“Seven…” Vark echoes under his breath. He is surely in awe of the impressive architecture but there is also something else that catches him, cogs working in his brain. What was it about dwarves and seven? By the time they reach the waiting area, Vark already has his notebook in hand and is pouring over its pages.

”Across a field of hardened lava, Human knights charge from ships to face a shield wall of Dwarven infantry.” he reads aloud. “That’s what Seid wrote down from one of my first visions from the codex. I also saw a seven pointed star alongside the scene. There’s seven gates here, and there are seven dwarven kings, right Bründir? Do you know why the dwarves are obsessed with the number seven?”

Bründir shrugs. Years of old stories came back, and they all featured the number prominently, but never as a unified symbol. "Dunno....it's always been there, but nobody really says why. It's like how some'o yer people knock a table fer luck. I'm sure it meant somethin' sometime, but now it's just habit. Funny ye mention it, though, 'cause I do remember a lot of sevens, now."

After the endless gloom and dangers of the Wentwood, the heavy, immutable strength of Karaz Kadrin is like a protective shield. Thurston immediately loosens the straps of his armour and sinks down with a relieved groan, fishing out a waterskin.

It's not long before a runner returns, accompanied by an older dwarf clad in heavy crimson robes edged with gold thread. His beard is neatly forked and adorned with silver clasps, and a signet ring heavy with gems weighs down his right hand. He bows formally.

"King Ungrim bids you welcome," he announces in a voice like gravel stirred by wind. "You are to be escorted to the Hearth of Ancestry, where guests of standing are received. There, you will take bread and salt in the king's name, and speak of your purpose in these halls."

At a subtle gesture, a squad of guards falls in around the Acharnost. Not hostile, but watchful as the company is led deeper into Karaz Kadrin.

They pass through more arched passages and vaulted halls so massive and intricate that they almost seem impossible, hewn from living rock by the labour of generations. Grand statues line the walls, many of ancient kings, heroes and even gods of the forge and mountain. Every surface bears carvings of knotwork, scenes of battles and the record of the hold’s long and storied past.

As the Acharnost walk, the smell of forges, molten metal and mountain herbs thickens, along with the warm tang of hearth fires. Distant laughter and the clink of tankards suggest life and bustle in other wings of the hold.

Finally, they approach the Hearth of Ancestry, which forms a circle dominated by a great central hearth around which massive iron cauldrons simmer and roast meats sizzle on spits. The walls gleam with mosaics of precious stones, telling the story of Karaz Kadrin's founding and triumphs.

Vark can’t help but lick his lips at the scent of roasting meat and ale. His manners prevent him from just running over and grabbing a plate, best wait for Bründir to take the lead. In the meantime the murals which decorate the Hearth catch his eye, particularly one that glitters with ruby red garnets and bloodstones. Absentmindedly he touches the spot where the runestone lies hidden in his pocket. Inspecting the mural closer he gasps as he realizes the figures in the mural appear to be orcish.

”Uhm, h-hi, excuse me,” he says to a pair of nearby dwarves enjoying the food and drink. “Could you tell me what this mural depicts?”

One of the dwarves in the hall is a broad-shouldered elder with an oaken tankard in one hand and grease on his braided moustache. He raises a bushy brow as he looks at Vark. His younger, sharper-eyed companion turns with a squint towards the mosaic in question.

"Hmph. That’d be the Red Tithe," the older dwarf grunts, wiping his hand on his beard and gesturing at the panel glittering with garnets, bloodstones and deep iron inlays. The scene depicts a gruesome tableau of orcish warbands storming the pass. However, strangely, the orcs are later shown kneeling, their arms laid down before the gates. In the foreground, a dwarven king accepts an iron box from the largest orc, who is shown with bound hands and a broken tusk. The box is inlaid with a single red gem. Next to it is another scene of dwarves counting the heads of dead orc chieftains stacked in macabre tribute.

"After the Grunhold fell, the orcs came not with war, but penance. Their warlord died tryin’ to take this pass, and the rest… well, they brought us heads. Blood for blood. Price o’ peace, you could say. They call it a tithe. We called it a warning."

"Some say the box held the warlord’s heart. Still beating," the younger dwarf adds with a wink, but there’s a chill in the jest.

“It’s a tale of pride, lad, and power," the elder dwarf reminds his companion with a frown of reproach. "Karaz Kadrin didn’t fall. We held and they knew better than to try again.” He leans back, eyeing Vark thoughtfully. "Why d’you ask? You recognise somethin’?"

“Oh, well, yes actually. It’s been so long since I’ve heard the tale I didn’t recognize it at first.” Vark goes quiet for a moment, eyes still fixed on the beautiful mosaic. He decides against sharing his people’s version of the story, not wanting to ruffle any beards in this place where he is a guest.

”The stuff about the heart is true. It was sealed by the tribe’s bone priests. I’d be surprised if it wasn’t still beating in there right now.” with this he flashes a toothy grin and returns the younger dwarf’s wink.

A hush settles over the Hearth of Ancestry as great stone doors at the far end of the hall rumble open on hidden hinges. The low murmur of conversation fades, tankards are set down and all eyes turn toward the grand archway. A deep horn note reverberates through the vaulted chamber, low and resonant like the heartbeat of the mountain.

Torchlight glints off of polished metal as King Ungrim 'Ironfist' Drakebeard, the drengi king of Karaz Kadrin strides into the hall. He is not a tall figure, but he walks with the weight of generations in his step. His beard is a rich braid of copper and silver, bound with golden clasps bearing the sigils of his ancestors. Upon his brow rests a heavy coronet of iron and gold, inset with a single brilliant diamond, its facets glittering like starlight caught in stone. A long crimson cloak trimmed with snow-ermine billows behind him as he moves, the only softness in his otherwise unyielding silhouette. At his side hangs a runed axe, its haft wrapped in aged leather and its head shaped like a cleft mountain.

The king’s expression is solemn, but not joyless. His sharp eyes scan the assembled company with calm certainty. As he reaches the centre of the Hearth, beneath the massive stone hearth fire, he raises a hand. A chorus of dwarves, positioned along the mosaic walls, strike their weapons to their shields in perfect rhythm in an ancient and thunderous salute. When the sound fades, King Ungrim speaks, his voice like gravel and thunder.

"Welcome, kin and honoured guests. My name is Ungrim, son of Durgan, son of Drogun, lord of House Drakebeard and king of Karaz Kadrin. Know that, in my hall, oaths are binding, words are weighed like gold and guests who sit by my hearth are under my protection. Now, speak your names and purpose, that this hall might know the truth of you."

Bründir felt like a dam fit to burst open like the entry gate. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of questions demanded answers. Some amounted to trivial blather, but others carried actual weight. Up to now, there were few places it felt safe to discuss the true nature of the Acharnost's mission. The king of Karaz Kadrin was surely one such audience, but now here, not with so many uninvolved ears.

Bründir stepped forward boldly, but his legs felt heavier with each approaching step. Careful to stay several paces away, Bründir crossed his arm onto his chest and bowed low, "King Ungrim, great lord, I am Bründir Halfshield, founder of m'clan-name, Lord o' Sheercleft by will of its people." He caught a few stray syllables of lazy country accent. It wouldn't do to sound so out of place, but it felt worse to fumble with correcting himself. "We are th' Acharnost, but I'll leave introductions of my friends fer to them. Simply said, we're all looking fer knowledge of histories and possibly some aid of yer great city."

Asking favors during introductions. Very bold, he thought...maybe too bold. The weight of his armour threatened to draw his shoulders down if hindsight embrassment didn't do it first. In defiance, he pulled himself up to show off his ancient arms, "A great request when we've barely met, I understand. But not one made lightly."

A whisper ripples amongst the gathered courtiers in reaction to Bründir's brazen display of his arsenal of relics and artifacts.

"Break bread, taste salt and drink in good faith," the king tells him in acknowledgement, gesturing to a long stone table laid with bread, salt and small silver cups filled with a strong, bitter spirit. Ungrim's eyes then fall on the other members of the Acharnost, waiting for each of them to also introduce themselves.

Xej steps forward next, perhaps Jex's lingering confidence, perhaps his own friendly and naive nature but he shows no signs of being intimidated or indeed any understanding of the weight and formality of the situation as he steps forward lightly with a friendly smile. A stark contrast to the silence in which he has travelled most of the journey, quietly sizing up how much trust he can place that his presence is valued over Jex.

"I am Xej, though any tales of our group may instead have spoken of Jex inhabiting this body. I would not have my reputation based on his. I am here only to accompany my friends, and to ensure the needs of the orphans of Sheercleft are heard alongside the tales of politics and glory." He gives a bow, the warm smile never leaving his face.

Aiden steps forward after Xej, bolstered on by his lack of self-awareness when it came to situations like this. "I am Aiden Olrikson, proud son of Eikthyrnir in the Norscan Sea," he says. The truth was more complicated, but it didn't feel like the time, nor the place for it. "Thank you for your hospitality...er...your majesty."

Vark steps up as well, joining his companions in bowing before the king. “Vark Galestone, your majesty. It’s an honor to be a guest in your great city.”

Valaith watches the scene with a stirring in her heart, this felt so much like home just... underground instead of on the top of a mountain pass. The rhythmic pounding of weapons on shields echoed like the dull thuds of her clan's drums. She steps forward, taking Rook in her hands and kneels before the King alongside her companions and lays her ancestral weapon in front of her between them. In spite of her attempts of deference, the differences in height still left Valaith looking eye to eye with King Ungrim. "Valaith of Clan Kalukavi, known by some as The Rimehand."

With a wide grin and a wink at a curious young dwarf peeking from behind a pillar, Thurston introduces himself loudly enough to draw a few chuckles. His manners are rough, but not disrespectful and a few old warriors seem to appreciate his forthrightness.

When all have spoken and shared bread, salt and drink, the king nods solemnly.

"You have honoured our ways. You are guests of Karaz Kadrin and no harm will come to you under my roof. Now, tell me more. What brings your company through the Wentwood and across the mountains?"

The fire crackles, the hall grows still and all eyes are on the Acharnost.

“Uhm w-well I can speak some to the knowledge we seek, your majesty. On our adventures we have come across bits of Arden’s ancient history and we wish to understand it better. A lot of what we’ve found has been… limited, in scope and in detail. We believe that your records are probably the best well-kept of anyone’s,” he says, hoping to endear the king with compliments. “I would love to be allowed to access your libraries, and maybe a guided tour around the city of any historical murals or monuments like these great works,” he gestures to the murals and mosaics which decorate the walls of the hall. “As much as I love pouring over tomes, it’s nice when the history is right in your face like this.” he adds with a chuckle.

Bründir gave a low bow to collect his next request, "We're traveling t'far off lands, an' we don'ave time t'waste with walkin'. We heard Karaz Kadrin has a teleportation circle. With yer blessin', we'd like t'use it. More'n that, I'm sorry but it'd be better if we had a more...private audience."

The dwarf looked about the open space at the various glances and stares. He tried to remain cordial instead of suspicious as his request might sound. "As my friend 'ere said, we've also got other matters we thought best fixed 'ere. Fer myself, I need t'find a clan or two in yer records. I've got no name t'give, but stories an' more like pieces of a puzzle." Bründir rests a hand on the hilt of Dumdrengi.

By the time light caught its blade, he realized his error and felt a dozen other blades and spears leveled towards him. He froze in place, slowly removing his fingers from their grip. His next words were slow and measured, "That was my fault. I do apologize. I got ahead of myself. If you please," Bründir points to his hilt, offering it to any of the royal guard that would take it from the scabbard. "It's called 'Dumdrengi'. It belonged to King Erik Spangelhelm. I assume you know the name? It was my father's, least that's what my ma always said."