UPON THE EDGE OF A CLIFF
Torthur stood upon the platform while awaiting the ship that would take him onwards. Appropriately, it stood on the lip of one of the massive ravines that defined the world of Reorx, mighty jungles spilling to it's very edge, and then over, with clumps of vegetation down along the cracks and ledges of it's vast decline into the depths of the world.
The meetings and conferences had gone both better and worse than hoped for. First with some of the highest Priests of Reorx, and then briefly with the Ironhand king himself.
He pondered upon the choices and plans that had led to him standing here. Followers of Thard Harr were unsurprisingly rare amongst the Dwarves of Wildspace. And Adherents of what semblance of Church existed so rare as to be statistically non-existent.
But yet amongst the uncounted worlds of the Spheres were yet uncounted worlds teeming with life, much of it strange and hostile to the unwary. His faith, certain controversies aside, was a practical and humble one in Torthur's view. A faith that told not of conquest or twisting the worlds to one's will, but of living within that which was. A faith that those whom lived in worked timber or stone could learn much from.
It was a foolish Priest who claimed to know the Will of the Disentangler. And so the debates had gone on for much time. While they were far from the first Thard Harrans to set out into the void, accidentally or otherwise, the tales of the travails of those first Original Chultians were legend tending towards Myth. In the end the arguments of his mentor had proved, if not decisive, then at least satisfactory.
In the worlds beyond there were Dwarves, and there were jungles. Thard Harr could be assumed to wish them to live within the jungle as he would. And to perhaps establish his own presence in those distant Spheres. For powers beyond those of the acolyte could not be granted in those Spheres far beyond his home in the Tears. Yet. And this proved yet another argument in favour of the acolyte's voyage. For his modest favour would at the very least be uninhibited.
The Dwarves of the world of Reorx were somewhat less enthused with such notions, of course. Despite having clanmates on many worlds, they remained undoubtedly ... Reorxian ... in every sense of the word.
And yet their reputation for practicality was not unearnt. He was charged with ... proving ... himself. And in places uncoincidentally away from the world of Reorx. Within which was reputed to live Reorx Himself, although those whom might be expected to know more of the truths within the depths of this world had proven silent on that matter, as he expected.
He could not help but feel frustration, but could see the sense in the Ironhand's proclaimation. For the Dwarven Citadels that travelled between worlds were undoubtedly the finest tools of worth and creation ever seen, great was the wisdom of the Dwarven Gods. But yet within their strengths lay limitations.
Air fouling remained a frequent limit to their reach. The great hollowed-out asteroids could but occasionally descend to the level of worlds to replenish, and other tools too oft required dwarves to leave their righteous labours in the great Forges that lay at the heart of the Citadels. The labours that were needed, were the Citadels to move at all.
And so many Citadels tended gardens of glowmoss or similar plants to help eke out the precious reserves of air and, to a lesser extent, food. Skilled tenders of such were uncommon, especially amongst the more focused monotheistic Dwarves of Spheres such as Krynnspace. Whilst young, Torthur had grown up in the relatively cosmopolitan clans of the Tears of Selune, and was as much a scholar as an acolyte of the Lord of the Jungle Deeps could be.
The considerations and specifics of the situation were complex, and largely beyond Thorthur's understanding. But despite his meagre station, and His Lord being a distant presence, what divine blessings and honest work he could muster might well count for more within the within the Forge Engines of a Citadel. Any Citadel had smiths and anvils enough within the Forge, and could well spare some space for the provision of the very air they breathed.
Soon he would board one of the smaller vessels that plied between the world's surface and any Citadels in orbit, bound for the Citadel of Bolgrimhak, which was soon to depart for some of clan Ironhand's outposts in more distant worlds. Rake in hand, and with some of the vine saplings from Ironhand's own homeworld in a satchel, he had every intention of showing them the worth of the Disentangler.
