inagra's Flashback

We begin years ago in the Forgelands, a darkened labyrinth beneath the Five Kings’ Mountains, lit only by the ever-burning forges that lend their name to the city. Toiling day and night, these artisans produce work of the highest craftsmanship. Yet not all is safe in the caverns of the Darklands. Weeks ago, a goblin raid clamored up from below, their makeshift weapons tearing into dwarven flesh and causing chaos in its wake.

Unfortunately, a visiting merchant was one of the victims of these chattering beasts, and was thrown into an open forge - all for the sake of the goblins’ twisted comedy. A nearby metalworker acted quickly and threw herself in as well, hoping to rescue the foreign visitor. That was then…

We come now to a long squat building perched high atop the walls of the central ring. Within one of the intensive care rooms, we can see that merchant - her room illuminated by a single window that fills the space with the orange glow of the forges. She is covered in sheafs of linen, bloody and reeking, that cling to every part of her. More banadages lay crumpled in a heap nearby, having been changed recently. They, too, are coated with blood and bits of burnt flesh. The merchant is not alone, however. Sitting beside the bed is the very same metalworker who risked life and limb to rescue her.

Hair in a tight, severe bun and her clothes plain and unadorned, the metalworker struggles to keep the fear from her face. She has noticed the merchant’s breath becoming more gasping and ragged. Her hands - with only minor burns marring their surface - squeeze the bedsheets tightly, trying to hold onto anything solid as she watches the life leave the merchant’s eyes. After her weeks-long vigil, the metalworker watches the merchant succumb to her burns.

“Mistress Ironbeater?” asks the hospital chaplain. Inagra snaps to focus. She is still at the merchant’s bedside. Someone covered the body with a sheet. It’s already begun to stain with blood and the various ungents that covered her.

Inagra turns her head slowly. When was the last time she slept? Her eyes can’t focus and the words of the chaplain are lost to her. He’s saying something about the will of Torag and the importance of duty and… it’s all so meaningless. In her dreams, nothing truly matters. It all ends in fire. It always ends in fire.

She accepts the chaplains blessing without resistance. The walk home through the Forgelands is a blur. Faces, feet… fire. She is in bed. She doesn’t remember how she got there. In moments, she is asleep with tears running down her cheeks. And the dreams come again.

She stands on the edge of a precipice, the entirety of existence stretching before her. High above, darkness stretches for eternity. Yet borne from that darkness, a shape emerges… huge and terrifying, with wings of flame, the beast bears down on everything. It comes closer and closer in every part of her dream, and now the heat is unbearably hot. As she stares up, her eyes fixated on armageddon, another figure stands next to her. His form is indistinct, as though viewed through the wrong end of a spyglass. He guides her vision further up the great beast where strands of wire hold the monster aloft.

Inagra snaps awake. She cannot live here anymore. She has a greater purpose.