In the sweltering heat of the deep roots of the earth, there is a small wooden door, marked with runes and banded with the purest gold. Behind that door, a black iron furnace roars, day in, day out, drawing its energies from the very core of the world we borrow from its creators. For years now, the furnace has been carefully tended, the white-hot liquid held in its embrace ever evolving as purifying compounds are added a little at a time by a chief alchemist masked and robed as the rites demand. A little black. A touch of grind. Three drops of death. And a binding mix of thrash. And at last the day has arrived, the day the keepers of the furnace have longed for, the day their penance and servitude will be rewarded. Slowly, slowly, a hard-bound block of sand is rolled over the cindered floor, coming to rest beneath a groove deeply etched into the outer wall of the furnace. As one, the keepers bow. A mechanism groans into life and a brilliant white glow fills the chamber. The furnace tilts and searing liquid metal runs down the groove and into the sand. Pure metal. Pure Abomnium.