Master alpha/beta tester extraordinaire.


That word alone, the name he gives to summon him, caught the elemental’s attention.


A sign, an offering, a conduit… Nothing. A scribed circle, carved runes, sharp copper offered freely. Old magic. A sacrifice of blood and an open gateway. He answered the call, erupting from the center of the rune and shattering the stone foundations under him. “Shaman.” He spoke seeing the soot-colored dwarf before him. A Dark Iron, the magic made sense, ancient in its form and familiar to him. Fear reflected in her eyes, she had not known him, and though she pressed forward, her force of will pressed against his she was young, and she tried to command him.

Placating her for his own amusement he asked for an offering, when she offered him none and insisted upon his servitude he questioned her commands. Piddly thing things, she wanted to ask questions of him, she had summoned him to waste his time for questions, and her question was why he – a creature of force and rage- would speak of his own free will. “Does rage not have a voice? You are a creature of blood and stone, why do you speak?”

Because she is a Dark Iron, because she has fire in her veins, and he, he is only a beast, but her declaration faltered, wavered. She was young yet, she didn’t know the ways, she barely knew what she wanted. She had offered herself to him, her blood her service, perhaps she had potential.

“You were foolish to make a sacrifice of yourself. You’ve called to me with no purpose, with no true bindings, and with no knowledge to save you. Truly I have missed servants of the waking world.” Not a servant she claimed to him and tried to banish him back to the Firelands. If only she had taken more care in scribing her circle, in the runes she carved, if only she knew the true purpose of the olden ritual she cast and used to call to him. If only she knew that “if not a servant, then a slave.”


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The Firelands were hot, insufferable some might say, but her small prison for a time. He spoke of power, of strength, consumption, and opportunities. She spoke on morals, on how she would not take the power or strength from others, how she would rely on her own strength only. “Moments ago you were trying to wrest me to your will, a slave of your own…were you not? Your hubris is already befitting the fire in your blood.” She had already claimed as much.

He could force her, her could control her, blood magic was ancient, blood magic was powerful, she understood so little of what she had done. A willing servant, a herald, a champion…that would be worth so much more. He offered her the everliving heart of a flamewalker, such cores held the essence, the power of their owners. The only power she could use to drag herself back to the prime plane and away from this hellish landscape. A taste of such power may even in time weaken those with noble goals.

And so he left her, to die or to free herself through such possible damnation. His mark had already taken hold, when he needed her, he could find her.

Author Mosur
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