A pool of fire. That was one way to describe it. It was the simplest way. It was by no means sufficient to fully preserve and convey the majesty and power contained within the flames.
After the staircase, Zach's group stepped onto a ledge that rounded a large spherical stone room, the bottom half of which was filled with seemingly liquid fire. Here and there were thin openings in the ceiling that the fire could escape into.
If they hadn't been too busy looking at the dancing flames, they would have figured out that those openings were channels to the surface. Furnaces and forges used the flames from the true Friebel's Hearth.
The flames were a violent crimson, mellow orange, and tranquil gold.
It was more than the heat that threatened to take their eyebrows. The fire wasn't just destructive. It was ruthlessly destructive, to the point where ordinary rock turned to goop, ash, smoke, and nothing within a matter of seconds when tossed in.
