GROMCHUK - Seeker of the Sacred Flame

[blackwolf-66]

GROMCHUK – SEEKER OF THE SACRED FLAME

Deep down under the Spine of the World, far beneath crags of ice and mist,
In caverns crowned by smoke unfurled, there kneel the throngs of Clan Bloodfist.

Far from his homeland, Gromchuk gazes at the mountain range from a great distance, and recalls the beginnings of his holy quest. Flickering darkness, smell of sulfur and sweat, orange reflecting of black. Through volcanic halls carved by molten magma, a procession of hooded figures lumbers forward. Their faces masked in shadow, each bears a long-handled torch. Bombastic drumbeats resound through rocky chambers, setting a steady pace. The throng marches as one, and voices join in a deafening drone. Invoked from deep in the throat, it is guttural in pitch, more akin to a sustained growl than a chant.

The procession serpentines through a complex network of tunnels. Within their masses marches one who goes unhooded. Torchlight bounces off his swarthy hide. He is Gromchuk, a young warrior yet unproven in battle. The High Priest has selected him as the ‘Krychek-Kor-Nakh’, which translates into the Common Tongue as ‘The Chosen’. For an omen of doom has been foretold by the seer-sages, and a hero must arise from the tribe.

In belly of the mount fires blaze and fume, while in chasm below runs the molten flow,
As fiery flares ignite the gloom, off obsidian rock glints the crimson glow.

Herein lie the hallowed halls of Clan Bloodfist, a secular tribe of gray orcs sworn to the Sacred Flame. The assemblage emerges unto the inner sanctum. An immense subterranean cavern opens outward, forming a vast egg-shaped chamber. The far side of the hall falls off into a lake of churning magma. The view over the precipice presents a hellish vista. Geysers of flame shoot up sporadically, rolling forth noxious clouds of gas that billow into the darkness above.

The throng of subhuman priests files onto a high stone clearing that overlooks the fiery chasm. Jagged onyx columns spiral upward, arching into soaring vaults. Hewn from the natural rock, steeply tiered seating rings the walls. The tiers orient toward a narrow outcropping of stone that juts out over the sea of lava below. At the focal point stands a grotesque altar crafted from bone and skull. A shallow dais rises up at its base, a pocked pedestal of rock standing in the center.

Like molten steel spilling into a weaponsmith’s mold, the tribe members take their positions, wending up stairways and lining the rails along the overlook. Frequent blasts of heat rip up from over the edge, blowing back hoods and causing torches to sputter. The guttural chant continues, and begins to grow louder. The pace of the drumbeat quickens.

By dragon’s blood white the sacrificial rite, low the clan bows to the Lord of Flame,
Pyres burn high before font of endless night, to Kossuth they chant and invoke his name.

The ancient ceremony commences. Four bare-chested acolytes bring forth a clay cauldron, borne upon a wide pallet, and lower it to the pedestal. The vessel is sealed by a heavy lid and set with an iron rung at either side. Two more disciples step forward, thread a large pole through the rungs, and with a great heave lift it upward and to the side. Tendrils of icy vapor flow over the brim, forming a low mist that pools across the stone floor. Gromchuk stares hard as the mists clear from the cauldron. Within froths a luminous frosty fluid. The Chosen stills his breath, for within stirs the blood of a White Dragon, slain according to ritual in the peaks high above.

The High Priest takes his place on the dais and motions for Gromchuk to come before him. Looking the young warrior in the eye, the elder thrusts his hand into the cauldron. A hushed murmur passes through the assemblage. The dragon’s blood boils violently about the priest’s arm. Two pairs of eyes remain locked. The seething subsides as the High Priest extracts the powers held within the blood. He lifts a clenched fist and releases a thunderous roar. Those nearby drop to a knee. The High Priest opens his hand, palm outward, and draws it slowly down Gromchuk’s face.

Gromchuk recoils in shock, yet stands firm his ground. The excruciating chill is so cold it burns. Icy fluid sears his hide, cauterizes his face like an acid. Freeze blisters burst, leaving chalky rifts, and scars that shall never heal. He clenches his fists and holds back the howl of pain that screams through his nerves. As the dragon blood sizzles and spits, a clear pattern can be discerned. Gradually, over his swarthy features there coalesces the image of a gruesome white skull. Gromchuk now bears the mark of the tribe.

From slag and ash the spawn of life, for eons below the tribe has run,
Now fire burns down and comes the strife, ominous ruin like a dying darkstar sun.

With stoic conviction Gromchuk leads the clan from the cave. Torches in hand, the throng snakes its way out the lava tubes, twisting, ascending and falling. The chant has ceased, for a new common purpose arises. Heads bowed in silence, the procession climbs to the surface.

For eons the tribe has prospered before the fire under the mountain. But now the flames no longer burn so hot, nor so bright. The chill from the alpine peaks invades like a silent nemesis. Young do not survive their first season. Elders take sleep to never awake. Death comes for the clan.

After millennia of blazing life the molten core cools and falls dormant. Stillness consumes caverns where once jets of fire incinerated the rock. Yet the tribe shall not dismay, for it is not the first cycle that the tribe has endured. As in crises past, a champion must venture forth. Seeker of the Sacred Flame, a lone warrior must rediscover the lost secret to rekindle the mountain. And as before, he must search not only the lands above, but also the spirit within.