THE RUNE OF SURTUR

You see the fiery god of redemption Surtur hovering over the Plain of Ash. He seems deep in thought when a strong gust of wind stirs the grass beneath his feet. He looks up suddenly and listens intently to the breeze in the tops of the trees. He shouts into the sky, “Mentor! Teacher! It is me, Torch, your pupil. Yanti can you hear me?!” There is no reply. Surtur takes off his fiery helm and looks young and lost. He can feel his intense desperation to hear a voice in the wind.
The once-Lord of Fire notices your presence and replaced his helmet seeming to want to cover his embarrassment at his mortal behavior.
“It was him I tell you. It was Yanti, my old mentor. For the first time since the end of the Air Wars, I have heard his voice on the wind carried from afar. My father died before I was born. My mother died when I was an infant and so I was raised by my uncles, Furlich, Adoaman and Yanti but mainly it was Yanti who schooled my siblings and me in ways of the world. From my infancy until I cam of age, he was the only parent I ever knew. He forsook us, the Fire Children, when as adults we chose to wage war against each other. Over all the centuries and ages that have passed, I have missed his wise council. Especially since the Mantle of Fire was stolen from me a decade ago and the threat of the elements has returned in the past few years, I have yearned to speak with Yanti once again.
“I do not know where he has been since the final campaign of the Air Wars but I will tell you what I know of his disappearance. Details of the Air Wars are extremely scarce and little lore survived the ransacking of the libraries in the Ministries of Air. The final campaign of the Air Wars though remains famous; it was known as the Spectre-War. Cinder and his Tainted Legion had been battling the Circle of Air for centuries.
“On the night of Darkmoon, the demons raided the graveyards of the Air Mages and raised the deceased aeromancers as Wind-Spectres. This newly risen legion of Wind-Spectres descended upon the magically fortified Ministries of Air. For generations, the Circle of Air had woven layer after layer after layer upon the conclaves making them all but impenetrable. Immediately, the Wind-Spectre began to unravel the multitudinous layers of protective spells that surrounded the Circle of Air’s sanctuaries. The very same generations of Air Mages that had woven the defensive shield of magic had risen from the grave and undid all the spells that they had once cast.
“The Circle of Air was broken on the Darkmoon Eve. Every Air Mage died that night, slain by the ghostly hands of their predecessors and ancestors. Those who witnessed the aftermath who entered the smoldering ruins spoke of the ministries were filled with spiritless corpses of all of the members of the Circle of Air. There was not a single mark left upon the Air Mages fallen, lifeless forms; the Wind-Spectres had slain them with their lethal, ethereal touch. The Wind-Spectres themselves had dissipated without a trace after the passing of the Darkmoon as well. Thus no spirit of any Air Mage, newly slain or long dead, remained in the Shadowlands and the spellcraft of the Air Mages and the Circle of Air passed into obscurity.
“Perhaps this legend will be of use. Now, I must put my energies towards finding my mentor. I salute you!”