Odexes listens with serene patience, his clawed hands folding before him as Vark speaks. The echoes of flickering memories still play along the chamber walls.

"It is wise to know one’s limits," the dragonborn rumbles. "An unsteady anchor leads to a broken bridge. Your insight serves your friend better than blind bravery would."

He gestures and luminous script unfurls in the air. Scrolling diagrams and shifting glyphs manifest, as the codex whispers its secrets in harmonic pulses of thought.

"The Mirror Rite requires a space where both literal and metaphorical reflection is possible," Odexes explains. "Perhaps a circle of mirrors or polished surfaces surrounding the participants. It must be a controlled environment free from distraction or outside interference. An ambient source of arcane resonance, such as a ley line, magical font, or warding stone can also be helpful. Some perform the rite in temples, some in ruins. Wherever it happens, the place must be honest."

 "This cannot be forced," Odexes warns, tone firm. “If either half resists entry into the rite, the mirror will crack and souls do not mend cleanly after that."

He pauses, letting that settle before continuing.

"You might also consider providing a 'catalyst'. An offering of significance to each fragment. Something symbolic of the life that they shared before the split and what they wish to become after. A memento from their childhood, a token of a decision that they regret or would take back, or a piece of writing or music that both recall could all suffice. The catalyst binds the mirror to who they are, acting as a compass of sorts for the soul."

Odexes lowers his arms and the runes dim slightly.

"If you do choose to be the anchor, remember, even unstable bridges may carry weight, if they are willing to bend without breaking."

Instinctively Vark takes out a notebook to record the stream of information, surely a habit he’s picked up from Seid. Will something written down in this immaterial place transpose upon his real world memory? Only one way to find out. 

Once he feels he has the gist of the ritual he nods to Odexes. “Okay, it might have to wait til we get back to Sheercleft, but maybe we can make something work where we are. Thanks Odexes, you’re always a big help!”

With his information gathering complete, Vark closes his eyes and pushes his consciousness up and backwards and out, leaving the crystalline facets of the codex and returning to his body.

Bründir found himself pacing in his quarters. There was so much that's changed in so little time. He'd truly expected maybe a letter of good will after a century of diplomatic relationships with Karaz Kadrin, not a promotion and oath of fealty on a first meeting. He felt he had to get away, find his way back to the purpose he'd come for. There was so much to do about things long past, so that's where he'd start.

A modest provision had been given for a writing station - no doubt when hosting diplomats and the like - and Bründir took to writing everything they'd learned but had no knowledge of: The Dawn War, King Erik Spanglehelm, mentions of "Dumdrengi", "Karakalad", and "Karakadrin", and any clan in the past two centuries that struck the name "Brynja" from their records. That was a good start, he thought. He'd changed out of his armour, but kept himself ready to wander about so his note was tucked away in a pocket. A signal kept near the door would call for a servant, who would be sent with inquiry to Drakki.

"I need various records and texts on various subjects as well as a smith familiar with old craftsmanship and runs."

The bell chimes, a muted but resonant sound that carries well enough through the stone corridors. Before long, there’s a polite knock and a young dwarf in the crimson-and-steel livery of Karaz Kadrin enters, bowing respectfully.

"Yes, Lord Bründir. Your request will be delivered to Captain Runeson. He will see that it receives the proper attention."

The servant collects the written inquiry, eyes darting briefly toward the words, but showing no sign of nosiness, and slips away with brisk efficiency.

Not an hour later, there’s a second knock. This time, it isn’t a servant who steps in, but an older dwarf with a mane of silver hair woven into tight braids. His beard, shorter and ash-grey, is bound with copper rings. His robes are charcoal with red trim, the mark of a loremaster, and a heavy key-ring hangs at his belt.

He carries no books with him, but he has the look of one who knows where every scrap of knowledge is kept.

"Bründir Halfshield," he says, voice gravelly but firm, "I am Odrik Thangrimsson, Loremaster of Karaz Kadrin. Your message was forwarded to me. You cast a wide net, young man. Is this idle curiosity, or what is your agenda?”

He folds his arms, eyes sharp beneath heavy brows.

"The archives of Karaz Kadrin do not open on a whim, but a purpose clear and worthy will open their doors."

Bründir shrugs and shakes his head, more to himself than the hesitation over shared knowledge. "I s'pose i cann'a be helped, then, eh? Seems I might just go'n parade myself down th' streets t'stop repeatin' myself: I'm coming 'ere dressed in hist'ry and not a grain o' sense about it."

In the guest chambers, the furnishings were soon repurposed into something akin to museum displays. Dumdrengi was unsheathed and laid on a table while Karakadrin stood leaning against the central leg underneath. A chair was pulled over to prop up Karakalad. Bründir then sat himself in a chair among it all as if to frame himself as a display piece as well. "I know there's stories in all this. These'll be easy compared t’me, though, so let’s start ‘ere.”

Bründir first took up Karakadrin. “There’s dwarven ruins under Sheercleft. A vault, you’d say, where a cult wanted t’raise up an ancient god. I got this shield from there, an’ a friend of ours took this armour fer ‘imself then later gave it t’me. Karakadrin and Karakalad. It’s plain as a mountain this isn’t fer any old guards, but I’m wonderin’ if there’s somethin’ more’n being a fancy kit?” He expected something prestigious: The arms of a royal guard, under the direct employ of the high king himself centuries ago….or something like that. The suit and shield were masterworks in their own rights, but he didn’t think they carried a legacy tied to a name so much as a station. Get through these, he thought, then we’ll start diving into the true gems.

A pair of scribes carrying slate tablets and sticks of chalk file in behind Odrik. The loremaster himself is shorter and broader than Bründir, his thick beard a thick mane streaked with iron-grey, braided and clasped with bronze filigree that jingles faintly as he moves. His eyes are sharp as chisels, the sort that measure everything for weight and worth. He surveys the improvised display with a long silence, rubbing the edge of his beard.

"You’ve brought steel, yes… but also questions. These aren’t parade gear, mercenary kit, or common soldier’s plate. Karakarin..." he gestures to the shield, "that name alone bears weight. 'Enduring shield.' It echoes the name of this very hold, but older still, back when the words meant vigil. Karakarin, then, is not merely a shield, but a warding plate issued only to those who stood watch at the deepest gates of the ancestors' vaults."

He circles to the armour, Karakalad, laying a heavy hand on its chestplate and feeling for the lines of craft.

"Karakalad is less certain. The word’s rare, but in old runic verse it shows up tied to the phrase stone unbroken. 'Armour of endurance.' This was a set commissioned for those who swore never to falter in their post, even unto death. Not the protector of a king, but of what kings swore to protect."

He straightens, nodding once.

"Your cult’s vault at Sheercleft? If they’d sought to raise up some forgotten god, then yes, these arms make sense. They once barred such doors and, if they were left behind in that place, it may mean that the gatewards never walked out."

The gravity of that statement is palpable. These aren't merely relics of prestige, but perhaps of a final stand that went unrecorded, until the Acharnost entered the ruins centuries later. Odrik’s eyes narrow and he folds his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels as if weighing more than mere metal.

"Tell me, what kind of vault? Was it delved by dwarven hands, or did it bear the marks of others? Square cut stone, keystones on the arches, or was it crooked and uneven, as if men or elves had chiselled away at our works like thieves?"

He gestures to the shield again, his voice low but insistent.

"Or the cultists… what was their make? Beardless exiles? Humans dabbling in runes they don’t know? Or… did you see any hint of what god they meant to raise? A name? A symbol? Anything etched on the stone or smeared in blood?"

He leans closer to Bründir, the braids of his beard clinking faintly against Karakalad.

"Did you see bodies in that vault? Bones in place? Or was it stripped bare save for these relics? If the gatewards died there, then their tale deserves a cairn. If they didn't… then I’ve darker questions still."

The scribes keep scratching their chalk furiously across slate, capturing every word, while Odrik studies Bründir’s intently.