GOGcom Twitch DnD: Greta’s Story Part #1
I find myself getting up from the ground.
The unmoving form of Alric Brighthelm lies a few feet from me.
Selsig bounces up from the ground and is on his feet while I’m still trying to clear my head.
I see Ura’Ash running along the path screaming with rage — is he pursuing the retreating frost giants?!?
A war engine is burning on a hill a little further off.
Good. Let it burn.
I did that. Pholtus’ Light. My fire.
Behind me I can still hear the stones of the broken tower tumble down and settle. A cloud of dust is starting to envelope me.
If somebody asked me how I came to be here, I couldn’t give a short answer.
I’d start at the beginning.
Many, many years ago.
My name is Greta Güldenfyre of Clan Bluehand.
You might not have heard of the Bluehands. My clan is a small one and likes the solitude of the mountains where we mine silver. I still say „my“ and „we“ because I’m still of them, no matter where my life takes me, no matter if I never return.
I grew up in our wonderful cavern city called Arrginburg. It is a city of polished stone intersected with slender pillars of finely worked and chiseled stone, all slightly gleaming in the soft light of yellow lanterns. It is a city of quietude and sudden noise. Of hushed voices and roaring festivities, windless and filled with the far-away ringing of pickaxes on stone.
I often sneaked out to watch the sun rise between the peaks. To feel the wind on my face.
One day one of the lanterns in the long corridor broke and for whatever reason was replaced by a torch. It was a good torch, burning with a steady flame and nearly no smoke.
There were few lights in the long corridor as this was our home and not much light was needed. This different flame stood out, being much fiercer, much brighter than the lanterns.
I had just sneaked back in on that morning and the unusual light stopped me. I had seen open flames before. This wasn’t unusual. But still… I felt drawn to it. But I also didn’t want to move. I should have gone home but instead I pressed my back against the wall opposite of the torch and just stared at it until it seemed to fill my eyes. My mind. The whole me.
I don’t know if somebody saw me standing there and called the cleric or if he found me on his own but it doesn’t matter. What mattered is that old Silveraxe, priest of Moradin, came to me, stood next to me and understood. We talked right there in the long corridor and somehow nobody walked by us. His raspy voice seemed to probe my soul and I spoke of light, of fire, of what I felt inside. I spoke in a hushed voice, afraid loud words would shatter what I finally managed to unearth from my heart.
It was less than a moon later he took me to a temple of Pholtus in a city, a city above ground, far away from my home.
The place was so wrong for me. And yet it was the right place for me.
I don’t know why Pholtus would take interest in a dwarf from a city underground but he did. I’m here to carry his light into the world. His prayers make my heart beat lighter. I know I’m on the right path because I follow him.
I learned to channel his light to heal those in need. But the soft warmth of healing does not fill my heart and soul like the fiery radiance of his divine fire. I should have felt most “at home” inside the temple but instead I wanted to get outside, walk under the sun and the moon, bring Pholtus’ light into the world and drive back the chaos.
When after many years the time had come for me to leave the temple and start my journey, my teachers reminded me to be rightful, to not let the wildness of fire drive me from my path, to remember that he is ALL light.
And so he is. And he’s also in my fire.
And so I’m here.