Reawakened Wisdom

Hark, to the Melody of Time. Listen close and hear the quintessential rhyme. From before and past beyond, lies the song of things untold. From its power magic unfold. In its knowledge, wonders behold. Of eras come and ages gone, no knowledge have you now. Only lonesome solitude is yours to call your own. Of solemn reflections and quiet collections your thoughts may ever know.

Long ago, the clan Ukash of the Herjaz dwelt beneath these lands. Deep below their mountain, there bubbled a series of thermal springs, for which they named their city Azárukash, “warm waters.” In their day, the Ukash were masters over a land that stretched a week's ride both east and west along the Dusk River, and all who traded with them prospered. Within their underground halls, the Ukash produced masterful works of smithcraft and artifice, as dwarves are wont to do. Some of their handiworks indeed still survive in the surface lands to which they were traded, even now some three millennia hence. Perhaps the greatest of all the works of the Ukash were their guardian automata. Wrought in the shape of a dwarf, yet more than twice the height of the tallest of Donnic men, these living statues of bronze were built to guard the outer caverns surrounding Azárukash. In this role, they tirelessly wandered the darkened passages beneath the hills and fens for centuries unending.

Sometime a little less than three millennia ago, calamity befell the city of Azárukash. Mining crews delved into deep chambers sealed off to the world since time immemorial, and strange things within were awoken. Battles ensued and only at the cost of brave dwarven lives were the worst of the horrors were kept at bay. Even in victory, however, the city was never the same. Still plagued were its people with a lingering, cultural malaise from which they could never recover. Scarcely a few decades later, the last residents fled into the hills. Carried with them were memories of what once was, and upon their tongues was borne, with bitter sadness, a new name for their former home. From henceforth, their descendants still call the place Lúrúkzâm, the “Cold Hearth.”

It is unknown what became of a great many of the works of the Ukash. When they first fled Lúrúkzâm, surely many smaller objects were simply taken with them. Of the mighty guardian automata, even dwarven memories strain to recollect. In our case, it happens that one such construct wandered further than the rest, and found itself in a dim, yet sunliy cavern not far from the surface. The automaton continued its vigil against any perceived threats just as its creators intended, but as centuries went by, it slowed and its power waned. Eventually, the automaton ceased to move, and became just another feature of the local terrain. A peaceful, yet lonely end for something once so faithful and grand.

On a late spring day some two-and-fifty years ago, the one called Kebret wandered his way into a sunlit cavern in a mountain east of town. In those days of course, few knew him by that name. Instead, most simply called him by the moniker Úin Hilvattaar, “magic half-elf.” As the half-elven Kebret trod upon the mossy stones and searched within the musty passages, he uncovered an old statue of bronze. This giant being, in the form of a dwarf had clearly sat in isolation for a very long time. Though it could not respond, he spoke to it as a friend. Though it did not awake, he brushed its cold countenance with a knowing hand. For many long hours Kebret toiled in that dim place, seeking to know the secrets which once gave life to the guardian. After several days remaining in that place, Kebret finally emerged, a small parcel bundled in hand. For the next several weeks, he was spotted returning to that same old mountain, and each time he would return with another such bundle. After that, he disappeared into his tower. Hanur saw her full face and her darkness again before he emerged, but when he did on the night that Galgadr was highest overhead, there walked a large figure behind him. Since that day, Fenmoss-town has been guarded not just by its palisades, earthworks, and spears of the fyrd. Indeed a trio of mighty bronzen guardians roam the streets and walls, gleaming in the sun and slowly taking on a patina in the rain. Theirs is the task of keeping the people safe, tirelessly, ceaselessly, and as long as the town shall prosper. These, however, are not quite the same as that original automation of old. That creature now slumbers or wakes somewhere deep in the restful darkened places of Kebret's tower. Its watch is ended, and those who still walk are just as strong yet more nimble with youth. It is said, though, that they possess a certain fondness for bending down to be patted lightly on the head. If you see one, perhaps ask Kebret whether this is true before attempting the act…

Hear once again the melody of age, As words committed to a well-worn page. Think back on that which you've had and lost, of what you most wish could be reclaimed. Of abandoned objects and discarded dreams, of all the once-loved now gathering dust, of these things now we once again sing. To weave in and out of the threads of being, ours is the sacred chant of magic and life.