Welcome to Gaia! ::

Needing beta readers. Any and all advice helps. If you see somewhere I should expand, please tell me. If you see places I've reiterated myself too much, tell me.

Just so everyone knows, I'm entering this in a contest on Gaia, and so want to present a top notch piece.

This idea spawned as a 'bard's telling' or more appropriately, an elder's telling. To remove that feeling of history being told from one to another was important to the whole idea.

I've already begun the primary editing, did take the change you suggested, I'm expanding for both clarification and style. If anyone else in the guild has notes, please hand them down.

Come; sit around, tender embers, and listen to this old cinder's tale. With every crackle of my dying flame, I will tell you the tales that stokes our souls and reminds us why we live!

Other races claim they are old, and perhaps, they are. In the woodlands the tree-kin, the Elves, live long lives. Lives as long as the trees they protect. Their memories are long, and their stories longer. But they do not remember the beginning. In the mountain halls the stone-kin, the Dwarves, work to preserve the memory of their fathers. Stones etched with tales from the beginning of their race. Statues dedicated to moments of grand history. But even these histories are incomplete. Across the land the clay-sons, that race called Man, whisper to the gods and believe the gods have told them all. But now and then, the gods lie.

But, tender flames, they are wrong. We are the first mortal race! Born as warriors, reared as wise men. Sent to this world to burn the taint of the Ancient Ones when the Gods conquered them.

It was during that first War, that raging apocalypse, that the Gods first forged weapons. They set one of their own to a forge, deep within the world. They set him to perfecting a weapon to destroy the mighty Titans that ruled them.

There the god learned to make the fire hot, hotter than a fire had ever been. He then smelted his first ore. The metal glowed bright, and snaked to the floor, rising itself up into a heavy shape. This the god tried lifting, but it was too heavy to be used against their enemies.

He cursed his fire, and his metal. A weapon he had set out to make and this would not do. He took more ore, and to the fire, melted it. With a word of blessing, this took a heavy shape, with a place to grasp it. He lifted his new object and smiled approvingly.

With a swing and a crash, he hit the sides of the cavern, deep below the earth. Stones did not crack. Metal did not sing. The blow had done nothing.

The god brought his hammer down with a roar on an ingot resting on his first creation. Metal sang, and the stones joined the chorus. The god looked at what was left, and lifted the flattened metal from the anvil. In wonder, he saw that it now had an edge, sharp enough to cut the flesh of gods.

The god set to work, blessing fire, anvil, and hammer. He brought his mighty arm down, again and again, and shaped a snake of glowing metal to a length, and battened it to a mighty edge. He sang the first forge song as he worked, and his name became the Smith.

With the final swing of his hammer and the final note of his song, five sparks leaped from that last meeting of blessed sword, hammer, and anvil. They floated in the air, their spirits refusing to be doused in that moment of glory.

The Smith, examining his work, noticed the five hearty sparks and waved them to a place on his anvil. “Born of fire and steel, little ones. Born in time of war. I will make you my children, and send you forth into the world.”

Upon the first spark he blew, and whispered. “Tiny Ember, My blessing for you is to grow and learn, to become strong in the ways of the mind and of war. Take this blessing and go.” He lifted the spark, now opening its eyes for the first time, to the vent in his forge, and let it float to the surface.

The second spark he fed and strengthened. “Hearth, flame of the home, you will defend my people and every people born of the gods. With my blessing, go.” And so he lifted Hearth to the vent.

Feeding the third until it roared, he said, “Make war with all the enemies of the gods, and all the children who forget their place. You will be a Blaze that burns purity into the world.” Blaze he lifted to the vent and waved him into the world.

The fourth spark he fed until it burned as hot as his forge. “Inferno, you will be feared by the children of all gods, for you will consume and destroy. An enemy of life, you exist to balance the world.” And with those words, he sent Inferno on his way.

To the last spark, now weak from waiting, he fed gently and spoke. “Dear, Cinder, you will guide my children in war and peace. You will teach them to make weapons. You will remind them of why they are. And before you smolder, you will proudly douse your life flame and join me in my realm.” And with that, he lifted the first Cinder to the sky and set him loose.

That, young ones, is not the end of our tale, but the beginning. For after rising to the earth, the sons of the Smith went to their duties. Ember consumed much and grew strong, learning the ways of war and mind from his greaters. Hearth defended the sons in their rest. Blaze waged mighty campaigns against the horrors of the Ancients. Inferno consumed all in his rage and fury. Cinder set about remembering, to tell the tale to his kin.

They spread quickly, giving birth to brothers and sisters as they roamed. They destroyed the beasts that marched across the world. The divine fury they embodied wiped clean the taint of the Titans, and behind them, the gods blessed the world to be pure.

In time, the world grew fruitful, bearing plants, and animals, but only the fire kin wandered it to remember. Then a goddess saw the forests, and sang the song of the wind to them, and called some to awaken. From the youngest saplings walked forth a new race. They were called fair by their goddess, and when they received language, called themselves the Elves.

Eras passed, and the elves created a fighting style unlike anything the Fire-kin had seen. They called it swordplay, after the word for the Smith's first mighty weapon. The Cinder remembered and told it to his kin.

Long after, a god looked upon the mountains grand strength, and sang a song of the earth to them. Stones stood and walked for him and became a new race. When they had learned language, they called themselves Dwarves.

As their lives grew long, the Dwarves learned the art of the forge from the Fire-kin, and improved it. They mastered the shaping of a new metal, strong as that forged by the Smith himself. The Cinder remembered and told it to his kin.

And soon the purpose of the sons of the Smith was gone. They chose for themselves a new life. Warriors always, they could never stop moving. They learned to hunt and track. Perfected warfare. Built their traditions. The Cinder remembered and told it to his kin.

And then came the day when the Cinder told his tale to his kin and told them it was time for him to go. They had learned much, and many of his kin were slowly starting to sputter, to show the first signs of becoming Cinders themselves. And to them he bade them to remember and tell it to their kin.

Each in turn nodded to him, the first Cinder, and then went about to tell their tales to their kin. And the first Cinder turned to the river, and walked out into it. A proud death he would have, in a burst of fire, water, soul and steam.

As his soul fire gave its last hiss, a new race walked from the water. They were called Man, and had come from the clay along the river. The fire kin blessed the young race, and taught them to control fire, and to forge metal. Then they sent them to the Elves, where the young race learned to grow plants to eat. Then a single Cinder led the Men to the dwarfs to learn how to use stone to defend themselves.

And so, the youngest race received the knowledge of the three elder races. They spread across the world, and the cinders remembered and told it to their kin.

And time went on, each race living the lives the gods intended, the humans, elves, and dwarfs spreading, the fire kin cutting them back when they grow wild and unruly. And then a Cinder refused to die with pride. He avoided the water that would quench his soul flame, and let his fire sputter out. That day the Smith laid a curse on all Cinders who smoldered out, that they would walk this world as a mockery of their pride.

And so to this day we are cursed. Should our soul fire sputter out, we become like them. Moving, but not alive. Hungry, but unable to feed. Miserable husks with no memory of our past.

It is said by Blazes of our tribe that there is a group of Smolders in our territory, stalking our camps each season. As they take our soul fires, they create more of their own. We watch for them always, for our duty is to destroy them all. It falls to us to atone for one Cinder's sin.

And now, young flames, I retire to steam. Grow old and wise. Remember, and tell your kin.