Portal Fire: Shrine of the Torchbearer

Mounds of pungent spice, glimmers of glazed sweets and rows of textile stripes blur together as Maro and Hro race past crowded market stalls in the bazaar at the city’s edge. Maro takes a sharp left at the last stall, heading deep into a dusty clearing. They stop dead in their tracks at the edge of a daunting cavern mouth adorned with tassels and protective inscriptions. Hro appears beside them, takes a look at Maro–their mouth still hanging open in awe, and walks straight into the cavern, turning back to give Maro a sly smile.

Maro follows, blinking to adjust to the dim cavern interior, lit only with candles kept aflame by various kinds of magic. The sound of crackling flame beckons them through the second entryway as ethereal amulets of intricate lines and letters materialize around them as if being drawn in midair. Reaching the end of this chamber, Maro walks up to Hro’s side while he solemnly kneels at the altar of this shrine’s eternal flame.

Hro’s grief—unusually abundant for his age—manifests into a constellation of tiny crystals and enters the flame with a calm gesture.

With their respects paid, they enter the next room: a hall of ancient carven stone lined with once-vibrant weathered tiles, floors beaten by the passing soles of countless travelers. Torchbearer clerics of the dragon clan hover nearby, faces obscured, emitting ominous auras of flame as if to impose upon visitors the repercussions of improper behavior.

The inscriptions in the cavern are chiseled in a script seen only on the walls of the oldest temples and in ethereal magical incantations. A tome lies open against the main wall offering a translation into modern Azadalez. The shrine’s walls detail the events of the Collapse and the hollow years which followed, promising the arrival of twelve spirit beings to shape the era to come.

Naturally, young Maro and Hro skip the history lesson and move straight toward the glowing blue shrine beyond the next archway. An imposing, glittering, faceted crystalline form floats above a well-appointed altar, lit with many candles of offering and prayer. Hro reads aloud from a tiny plaque atop the altar: “has floated, unmoving for 500 years.” Hro moves back into the other room and stares down the clerics, trying to find out what lies under their veils.

Maro becomes enrapt by the object, but their trance is soon broken by a tiny glimmer, a sudden blinking light on the far left edge of the object. They notice a small passage to the left and begin to follow the path, unnoticed by the clerics now busy with Hro’s curiosity. The path leads to a wall inscribed with a single sentence, where no translation into modern script is offered. Maro is struck with a sense of curiosity and unease. Without any control, threads of obsidian magic flow around Maro’s eyes, giving them a glimpse of the true meaning behind these words written centuries ago:

… then neither man nor woman shall quell the rage of the divine siblings–for only through emerald flames wielding the darkest threads, will the medium emerge as righteous guide beyond the red flames of corruption…