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!”