Last of the Hearthblood - An Ornn Color Story
A color story for our newest demigod champion Ornn. Requires some knowledge of Ornn's established lore. Skip this part if you already know it:
Ornn’s name was once spoken throughout the lands that would one day become known as the Freljord. However, almost all of his legends were excised from history by his enemies and the slow march of time—now only a few of his exploits are known, by the handful of tribes who can trace their lineage back to a forgotten culture of blacksmiths, architects, and brewmasters. This long-lost populace was called the Hearthblood, apprentices who journeyed from all corners of the world and gathered on the slopes of Hearth-Home to follow Ornn’s example.
Despite this imitative form of worship, Ornn never considered himself their patron. He would only give them curt nods or frowns when they offered up their work, and yet the Hearthblood accepted this and were determined to hone their craft. As a result, they came to create the finest tools, design the sturdiest structures, and brew the tastiest ales the world had ever beheld. Ornn secretly approved of the Hearthblood’s perseverance, and the fact that they were always looking to improve.
But, in one catastrophic night, all they had accomplished was destroyed when Ornn battled with his brother Volibear at the mountain’s peak, for reasons no mortal could comprehend. The resultant cataclysm was a storm of fire and ash and lightning so intensely violent that it was seen ten horizons away. When the dust settled, Hearth-Home was a smoldering caldera, and the Hearthblood were reduced to scattered bones and cinders.
Though he would never admit it, Ornn was devastated. Through the Hearthblood he had glimpsed the sweeping potential of mortal life, only to see it all lost beneath the indiscriminate wrath of the immortals. Wracked with guilt, he retreated to the isolation of his foundry, and buried himself in his work for an age.
“Ornn of Half Mountain,” he called out as he had done a hundred times. “I come for your blood!”
As before the only response was his own increasing doubt. For months now he traversed the fractured landscape, a treacherous and unforgiving waste seeking out the answers demanded by the spirits of his people. Now for the sixth time facing dwindling provisions he would be forced to retreat back down the mountain, empty handed.
The ground trembled beneath his feet. A plume of lava flourished over the horizon and then all was tranquil once more. He crept up to the ridgeline and peered down upon a pool of molten rock being tended by the horned demigod. The Mountainsmith pounded his fist into the ground near the edge of the pool and once again a fountain of lava was ejected from it.
His quest had finally reached its end. He quickly tore off his pack. He scrabbled down the ridge and drew his blade.
“Ornn!” his cry sliced through the hot and sulfurous air. “I am Saldiim, son of Remmik. I will have retribution for the Hearthblood!” He charged the demigod.
Ornn merely gazed briefly at this intruder then went back to staring at his pool of lava. Saldiim swung his sword. It barely bit into the flesh of the Mountain Lord, and from the wound poured glowing heat instead of blood. He reeled back and struck again. Ornn still ignored the assault.
Again and again Saldiim pulled his blade from the inhuman hide of the demigod and attempted to wound him to no avail. The former lacerations had already scarred up and were flaking away to reveal pristine skin underneath. He continued his attacks regardless of the futility of his actions. He cut into the Mountain Lord for Aunay, the sister he lost. For his mother, his father, his tribe. He pulled the blade and finally stumbled backwards. He yelled out in anguish at the sky and lost his grip on the sword. It clattered on the rocks of the mountain steppes. He sat. He cried.
When he finally raised his head, the demigod was once again looking at him. Saldiim was slightly rattled seeing the eyes of the Great Builder. He expected fire and life, but all that resided within was sadness.
Saldiim spread his arms and gestured around. “Why,” he pleaded to the demigod. “Why is my family dead? Why are my people destroyed?”
Ornn grunted, and Saldiim felt the full acceptance of blame from the builder. Ornn believed that it was his fault. But even knowing that would not change what can’t be changed.
“When my brother and I fight, no one wins,” said Ornn. “There is only great loss.”
Saldiim got to his feet. “If no one can win, then why fight?”
“We are primal creatures. Our tempers run hot on the surface. We do not like to negotiate. And we are used to getting our way.” said Ornn.
“All of the gods are like this?”
Ornn nodded.
“Then you need to change your ways, or this sort of thing will keep happening,” Saldiim concluded.
The truth of the human’s words cut far deeper than any sword. Ornn had been butting his head against an immovable object. His unwillingness to change the fact he was unwilling to change.
Ornn’s eyes fell to the sword that the man had brought to kill him. He picked it up. He tested its balance and ran his hand over the edge. He sniffed it, gauging the contents of the metals used and their purity.
“This,” said Ornn. “Who made this?”
“That is the last sword that will ever be made by the Hearthblood. The legacy of my father, Remmik of Walwren who perished in the shattering of the mountain.”
Ornn was transfixed in awe of what he saw before him. The blade was better than anything he himself could forge, there was no doubt about it. The humans had honed the craft to a level that surpassed even his own natural abilities. Within this blade he saw the power of devotion, perseverance, and sacrifice. These were not traits that a demigod had or could easily obtain. The hardships of a mortal existence proved to be integral in forging something truly magnificent.
And now that brilliance, that shining excellence had been wiped out. Those people flocked to him. They sought to emulate his own ways. They were inspired by Ornn’s own prowess. But the Shaping Hand never had to earn his abilities. His gift came naturally and easily. He saw now the difference between gift and talent. He now understood the true depths of what was lost in the sundering of the mountain. With two hands Ornn held the sword, hilt and blade.
He had lost his people. He could not deny it now. They were indeed his.
He wept.
He arched his back and wailed.
Saldiim nodded. He turned to leave. The Mountainsmith understood. Saldiim had come to kill a god, but getting one to understand humans was infinitely better.