Short Story: The Master of the Frozen Isle

The walls were blue, not of stone but of ice. Great blocks of dark ice, cut from the glaciers deep in the heart of the north arctic. Upon the shores of the Rhul Nugath the blue tower stood against the cold, harsh winds of the Olgarn, it alone breaking the bleak, gray horizon. From high in the tower, Robatalor stared into the storm clouds, willing their tempest to bring the fury he needed. As the thunder rolled in response, the sorcerer turned from the window and walked to the center of the room. His staff was black, carved from obsidian and enchanted. As he scraped its tip upon the floor, the ice hissed and melted from its fire. The diagram complete, Robatalor thrust the sword into the blue flames of the cold hearth and began to recite the incantation. As the metal began to soften in the cold, the dwarven smith drew forth his hammer, ready to forge a weapon of true power.