The moon sat high in the sky reflecting Solas’s light down upon the night, for the moment free of the clouds sweeping by. Amongst a copse of trees a blond haired dwarf sat sharpening his axe sitting upon an outcropping of rock the only sounds were the rustling of trees and the whisper of a whetstone on steel. A large fire was before him much too large for a single camper, the tips of the flames seemed to list toward the dwarf as they burnt out. A pony whinnied at the edge of the trees looking up from his lazy grazing. 

The dwarf stood up suddenly alert returning the whetstone to a pocket in his leather armour and hefting his axe in both hands. He scanned his surroundings from atop the rock giving him a greater height than his dwarven stature would. The fire seemed to die down allowing him to see a little further into the night. The only sound the pony’s worried cries and the crackle of the fire. He dare not move from his position which only really gave him the height of a man, but it gave him a defensive position from the centre anything that wished to get to him would have to climb the rock to reach him.

The warrior saw nothing but slowly the sounds of whispers crept in seemingly from everywhere and nowhere at once. Then in the darkness lights sprang up not wisps but embers. A sense of dread filled the dwarf and he knew something great and terrible was about to happen. The embers centred on the dying fire and suddenly it sprang up to a greater height than before singeing the trees and giving off a heat that instantly caused sweat to spring up on the dwarfs skin. The flames formed themselves into the shape of a man and the dwarf fell to one knee a fist upon his chest as he spoke a single word, “Lasair”.

“Yes, Slayer I am he, Lord of Flame, God of Rejuvenation...” He trailed off for a moment as the flames eddied in the wind, “And you are one who would be my avatar in the lands?” He posed the question to the dwarf as if expecting only one answer, for the flames never really gave a choice, they burnt who they pleased.

The dwarf hesitated for a moment and in that moment the flames grew hotter and brighter so that the dwarf could hardly stand it. He gave the answer that lead to life, for a least a little longer. “Yes, my Lord Lasair what would you have me do?” 

The god laughed and odd mix of a man’s deep voice and the roar of fire. “I would have you do nothing, Arnack. The world aflame at my dark brother’s hand would be wondrous, but alas he would go too far.” He sighed, the sound of a log sagging in the hearth. “He wishes to end the cycle forever and so you must go to the Plains of Origin, there you will find the storyteller my sister chose. Go with haste lest the fires dim before you can act.” With that the flames rushed upward burning a hole in the canopy and disappearing off to the east. The fire pit was naught but ashes gone cold not a cinder left burning. A deep cold pervaded the air in the fire god’s absence as if trying to erase the flames for good, or so it seemed to Arnack Clarn, Proven warrior of the Slayers, now tasked with preserving the flames of life.

Arnack wasted no time in clearing his camp and when it was done he returned to his pony strapping his bedroll and tent to her back. Then he holstered his axe in a specially-made sheath on the pony’s shoulder within easy reach of her rider. He moved her over to the rock he had stood on before and from there clambered into the saddle as only a dwarf could. He clicked his heels to the pony’s sides and gripped the reins for dear life; riding was something he would never be used to. 

They headed north-west and despite his fears Arnack urged the pony to greater speed as the pair flew toward the Plains, as if a wildfire licked their heels. The moon gave just enough light to guide the way.