Keeper: Ride fast, Death. My realm teeters on a precipice. Horseman, you'll find naught that way but trouble.
Death: Do what you must for your kin, old one. For mine, I ride to the Cauldron.
Keeper: Well, if you fancy your corruption waist deep, that's as good a place as any.
You know, there's a reason this gate is here, and if you were a friend, I wouldn't have let you pass. But then, who is friend to Death?
Death: Have you wisdom to share, or was it long since knocked loose in battle?
Keeper: Oh, wisdom ain't like teeth. I've plenty left. Enough to stay clear of the Cauldron. The ancients filled in with right nasty traps. But one so clever as yourself will surely elude them.
Maker: The fire is more valuable than I, Horseman. You should make haste to the temple.
Death: Fire alone won't save your realm. You speak of the forge.
Maker: Aye. Without the fire and the Tears of the Mountain, without the forge itself, we have no means to clear the forest and reach the Tree of Life.
Death: What then?
Maker: Our power is over creation. Yours, over death and despair. You are nephilim, Lord of Destruction. Perhaps, in that, there is hope.
Death: Just how old is the forge?
Maker: It is as ancient as the realm itself, and perhaps, even older. It is said the forge was the first thing we makers built, that in its depths, we shaped entire worlds.
Maker: See what you can find.