Ungrim's stare remains steady and unblinking, but those close enough can see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Once more, a low murmur ripples through the ring of warriors, thanes and chroniclers alike that line the hall. Then, the king raises a hand and silence returns. The kind that pulls all sound from the air, like the stillness before a hammer meets the anvil.

"Council and recognition, you say," Ironfist rumbles, leaning back on his throne. "I'll grant you at least the first. Counsel is what keeps a realm from a foolish death. As for recognition..." he pauses, intentionally letting the word hang heavily in the air, "that’ll be earned or lost by the tale you tell." The king straightens slightly and his eyes glint beneath his heavy brow. "If what you say is true, Bründir Halfshield, then what you carry are not mere arms, but echoes of our people’s past. If what you claim bears the weight that you say it does, that the north stirs with old powers and armies march under dark banners, then the sons of Karaz Kadrin will hear it. All of it."

"Loremaster," Ungrim declares, turning his head towards Odrik Thangrimsson, who stands to one side with a dozen scribes. "Take up your quill. Let the tale of the Acharnost be set to stone."

"As the king commands," Odrik replies, bowing so deeply that his beard brushes his chest. The scholar motions to his scribes, who unfurl long rolls of vellum, their inkpots trembling in anticipation.

"Speak, then," the king continues, his attention returning to Bründir. "Tell us how Sheercleft stood and how the Acharnost kept the dark at bay. Omit nothing that the mountain should know. We’ll weigh your words, your deeds and the arms that you bear, then we'll see what counsel this hall can give you... and what recognition you've earned."

He gestures with an open hand in what is as much an invitation to begin, as it is a command.

Chapter 1: Bandit Raids and Setting Out

Vark has cowered towards the back of the group since entering King Ungrim’s imposing presence. He is happy to leave all of the talking to the dwarf, but as he hears a mistake int the recounting he almost can’t help himself. Thankfully he catches himself before simply blurting out the correction, instead leaning down and forward to whisper in the bard’s ear. “Uh-uhm B-bründir, we did see Archie again, with the cultists. He got away through a magic portal.”

He seems satisfied with himself for contributing to such an important moment, but now as eyes are drawn to him he has the realization that some of the plot points in this story might not be taken well by this audience. His hand, veined with infernal red, tightens on Pathmaker’s shaft, suddenly sweaty. The runestone feels heavy against his side, and he also just now remembers that Didymis is… somewhere. But it’s too late to get out of this now, all Vark can do is gulp and hope for the best.

Bründir spins around at Vark's correction, first welcoming then confused. There's a momentary hesitation before he catches what was said and corrects himself, "Ah, thank ye, Vark. I must've been distracted when that happened, sorry. Right! Beggin' yer pardon about that bit, sire an' scribes. Here's why it's good ye hear from us all. I can spin a fine tale, but I can't be ev'rywhere t'tell it all."

Chapter 2: Rooting Out Bandits

When several of gazes of busy scribes turned upward, expectantly, the dwarf continued, “We set out, now six in total, to where these highwaymen were holed up. Bandits had a camp with a couple towers an’ a simple wall of stakes, but we snuck up and took’em by surprise." A proud smile cross Bründir's beard as he added, "I was particularly hand with a flask o' that alchemist's fire. Went up in a blaze an' scared'em half t'death. When we got inside, we found a cave leadin’ underground. That’s where things got strange.”

“If ye like, I’ll pass by our step-step-step down an’ get right to it. In that cave’s heart, we found cultists. We beat’em and sent’em runnin’, and that’s when our next friend, J-…Xej came along. He was dressed as’em to get close, but joined our fight. ‘Fore they got away, those cultists called up demons o’ smoke an’ fire. That’s when I found out Dumdrengi was special. Till then, I knew it was an heirloom. I knew my father held it, then he left it with my ma. When we set out, this was all I had an’ a borrowed mail shirt. This beauty,” Brundir pulled Dumgrengi up by the scabbard again until his belt refused anymore, “This was just an old sword ‘til then. When those demons came, it shined line dawn an’ struck’em down. Those cultist’s leader – a dragon lady we learned named Korinn – got away. We also found th’ elves’ man an’ brought ‘im back.”

“We were honored by those elves. Sad t’say, though, we brought back more’n we thought. The man we rescued turned out t’be cursed. He rose again in a frenzy an’ started attackin’ anybody he could. Anybody he touched turned th’ same. Those elves had a way t’put’em down in a sleep, but asked us t’find a cure using basilisk blood. Since misery loves comp’ny, our friend Hurrig also returned from Sheercleft. He’d run back fast as he could t’tell us goblins had attacked our city an’ took it over. So, we rushed out t’find basilisks before rushin’ back home. Basilisks were an odd find worth mentioning, though. There’s a farm of’em, all held underground. I’d’ve got caught by’em if I didn’t throw a bunch’a oil pots an’ torches at’em. ‘Fore we left, though, we found the house above th’ underground pens was used by a leader of those cultists we chased off – a diff’rent leader than the one who got away b’fore. This one’s name was Sora. With a bit o’ Elvish help, we sent that blood back an’ ran clear cross the hills back t’Sheercleft.”

"If I may, Brundir? As this is being written down." Xej steps forward slightly and puts a hand on Brundir's shoulder.

"It was indeed Jex you met in the cave. There to destroy the bandits for a merchant. Xej... I, was still imprisoned as a voice in the back of his mind, fallen silent through years of being ignored. I was not freed until much later, perhaps in part due to the kindness shown by you all when Jex fell ill during the trip back from the basilisks."

He nods a slight apology and steps back to allow Brundir to continue in the spotlight. 

Brundir gives a smile and steps back at Xej's inclusion. In truth, he had no idea how to broach the topic of his multiple personalities. "Thank ye, Xej." The dwarf turned to address the throne room once more as an additional aside, "I think it goes without sayin', but 'ere it is anyway: We've each got a story worth a tome 'r more. Well," he interrupts with a chuckle, "Not s'much fer me, I s'pose, unless ye want a cent'ry of hittin' rocks an' carryin' mugs."

With another gesture, Brundir invites any of the Acharnost to add details that he'd left out before continuing.

Chapter 3: Liberation of Sheercleft

Brundir waits a long moment before addressing the throne room once more, "It's here we've earned our name, 'The Acharnost', giv'n by th' elves we helped. With news from home, we set out fast as we could. A whole goblin army had popped up out'a nowhere, led by a warlord named 'Kung', an' took my home. On th' road back, we were attacked by goblins riding wargs. These were a proper enemy, now. Fast 'n mean, but we broke'em with arrows, storms, an' trusty steel. After, we stopped jus' short o' Sheercleft fer a short time so we could sneak in better. Turns out, these goblins had more in those foothills than we guessed. In th' night, we were attacked."

A wide grin spread on Brundir's face now. The old stories excited him, and he could read a slight buzz of excitement in a few of the assembled courtiers. To truly make their case more than notes in histories, though, he knew he needed to turn words into the grand tapestries he saw in the entry halls. "In our few tents, tucked just off a road, we caught a foul wind. Quickly, we roused ourselves only t'find a half dozen goblins on a hill across from us an' a handful o' hobgoblins marchin' down on us! We scattered quick. I grabbed my shield an' Dumrengi t' climb that hill fer th' goblins. Xej, or Jex as it were then, slipped away with 'is bow an' turned ev'ry one into an old biddy's pin cushion. Hurrig stood against those hobgoblins with all the valor t'make all his ancestors proud. Vark an' Dorno whipped up such a storm you'd think a mountain joined us! You'll notice I left out two in that, but they deserve a special mention. Those goblins were chased off their hill, shot down by arrows and thunder, then by yours truly. Anybody 'ere seen a flyin' dwarf? 'Cause there's a coward of a goblin that day who hadn't 'till I came down on 'is head!"

"Now, then, about those honorable mentions - an' they truly were honorable." Brundir turned and rushed to the others, then pulled Thurston and Valaith forward. Such a sight to see him pulling these two imposing figures like a child urging their parents forward. "Valaith! Remember those hobgoblins I mentioned? Valaith 'ere took her great hammer an' smashed such a terrible hole in'em. If ye'll believe it - well, look at her! If anybody 'ere short o' th' great king stood against Valaith, I'd call'em a fool! It got so bad they had t'lock shields just t'keep her fury at bay. Sad t'say, though, a black-blooded bastard gets lucky now and then. Val 'ere took a sword straight in'er gut." Brundir slammed a fist low on his breastplate to accentuate the telling of the wound. "But lemme ask, d'ye think it stopped her? No! When ye strike this mountain o' rage, ye just make it mad. An' speakin' o' mad, that brings us to th' other mention: Thurston, the Waking Storm! A mountain could fall on this one, an' he'd not lose a wink, but stone help ye if he wakes missin' a fight! See, he heard th' trouble and figured he'd catch another snore 'r two. When he came out, though...I don' know if I could'a made it up if I tried. Ladies of th' court, I must apologize, an' I hope my king, as a Slayer 'imself, takes it fer Thurston's great love fer battle. Much as each of us gave, we could'na dream we'd see Thurston step out'a his tent in nothin' but a night shirt. Did those goblins run from our steel? Our magics? Maybe....but they surely ran when they saw a Norscan big as ye'd ev'r seen swingin' two hammers that night!"

A roar caught the room, some in hysterical laughter, others in aghast shock at the vulgarity. Brundir, however, was now in his element. He remembered Brynja telling tales to rooms full of drunken patrons, how they'd heckle and cheer, but she would ride the spirit of the room and use it to tell the tale. How far he'd risen, now, to follow the example before a king and his court. Once silence fell again, Brundir continued once more. "When we got t'Sheercleft, it was night an' we snuck in under night. Jex - I'm sorry, friend, I know it's a sore thing, but it makes it a bit easier fer this bit - slipped in ahead. 'Fore we even knew what happened, ev'ry guard posted suddenly came down with a bad illness called 'Opened Neck'. We're in my home, my streets, now. We went quick through till we found a shelter an' a new friend: Seid the Wizard. Seid told us th' goblins were an army coverin' up a bigger plot by a group called 'The Mabinogi'. Seid also told us where we'd find where those goblins kept our people held. Once we got to'em, we made a plan: We'd clear a path fer th' guardhouse armoury an' get what we could in able hands. Then, it'd be ev'ry hell poppin' up under those goblins' noses. Sure 'nuff, we got it done without a problem. When dawn came, Sheercleft rose up against goblins. There wasn't a chance fer'em t'get ready. Dwarves an' Men charged those streets, killin' anything that bled black. Ye wouldn't believe it, but my own ma led part o' that attack. Turns out, she was pretty handy with a bow an' blade in her day, so guess that's part'o where I get it."

"With th' whole town in a fight now, we snuck off fer their warlord, Kung. Big, mean ol' bastard he was when we found'im. I got'a thank him, though. In our fight against him an' his guard, I foun' myself on a receivin' end o' his big sword. My shield - not Karakarin here - saved me, but gave itself fer th' cause. If ye couldn't tell, this stuck with me. A final blast o' magic blew Kung's chest halfway t' Sheercleft's mine, an' Sheercleft was free. I was always taught 'Wisdom of the Mountain' was 'Half given's twice received'. When I claimed my own name later, I took it t'heart. I gave half my shield fightin' Kung, an' I got twice as much back with my life. All was left then was t'go down into those mines an' find these 'Mabinogi' people. They had plans under Sheercleft's mines, but we didn't know what."

Brundir paused a moment now to give an exaggerated look of discomfort, "Such a tale already, Sire. If I may, could I 'ave a drink 'fore I go on? This next part's got a lot t'do with Vark an' I don' wan'a leave'im out." After a short bow, Brundir wheeled around and pulled Vark in close, "Quick, now, ye best get yer story right if ye didn't already. I don't know bung 'bout what ye did back then, but I know ye know it involves things only yer privy to. I'm not gon'a say anythin' I don't know full well." He couldn't say everything he wanted, but he tried to stare hard enough to tell Vark that he didn't want anything bad but also didn't want to leave important details out.

After a quick breather to refresh himself, Bründir returned to his tale. "Now, much t'yer disappointment, I'm sure, there's quite a bit that followed an' I've already gone over with yer Loremaster. Wasn't meanin' any disrespect by it, t'be sure. See, I've been luggin' around these treasures on me fer quite a time an' I've wanted th' story in'em. One thing led t'nother, an' I went an' told it all. Some bits I left out, though: When Sheercleft was freed, we heard those Mabingoi folks were deep in our mines pokin' around. We head in there an' meet a bunch a'kobolds. I was 'bout ready t'say hell with those Mabinogi an'kick these squatters out. We always have a tough time with'em. Anyway, our friend Xej, here, worked a deal: They helped take us deep an' find th' Mabinogi, then they'd get t'take any gear they want from'em...within reason, o'course."

Bründir gave a nod to the present Loremaster and his retinue of scribes. The tale followed the night before through the puzzles and trials, sparing even fewer details than Bründir deemed irrelevant the night prior. The dwarf made great boasts of the quality steel found below in his armour and shield, as well as Thurston's hammer. Finally, he came to the ritual chamber. King Drakebeard was known as a Slayer King, so Bründir leaned heavily into the ensuing battle. Duels of arcane power, hails of arrows, clashing steel, then finally, the battle against a summoned demon from the deep hells and Dumdrengi's shining stand. When the battle was recounted and glory heaped upon each of the Acharnost. Bründir finally came to the final detail.

"When we're all done, there was a prison. I didn't know it then, but I know full-well now." Bründir twisted and tested words silently, knowing the first step of his next statement could seal someone's fate before the Slayer King's scrutiny, "We found a way t'open it. Not 'cause we wanted whatever was inside free, but 'cause we had reason at th' time an' didn't know better. I'll ask yer forgiveness now, but an' old, old power came out; somethin' our ancestors fought t'seal away. Could very well be why we found relics of Dwarven past down there." The next and final leg of this chapter caught in Bründir's throat. How could he say this without incriminating a friend? "There's more t'our tale, but I'd like it known well now: Vark, here, knows more about what happened down there an' what might be comin', an' that's why we're 'ere. We've come fer yer help, great king. We hoped we could learn more an' know what t'do next."

Bründir turned and nodded to Vark. He felt like he'd just called his friend to testify before a death sentence, but the truth needed to be known. If this was the end of the tale for now in favor of more present matters, then the Loremaster and his scribes would have to bind this chapter and start another later.

”Uhm r-r-right, s-so, uhm…” Despite all the vicious foes they’d faced, and the growth in his own confidence that his companions have seen, the spotlight of the throne room and the scrutiny of the king falls like an anvil upon Vark. “W-what got released was a, uhm,” he stammers, sweat beading on his brow and grip threatening to snap Pathmaker in three. ”He is… he was a king. A human king. And he was… one of the servants of The Fifth. The… the fifth Dawn God. I think… well it’s hard to know what history is true. Everyone seems to have their own version of what happened, and their own names for the same characters. This… figure calls himself Matthew. In our research we’ve also seen him called Gabriel, and Loki, and Erevan,” Vark very intentionally does not mention the name ‘Abbathor’. ”He is… a trickster. I don’t think he is evil, we haven’t actually heard or seen of anything he’s done being evil,” He glances at his companions who are always skeptical and ready to condemn his patron. ”We know he fought against Erik Spangelhelm, and Spangelhelm sealed him beneath Sheercleft, but honestly we don’t know why. Maybe… maybe it was a misunderstanding. Since he’s been freed…” he falters here, thinking over the last months. “He’s definitely planning something. The way he talks about it, it doesn’t sound like a bad thing but… I think it might cause a lot of chaos. He’s been a powerful ally and helped us a lot. I don’t want history to repeat itself again, outsiders being villainized and sealed away, but… if what he’s planning would cause wanton destruction then… then we need to stop him.”

When Vark speaks of Matthew and the many names that he has been known by, the atmosphere in the throne hall shifts sharply and sharp, fragmented whispers erupt from all sides of the dwarven court.

"A changeling, then?"
"No, a demon."
"Nay, a man… or once a man?"
"I've heard that name before."

Even the hearthguard tense, their hands straying towards the hafts of their axes, and a few runesmiths exchange dark glances. Nevertheless, when King Ungrim raises his hand, silence falls like a slab of stone dropped to the ground. He studies Vark for a long moment, before looking to Loremaster Odrik, who's knuckles whiten as he bows his head and speaks.

"The names align, my king."

The silence that follows is heavier still and Ungrim exhales slowly through his beard, before stepping down a pace from his dais.

"So," he begins, in a low voice that rasps like gravel and steel, "the Trickster has returned. Kazakamhonar rears its head once more." This alone prompts a few scattered gasps that ripple around the hall. "He does indeed have many names. Gabriel, in days of yore. Much from that time has time has fallen into shadow and been lost and few now live who remember it. As you have learned, our neighbours now whisper of Loki, Erevan Ilesere, Math Mathonwy, or Baravar Cloakshadow. My own kin speak of Abbathor." Each name lands like a hammer blow and the king fixes his gaze on Vark. "You claim that you saw him freed? Worse, he knows your names. All of them." Ungrim's face hardens and he looks out across his court. "These are not coincidences. These are signs. If this 'Matthew' walks free... then old prophecies stir." Nervous whispers begin to spread once again. Some of the dwarves in the hall are old enough to remember fragments of ancient warnings. "Let no dwarf here doubt the seriousness of what has been spoken," the king commands, raising his voice so that it resonates throughout the hall. "The Acharnost have brought warning, not boast." Following this proclamation, Ungrim turns back to Bründir, Vark and the rest of the Acharnost with grim eyes. "You speak of armies repelled, relics recovered and ancient prisoners unshackled. Very well. Continue your tale. I will hear all of it. Let it be recorded in the annals before the day is out." The king straightens, authority radiating from him like heat from the heart of a forge. "I will have many questions and, afterwards, I will give my answer on the part that Karaz Kadrin has to play in this tale. When this saga is told in the history books, I will not have it said that House Drakebeard stood idly by."

"Before this day ends," Ungrim adds with quiet intensity, leaning closer to Bründir, "we will speak again of your father, Bründir Halfshield, and what Dumdrengi remembers."

"Begin," he commands, returning to his throne.

Vark’s eyes go wide. He was not expecting the dwarves to take him so seriously. On one hand it’s reassuring; if the dwarves have more knowledge on Matthew and the Fifth and the Dawn War then that is a good thing. If they are willing to fight in whatever battle may be yet to come, that is also good. But… the very thought of fighting his patron still gives him pause. Must it really come to that? The optimistic sorcerer still hopes for a solution where everyone gets what they want. Is it even possible to fight against Matthew, as bound to the King of the Hells as he is? And what will the dwarves think once they learn of his connection to Abbathor? There’s much he hasn’t revealed yet, and much more of the story still to tell. All of these questions and concerns buzz like hornets in Vark’s mind as he steps back and allows Bründir to resume the saga of the Acharnost.

A great sign involuntarily passed through Brundir. Vark’s account could have easily been cause for execution and seizure of Sheercleft, but the king was more level-headed than his reputation and title would imply. A tentative smile found its way through Brundir’s beard as he began the next part of the tale.

“I’m honored fer yer aid an’ attention, sire. When those goblins were kicked out, an th’ Mabinogi group run outta Sheercleft’s mines, we had quite a bit t’do. The town needed repairs, our town guard needed new blood, an’ our mine had hungry caravans t’fill. We helped where we could in all of it. Dorno decided t’stay fer th’ long haul when it came time t’move out next. Vark an’ our new friend, Seid, looked into Matthew a bit more an’ even called in a favor from th’ elves of Hyranatar fer what they knew. They kept outta th’ whole mess, but they at least told us what they could. After a few days helpin’ get Sheercleft standin’ up again, we found a lead: Khaz a Gungron. Sheercleft was on its own now and needed friendly neighbors. We decided our northern neighbors were closest an’ went t’meet’em.”

“Sad t’say, th’ goblins from before weren’t all gone. We found a number o’ bands in our hills an’ mountain passes. We found one camp, big ol’ place but no many there, and got a jump on’em. This ‘ere was a glory fer us all! Thurston, Val, Vark, an’ Jex dropped in th’ middle with a crash o’ lightnin’ an’ a sheet o’ fog. Those goblins ne’er knew what hit’em! Meanwhile, me an’ Hurrig charged their gate t’ split their force. ‘Ave ye seen an ogre, sire? I’m sure ye ‘ave. What about one with two heads? ‘Cause that’s what met us. Dwarves won out, thank Moradin. I was on its chest when it fell an’ drove Dumdrengi through its necks. When I got down, though, that’s where th’ trouble happened.”

“Another ogre – a more regular one this time – was at th’ gate with a big, furry goblin. Back then, I had Karakarin, but Hurrig wore Karakald. I got too ahead of myself an’ charged. That ogre smacked me so damned hard it must’a split three ribs. ‘Fore I could get up, that furry bastard came down on me an’ took my eye.” Brundir taps an eye, making sure to tap his enchanted prosthetic for all to see. “Mountain Wisdom, though, demanded I get my due. I took its eye, then th’other. Half given, twice received. Since most were dead already, Sheercleft needed its due, too, an’ it seemed right he’d pay it.”

Brundir let his somber, foreboding tone linger a few moments. He’d been one of the heroes until now, but it seemed he took a dark turn now. “I’m told I passed out after, an’ I stayed out ‘til we got t’ Khaz a Gungron. That said, I wasn’t jus’ out cold. I got a vision, y’see. I was back by our wagon – Jex’s wagon – patchin’ my nasty wound when I ‘eard a voice. I spun ‘round an’ saw a dwarf all dressed in royal finery, a crown much like yer own on ‘is head. I was in my nerves an’ reached fer Dumdrengi, but it was gone. He had it now, an’ he raised it up t’ th’ sky. That’s when I saw th’ clouds. Four colors comin’ from north, east, south, an’ west. There were shadows in’em, too. One was definitely a dragon, wings an’ all. Th’ others….I don’ know. If I had t’guess, a human, a dwarf, an’ an elf? The dwarf holdin’ Dumdrengi stood in th’ only spot with actual sun left. Those clouds rolled in ‘round us an' covered everythin’ in shadows. That’s all I remember. When I woke up, we were outside Khaz a Gungron’s gates, an’ I was loaded in our wagon.

A low murmur spreads through the Stonekeep as Bründir’s tale unfolds and his account of rebuilding Sheercleft earns nods of approval from guild elders and hold stewards. Diligence and duty are currencies that the dwarven court understands well. The mention of Khaz a Grungron, on the other hand, prompts some thanes to exchange guarded looks as old rivalries between the dwarven kingdoms surface like a fault line beneath polished stone. A ripple of grim approval moves through the Hearthguard in response to Bründir's description of the goblin camp and the two-headed ogre, their axe-heads tilting in salute. The taking of the dwarf's eye draws a hissed intake of breath from the court, followed by a solemn thump as a shield-bearer strikes his rim once against the flagstones, an old sign of respect for a wound earned in battle. One runesmith mutters a proverb about a balance paid in blood.

However, when Bründir's vision is described, the hall grows very still. Loremaster Odrik’s head snaps up upon the mention of a crowned dwarf holding Dumdrengi. His stylus hesitates above the tablet, before scratching furiously. The dragon in the clouds provokes a rumble of unease, but it is the fourfold storm that truly chills the room. King Ungrim listens without interrupting, his jaw set and eyes like chips of obsidian beneath his brow. When the last words fall into silence, he turns to Odrik.

“Find it,” the king says quietly.

“There are fragments from before Kazakamhonar, my king," Odrik replies, bowing deeply. “Most are broken and some contradict each other, but the image of a crowned bearer of Dumdrengi's light in the face of the oncoming storm… that one appears more than once.”

“Visions do not come to dwarves lightly,” Ungrim’s says at last, his attention returns to the Acharnost. His voice carries to every pillar. “Nor do our relics choose their symbols at random.” His eyes linger on Dumdrengi at Bründir’s side. “There are those here,” he continues, “who will hear of dragons and think only of flame and feud. Others will hear of four shadows and think of politics, not prophecy. Both would be fools. If what you describe is true, then you find yourselves in the wake of something older than holds and borders.”

A stir passes through the court as the implications sink in, but Ungrim raises his hand again, forestalling the murmurs before they can grow.

“This vision will be weighed. Its symbols will be tested against stone and record. Nevertheless,” the king continues, his voice hardening with iron certainty. “Karaz Kadrin does not ignore signs carved so deeply into fate. If storms are gathering at the edges of the world, then we will know their names and decide where we stand when they break. Now, you will finish your saga.” Ungrim tells Bründir with stern resolve.

Bründir's mood shifted with each chapter of their tale. Now, he felt a great shame, much like the subtle melancholic tinges he'd felt before his grievous injury. Memories arose of a skirmish along the road before assaulting the camp. Val and Thurston standing as titans, Vark and Hurrig lighting the sky with their power, and the singular arrows from Jex that brought mortality and death with each flight. All the while, he'd felt nothing more than a miner with a shiny sword and shield, playing at hero. After he lost his eye, the feeling of loss and being lost was almost too much to handle.

"Fer my next bit, I'm afraid I don't 'ave much t'offer. We were welcomed at Khaz a Gungron as messengers o' Sheercleft's freedom. It meant t'keep it's trade lanes, but it called nobody its lord. We got word, though, there was an army comin' up from Breanne. With that news, we learned it came with Mabingoi at it's head. We needed help, but they wanted some first. We were told about some...disturbances below their city. I wasn't in any shape t'fight on account'a my broken ribs and...short-sightedness. This here's where we met Aiden. Talk about a small world: Another Norscan there, an' from Thurston's own tribe, no less! Well, he filled in nicely fer me, an' he's been a wonder since. I'm afraid I can't say much about what went on down there - I was stuck in th' city waitin'. Fer what it's worth, that's where I got this nice little replacement, then I found a temple o' Moradin an' swore on its altar an' Dumdrengi I'd serve as a champion." 

Bründir turned to the Acharnost as his eyes went wide and his head tilted, offering the floor to anyone with personal experience in the vaults below Khaz a Gungron. "Last bit, 'fore I get too far ahead of somethin' important, is Hurrig decided t'stay behind when we left. Khaz a Gungron was 'is home, an' he wanted t'stay and put himself t'work at a good forge."

Vark attempts to gulp down his nerves as once again, he is called on to recount their tale. 

“Uhm, r-right so… when we got to Khaz a Gungron… the disturbances were a uhm… like a pulse, coming from beneath the city. The Rhunki, M-master Kragshield, said that it was a coming from a Ruby, the Trove Lord’s beacon. He said it was calling out to me because… because I had been touched by Matthew’s power. Spangelhelm had sealed the ruby away beneath Khaz a Gungron just like he’d sealed Matthew beneath Sheercleft. The Rhunki told us that the ruby refused to stay beneath the city and that if we wanted to secure an alliance with the Khaz that we had to go down into the Ungdrin and deal with it, so…” As Vark remembers how the Rhunki really had insisted that the Acharnost venture into the vault, and that Vark and the ruby were connected by fate, he seems to become more emboldened.

“We went down into the vaults. We fought a bunch of m-monsters and got past traps and, and eventually we came to fight the ruby’s guardian. We defeated him, and the ruby lit up and… well it showed us things.” Vark goes on to describe the four scenes which played across the walls of the vault, projected in crimson light. He also notes the four stars with varying points. “And then I touched the ruby, and it… well it shrunk down into my hand.” As if to punctuate his story Vark reaches into his satchel and pulls the runestone out, holding its blood red facets aloft.

The runestone catches the light and a sharp, collective intake of breath ripples across the court like a crack racing through ice. Several dwarves recoil a half-step without meaning to, while others lean forwards, their eyes locked on the ruby as though drawn by gravity. Runesmiths mutter hurried phrases under their breath and one of the hearthguard audibly drags an axe free a handspan, before stopping himself, knuckles whitening on the haft.

“By the Forge…”
“That’s no jewel.”
“Seal it. Seal it now—”

The whispers overlap until King Ungrim’s hard and ringing voice cuts through them.

“Hold,” he commands, on his feet and descending a pace from the dais without ceremony. His eyes are fixed on the ruby. Loremaster Odrik bows deeply, looking as though the blood has drained from his face.

“My king… that shape, those facets. There are ancient sketches. Spangelhelm’s own annotations...” the dwarf swallows. “The Trove Lord’s Beacon is not merely a signal, but a key.”

This earns a darker murmur, for as the guardian of wealth, oaths and binding geasa, whose favours are never given freely, the Trove Lord is not a figure of comfort in dwarven memory. Ungrim raises a gauntleted hand again.

“This explains much,” he grimly declares. “The pulses, the unrest beneath Khaz a Grungron, why Spangelhelm chose stone and secrecy instead of destruction,” the king's eyes lift from the ruby to Vark, “and why the thing answered you.”

A few elders exchange wary and calculating looks when they hear this and the threads connecting this tale to Breanne and the Mabinogi now take on new weight. One thane mutters that Breannian magic and dwarven vaults have never mixed cleanly, while another counters that Norscan blood has always stood closer to storms and fate than most. A low growl of unease spreads once more, when Vark mentions the four crimson visions, and Odrik nods slowly.

“Four scenes. Four stars. That symmetry matches the portents that date back to Kazakamhonar,” he confirms.

“Enough that coincidence can no longer shelter us,” Ungrim replies, his eyes leaving the runestone and turning out across his court. “Let it be known that this is no mere trinket won in a delve. It is an artifact from an age when gods, fiends and kings still gambled openly with the fate of all of Arden!” The king straightens, voice carrying the weight of law. “Nobody is to approach that stone. No runic probing, no divination, no hammer-testing.” His eyes harden. “Not without my own personal approval. If the beacon has chosen a bearer beyond our blood, then we must ask why and what answer it expects in return.”

The court settles into a tense, watchful silence. The Acharnost are no longer mere messengers, or even heroes recounting battles. They stand now as witnesses to forces older than Karaz Kadrin itself and bearers of a spark that could reignite an ancient war.

“This saga grows heavier with every telling,” Ungrim remarks, inclines his head a fraction, “and so does our debt to hear it whole. Continue.”