Thurston exhales, feeling the tension leave his body. The forest is still around him, save for the occasional rustling of leaves in the night breeze. The smell of damp earth and pine fills the air, mixing with the lingering scent of blood from whatever the others had found.

Then, something shifts.

Not a sound, not exactly. More the absence of one. The insects that had been buzzing softly nearby fall silent. The breeze, which had been tugging gently at the canopy, seems to falter. The shadows stretch just a little too long.

A prickle creeps up the back of Thurston’s neck. His warrior instincts, dulled for just a moment, snap back to alertness.

There’s something behind him.

Not close — no breath against his skin, no whisper of movement — but there. Watching. Waiting.

A dry branch snaps somewhere in the darkness. The underbrush shifts, just barely, but nothing emerges. The shadows seem thicker now, the outlines of trees less distinct. Then, from deeper in the woods, comes the faintest sound of breathing. A low, guttural inhale. Something too large for a wolf, but too steady for a startled animal.

He is not alone.

The tension lingers a moment longer, stretched taut like a drawn bowstring. Then, just as suddenly as it had vanished, the night sounds return. The wind stirs the branches. A distant owl hoots.

The presence is gone. Or, at least, it wants him to think so.

Thurston knows that his demeanor had changed, along with the sudden appearance of whatever was behind him. He doesn’t move a muscle though. Even when it seems to leave. He finish his business slowly, as if nothing had happened, even if he knows that it knows. 
Without turning back he extends his right hand and Rikkazarik flies to it. He stops there, just for one second. Small sparks of lightning jump from his hand to the hammer. Then, in a casual movement he flips the hammer on his hand by making it go a little bit up in the air and car gong it again as he starts walking back to the others.

When he reaches the rest he says

"Something is hunting on this woods. Something dangerous. It had me. If it wanted it could had jump on me, but I do not know if it thought that it wanted something tender than Norscan meat, or that it was already satisfied. Either way it seems that it went away, but I wouldn't linger in ths part of the woods more than necessary." 

Xej smiles reassuringly.

"Probably just a bear, or some other natural predator. Put off by the sight of metal and that clanking sound you make when you move. If it was something more sinister it would surely have taken advantage whilst your trousers were down." He chuckles and pats Thurston on the back.

"It didn't feel like a bear" mumbles Thurston as they start walking again. From that moment on, he kept an eye open, scanning the woods around them so nothing surprises them.

There is a distinct tension in the air as the Acharnost set up camp for the night. The shadows of the forest stretch long and deep, the oppressive weight of the ancient trees pressing in on all sides. Valaith chooses a small clearing nestled against a rocky outcrop, where the stone at their backs offers a measure of security. The ground is damp, but stable, the thick canopy overhead shielding them from the worst of the chill.

The night passes in uneasy quiet. The usual sounds of a forest — chirping insects and rustling underbrush — are thinner here, as though the forest is holding its breath.

But nothing comes.

The next morning, the Acharnost break camp early, leaving little behind but cold embers and footprints in the dirt. Their journey through the Wentwood continues, each day blurring into the next in a ceaseless march beneath the canopy.

They travel with weapons drawn more often than not. The eerie silence of the forest is only broken by the occasional distant howl, guttural and strange, or the rustling of unseen figures shifting just beyond the trees. The scent of damp rot clings to the air, thick with the musk of something not quite natural.

The second day brings rain. A cold, misty drizzle that dampens cloaks and seeps into boots, making every step a slow, slogging misery. The trees loom ever taller, their gnarled branches like skeletal fingers grasping towards the grey sky above. No birds call. No game stirs. Even Valaith's careful eye find it difficult to forage anything edible beyond a handful of bitter berries and gnarled roots.

On the third day, the trees begin to thin. The darkness overhead lightens and the undergrowth grows less tangled. The air smells fresher. Less damp decay, more crisp earth and wild pine. The party presses on, weary but determined, until finally, finally, the first true shafts of golden sunlight break through the branches ahead.

The Wentwood releases them like a beast reluctantly relinquishing its prey. One by one, they step beyond the shadowed treeline, blinking against the sudden brightness. The land before them slopes upwards, climbing rocky slopes towards the twin icy peaks of Karaz Kadrin. The scent of clean grass and the untainted mountain wind fills their lungs.

When the party finally exists the forest, Val takes a deep breath and holds the fresh air into her lungs for as long as she possibly can before releasing it. "If this is how most forests feel, I am happy to keep living in the mountains. It felt like being trapped... Now where?"

"Now ye know why dwarves love our mountains an' mines, Val." Bründir pointed towards the twin peaks before them, "Like that, there. Twice as much t'love, so we nestled ourselves between 'em and got comfy. Never a better place t'be, if ye ask me, than settled b'tween such a wonderful pair o' peaks." The dwarf bit his cheeks, waiting for other thoughts on the matter.

All of the bard’s comedic innuendo flies right over Vark’s head.

”They are quite nice! I’ll definitely take two comfy peaks over that gnoll infested forest. The whole place had some kind of weird magic but,” the sorcerer looks over his shoulder, back at the ominous Wentwood. A shudder runs down his spine. “Definitely not a mystery that’s worth solving.” Gently he prods Toivoa onward. “Do you think they have any magic shops in Khaz Kadrin?” he asks Bründir.

"Oh, aye, finest crafts ye'd ever seen! Remember Khaz a Gungron? Wonderful place, still love the eye," Bründir taps a mailed hand to his disguised prosthetic with a light *tink*, "But Karaz Kadrin puts it t' shame. Big as Khaz a Gungron is to Sheercleft, Kadrin's bigger'n Gungron th' same way."

Vark’s jaw falls open. 

“Wow! That… that’ll be the biggest city I’ve ever been to! Well, except Dis I guess. Didn’t really do much shopping there though.” he adds with an awkward chuckle.

"Well, *Dis* is a very different experience." Bründir leans heavily into his pun, as much as he leans over in his saddle, staring at Vark for a reaction.

This joke, Vark does catch, though it takes him a beat before he lets out a burst of laughter that brings a breeze rustling through his robes. 

“Bründir that joke was… hellish.” he flashes a toothy grin at his own pun.

Beyond the oppressive shadows of the Wentwood, the land opens, revealing a rugged expanse of foothills and craggy ridges leading towards the towering spine of the mountains on the horizon. The air is crisper here, carrying with it the faint, metallic tang of dwarven industry.

Far ahead, nestled within the embrace of two mighty peaks, lies the Dwarven hold of Karaz Kadrin. The mountains seem as though they were once a single monolith, sundered by some primordial force, leaving behind a deep and narrow chasm that serves as both the pass through the range and the gateway to the hold itself. A day’s ride still stands between the Acharnost and the ancient city, but, even from here, Karaz Kadrin looms like a testament to Dwarven resilience, standing defiant against both time and the perils of Arden.

On approach, the hold’s presence is unmistakable. Massive stone towers, carved directly from the mountainside, stand as sentinels over the cleft. Their weathered facades bear runes etched deep into the rock, warding against both time and intruders. Smoke drifts lazily from hidden chimneys in the stone, carrying the scent of burning coal and smelted ore.

Closer still, the road leading to the hold grows more defined, shifting from wild, rocky terrain to the well-worn paths of Dwarven craftsmanship. Wide stone slabs, fitted seamlessly together, form a sturdy road that winds toward the cleft. The occasional milestone stands watch along the way, each engraved with the names of past rulers and the distance remaining.

The wind howls through the gap between the peaks, carrying with it the echoes of distant hammers striking anvils, the rhythmic pulse of Dwarven labour resonating through the stone. Somewhere, the deep blast of a horn sounds. Perhaps a patrol returning, or a watchman signalling the changing of the guard?

 Val stares in awe at the dwarven craftsmanship, but also feeling an odd sensation of longing for the wilds of her home. All of these people and their walled towns and villages... what would they do when those walls came down (as they always do at some point) or once the enemy was inside those walls? There was something to be said about fortifications, but there was also something to be said about having the ability to uproot your entire village at the snap of a finger and disappear into the mountain passes before your enemies could find you. Though... that did not save her own people... and that thought lingered much longer than she wished it would as her fingers tighten around Rook's haft. "Hopefully this hold will have higher roofs than the others we have been to."

Awe. No other such word could form the basis of Bründir's impression of the great Dwarven hold. He reflexively held Dumdrengi by the scabbard, just under the crossguard, as though it would speak the history of such a place through him. A memory returned of a resplendent Dwarven king dressed in ancient plates and haloed with his sacred crown, speaking portents of doom in a fever dream.

Bründir's thoughts also went to Dumdrengi....what would it mean to return it to its ancestral home? What would it mean that a common outlander carried it? There were surely halls of knowledge about the history tied to it, and a celebration awaiting its return.

The nagging thoughts came back. Not even a clan to trace a lineage; he might as well have come from the very dust of the earth just last week. A disgraced maternal line and an unknown paternal one, yet here he stands with a noble blade lost to history, dressed in armour not seen since divinity walked the earth. An up-jumped, half-blinded miner, no better than an opportunistic con-man, who took over a mining town and declared total sovereignty. That was the other thing: He wasn't just Bründir anymore; he was Sheercleft's first contact with the Dwarven throne beyond a messenger.

"Like I said," Bründir blurted with a chuckle, "Nestled...strong there, between those beautiful peaks." The frail call back to his earlier joke was clumsy, and his face clearly wore a mask of awe-struck apprehension.

The road winds up the mountainside into the narrow pass of Karaz Kadrin. Towering walls of granite rise almost vertically on either side, blotting out the sky and casting the path into cold shadow. The wind funnels through the pass in sharp, whispering gusts, while every hoof beat and footstep echoes in the tight space, amplified by the natural acoustics of the ravine. Above, small balconies and carved alcoves peek from the cliffs, manned by armoured dwarven sentries, their crossbows resting at the ready, eyes sharp beneath crested helms.

Halfway through the pass, the road broadens at an outcropping where a carved relief of a tall, burly, chainmail-clad dwarf watches silently from the rock face, his axe raised high. Below the statue, faintly glowing runes are carved into the stone. Then, the road bends and opens into a wide, defensible courtyard carved into the mountain. Here stands the great gate of Karaz Kadrin: a colossal, rune-etched slab, reinforced with gilded struts and marked with a holy seal.

Helmeted guards stand watch at the gate bearing tall spears and thick shields engraved with their clan sigils. The one with the broadest, bushiest beard steps forward and raises a gloved hand.

"Who comes to Karaz Kadrin? Speak, strangers, or be turned away."

Bründir pulled himself up in his saddle, "Bründir Halfshield, Lord of Sheercleft, and The Acharnost. We 'ave an urgent matter fer th' king. We've also got other business in th' hold, but a word with th' throne's most important right now."

The silence in the gate hollow is broken only by the murmur of the wind winding through the pass and the soft clatter of hooves and armour. High above, the crossbowmen along the cliff alcoves look on in silence, relaxed but ever ready. The guards remain still for a beat longer and then, with a slow nod from the grim-faced captain in his crimson-plumed helm, one of the sentries steps back into a narrow recess carved into the cliff wall and strikes a bronze lever with the butt of his spear.

With a low, resonant groan, hidden gears and chains forged by ancestors long dead begin to turn within the rock. A deep horn bellows once and the massive stone gate shudders. Sand falls from near invisible seams and a sound like a grindstone working a titan’s blade rumbles out as the two halves of the gate begin to part.

The gate of Karaz Kadrin is a marvel. Two towering sheets of mithril-veined granite, each at least forty feet high, slowly retract inward and upward into the mountain itself, revealing a great tunnel lit by flickering glass oil lamps. The light spills out into the gate hollow, warm and welcoming, and one of the guards steps forward. He salutes with his fist to chest, and speaks in formal Khazalid.

"Welcome, sons and daughters of stone and sky. You may enter Karaz Kadrin’s first gate. The Hall of Greeting awaits."

Bründir's stare is locked on the retracting gate as he responds to the guard, "Uh....yeah, thank ye. How many gates were there, again?"

"Seven," the captain intones solemnly as the Acharnost ride their mounts into the passage, horseshoes echoing on the stone. The air inside is cool and dry, rich with the scent of burning oils and worked metal. The tunnel’s ceiling rises high overhead, ribbed with supporting arches carved in the likeness of axe-wielding gods and kings. On either side of the path, stone benches and alcoves hold ancestral statues, worn smooth by centuries of reverence. Some bear offerings of polished stones, coins, or simple braids of dwarven hair.

At the tunnel’s far end, another pair of runed doors stands sealed, flanked by more guards and a pair of stone dragons carved from red stone. Here, in the outer hall, the Acharnost can dismount and rest. Antechambers branch off, offering water, seating and a place to wait while their names are carried ahead. Braziers are suspended from the ceiling by thick iron chains, their flames dancing in rhythm with the distant, echoing ring of hammers from deeper within the hold.