to enter the sacred place where is lord and master dwelt. Quietly Thordan began to weep as he turned his back on the doors and began to walk away. He would find the Soul Mother. He would crush her skull in and lop the tail off her demon if that’s what it took. He would take back that which she had taken from him that was not rightly hers. His soul belonged to Vorax, and Thordan did not yet belong here.

It seemed forever that Thordan walked into an empty, featureless void of mist, tears streaking his face as the doors of the Hallowed Halls fell farther and farther behind him. Thordan did not belong here. He was not yet worthy and the Soul Mother had stolen from both him and his Lord.

The sickeningly familiar feeling of his body being mystically teleported and his soul being thrust back into his body left Thordan a bit dazed. Here he was, in Dalanthar. He must have fallen to the Drow after all. He never saw or felt the attack that took him, but he wouldn’t be here if he had made it to the passage ahead of him. He only hoped that Quintayne had been able to come back and still rescue his wife from defilement without Thordan’s aid. Although Thordan had in fact experienced the mystical powers of the Bindstone before, something felt odd this time. However, there was nothing normal about the workings of these ancient devices. The trek to his home would be a rough one. His soul was still recovering from the experience. In a daze Thordan made his way mindlessly south to his mountain top home. It was not until he reached his front door that he was able to place a finger on the nagging feeling he had that something was amiss. There, at the entrance to his home, the grass grew nearly to his waist. When he had left it had been neatly trimmed. Confused, Thordan entered his home. As he made his way to his bed chamber he looked about the room. A heavy layer of dust covered everything. Suddenly it sunk in. Something had gone terribly wrong. Bindstones were supposed to work almost instantly, not rip people and souls through time. Struggling with events in his head, the last thing Thordan remembered was trying to aid Kasha and finding himself fighting for his life because he was not nearly so hidden or accompanied as he had thought. Struggling he tried to remember how he died, but could not. The only thing he could remember was blackness and a great wrenching of his heart as though his love of Vorax had made it explode.

Something was horribly wrong. But there was little Thordan could do about it in his weakened state. Stripping himself of his gear and dropping it at the foot of his bed Thordan collapsed upon his bed and slept out the day, that night, and all the following day. Finally, Thordan arose from bed, and went about cleaning his house and making it once again the tidy place he always expected it to be. He went to bed early and arose with the sun the next morning. He took the trip back to Dalanthar to seek answers. The innkeeper and his lady were astounded to see him.  It was from them that Thordan learned the news. From a small box filled with dispatches and posts the innkeeper presented Thordan with the news from Pranzis. Tordan had fallen in the UNderdark in an attempt to aid his friend High Priest Quintayne Rosewyne. The Harvester of Souls had come for him and then presented him to the Soul Mother. This had been some time ago.

Thordan felt pale. He asked the innkeeper if he could take the posts from that period to present so that he might try to learn what had happened. He had been with Kasha and Lia and Quintayne just 2 days ago!

After many hours of reading and study Thordan finally discovered the truth of things, or at least some of the truth. Though the details were sketchy, it was clear that a companion from Thordan’s first excursion with Quintayne, Athus Dephile, a powerful priest of Aeridin had worked a wondrous feat. Thordan sat quietly as he digested the information. So it had been Athus that had made it possible for Thordan to return. But from where did Thordan return?

Suddenly Thordan’s heart began to swell in his chest. It became filled with a new sense of determination. Few were ever given a second chance to complete those things that they should have the first time around through life. Though the miracle was worked by someone outside of the Chrch of Vorax, this was no less a sign that Thordan still had a great many unfinished works to attend to. He would not squander this opportunity. Abruptly Thordan got up and prepared his pack for another adventure. There was much to be done, and many individuals to track down to get the Academy back on track.

There was much work to be done. Thordan was not about to waste a second chance.

[Aryn Ravenlocke]

A letter arrives at Ulgrid’s Dwarven Fortress addressed to the Council of Generals for the Church of Vorax. After delivering his dispatch the courier lingers a bit with a look of apprehension. The Council’s aide looks the courier over with a look of impatience.  
“Is there anything else?”  
“Well sir, I’m not sure sir,” replied the courier.  
“What’s that supposed to mean? Have ye other business here or not?”  
“Well you see, that’s just it sir. I’m not sure whether I have more business or not. I suppose it rather depends on that dispatch there.”  
“What? This thing?” replied the aide holding up the folded and sealed parchment. “What’s so bloody special about this dispatch?”  
“Well sir, in taking charge of the dispatch I am required to acknowledge what post I am receiving it from.”  
“Yes, yes, so?”   “Well sir, this dispatch is from Dalanthar.”  
The aide examined the folded parchment and looked carefully at the non-descript seal of Vorax in red wax holding it closed. “Are you sure courier that this is from Dalanthar? We’ve had no official correspondence from there since Ironheart fell in the Underdark on some fool mission to help Quintayne Rosewyne.”  
He courier nodded, “I am quite certain that it is from Dalanthar. That’s why I am a bit on edge. Something big must be brewing up near the Rift for official correspondence from those parts. You don’t suppose that the undead dragon has come back out and begun terrorizing northern Dregar again do you?”  
“Now stop with such sensational speculatin’ It’s pro’lly jes’ a regular dispatch sent from Dalanthar because of convenience. Perhaps one of our other agents had business in those parts and simply chose ter use the facilities there.” The aide looked far less certain than he sounded though that all was right in the world.  
“I’m sure yer right sir,” replied the courier. I’ll jes go and have myself an ale or two. I think perhaps I shall rest here this night befer I head. I’ll be in the Great Hall should my services be required.”  
With that the courier left the room, leaving the aide alone with the dispatch. About an hour later the Council adjourned from its daily deliberations. Dutifully the aide presented his lords with the day’s dispatches. When it came time to report that there was a dispatch from Dalanthar, he suddenly understood just how the courier had felt in carrying the message. Given the oddness of the situation the lords insisted upon addressing the dispatch first. Opening the dispatch revealed a very short letter in a firm but tidy dwarven hand.  
 
My Lords General,  
I bring you tidings from my home atop the Serpent Mountains and the town of Dalanthar. It seems the reports of my passing, though accurate at the time, are now a tad flawed. Due to a courageous triumph by the priest of Aeridin, Athus Dephile, I, Thordn Ironheart, am not yet done with this mortal coil. I am indeed returned, and with more conviction than ever to see the good works we began come to full completion.  
I have already resumed work on assembling those things necessary to constructing a great monument to the greatness of our Lord, Vorax. A stores locker has been begun, and collections have begun in earnest. Funding continues to be an issue, but strides are being taken to correct that.  
By the time you receive this letter, you should have in your possession my completed works for the instruction of the philosophy of warfare. May the scholars find them useful. I hope perhaps that these volumes shall help to educate the many minds of young recruits signing up to fight this war against Sinthar Bloodstone. There are too many children among the ranks in every militia. A proper mental focus and rigid discipline will be needed to guide them through these dark days ahead.  
It is also of great importance that I report to you that only a very short time before I fell, I received a startling revelation. I cannot go into details about this encounter. This is the sort of information that must be closely guarded at any and all costs. However, I am left with no doubt whatsoever that it is time to re-evaluate our standing and relationship with the Church of Rofirein, especially its dwarven members. Only if Vorax had visited me himself could I have a more certain feeling that there is a great value to be found there in true unity. It is imperative that we not waste this sign, but instead do all that we can to support or Rofirinite brethren in their cause. For my part, I can only hope to be worthy of having received such news, and pray that my relating it, though coming after a considerable delay due to my death, that I have done right and well.  
Lastly, as I know that the Scholars are going to be anxious to have me brought before them for cross-examining of my experiences beyond the veil of death, I would like to make it quite clear that I have no re-collection of any kind of what happened after I stormed to Kasha Rosewyne’s side and found myself hopelessly outmatched. Any experiences I had on the other side are now gone from my memory as though they never occurred. Let it suffice to say that if I was indeed in the presence of our Lord Vorax, though it may be blasphemous, I cannot say I am sad to be parted from his side. There are a great many works left to be done in his name and too few doing them. I for my part, had done so little as yet, that I did not belong in such an honored place as the Hallowed Halls. Joyfully I return, that I might continue to do his works and become truly worthy to sit in his presence when the day once again comes that life no longer beats in my chest.  
May the great wisdom of the Dwarf Father fill the esteemed body of the Council of Generals, that it may guide us to victory and peace in the defeat of our many enemies in these darkest of days.  
Your humble servant, THORDAN IRONHEART  
The Council sat quietly digesting the letter that had just been revealed to them. The room was so quiet that had a pin fallen, it would have sounded as though a great cymbal had been struck. Finally, as the Generals began to settle in after the news again the aide quietly left the room whispering to himself. “I better get that courier.”