After the aboveground, more pompous ceremony,Buri Bizidurum descended silently the staircase dug into the bowel of the earth, leaving well above the noise of the mourning bells that had rung since the pyrrhicly victorious company reached the Water Mill tower of Muin's keep. His mind, frozen at the memory of the view of the boats slowly crossing Kalerodom lake, blowing their horns as they rowed towards the castle had been struck with a meancholic mood. He had been waking between reality and the images of the robust and stoic looks of Master Muin, to wohom he was aways indebted, and the many high and lesser lords that were taken away in the Western Pass. Drawn into day-dreamingness until the same day that the hosts of Muin sons arrived to the castle, now his presence was required to direct the burial. Only him, as the High Runesmith and few others could lead the woeful sons into the hidden crypt.

They stopped by a cliff, and the roaring sound of an underground river woke him up from his reverie. Silently, he leaded the crossing of a narrow bridgeleading into the darkmost chamber. He knew well this room, as he had devoutedly carved the lore of the humble House of Muin since his Lord felt the death chill menace calling him to order his burial place. The room would have been barely been big enough to host the former court of the Valley, but in it dismished state, all the rich works of engravement and the scripted walls were as if the painful feeling of void that grew in the hearts of the Valley was incarnated in the very meaningless ostentation. Ah, Buri, who had dedicated his life to the craft of words, runes and tradition, always with an eye on the past and other on the future, felt the very stab of the emptiness of death, the fear of disintegration, the utter unknown, as a proof of the vanity of all the work of the dwarven kind.

Even the screaming river shouted when the room was closed after the coffin was laid in the burial hole. Not a coffin of gold or silver, no colorful gems or priceless crafts, only a living-rock, carved out as the serene and clear-seeing face of Master Muin. The clasp of the axes, swords, rings, chainmai and clothes he wore being laid below the sarcophagus accompanied the sacred choirs that were sung. In singing toghether, a brief peace and fraternity had settled in everyones souls. At the light of the richly worked weapons, greed and the major passions and ambitions were lit again in the hearts of his young sons. Muri could read that, in the rune oracles, and in the faces of the sons, that the fate of the Valley was doomed. But Master Muin was ever-wise and had prepared for this ocasion. Cutting the cold silence, Buri stepped into the center and drew a tablet:

- Long we mourn you now Master Muin. Here, in the heart of stone from which you came you may rest now. I will now read your last will to your alliegates, Lord and Master of this Valley - he cleared his voice and resumed thunderousy-

For the hour I will be gone,
shall my advice weight on my Sons
and shall these mountains be my final home
For a Dwarf does work the decaying wood,
yet his flowers and fruits feed us in this world
and we do not sharp the metal axe
as for hunger it is blunted the sword.
When the dwarf dies and the mountain rest
what good was it to greed beyond?
When with envy rumours are sown,
is not the folly of a kin against his own?
For many are the Sons of Dwarf,
And mine are those who understand,
that the jewell is precious after being worked.
What wisdom is to split ahalf?
The broken shards will not stand,
unless from them the mighty hammer is forged.
Flee quarrel and seek the Brother,
Fear the Gods and build further.
The Key of the Keep for only one,
so for all the Valley will...

A bitter weep interrumpted the recitation: Yulna, wife to Muin, fell to her knees and growled:
- Not the key will my firstborn receive. Where was him at the fall of his Master? Mother of a pack, they will call me, for I did not raise dwarves of high birth but the lowest wolves of evil thirst. Seven times you be cursed, and I will not give away the Key of the Home of the Valley, no one here is worth to step through the godly gates of Muin.

Swifly, she left the room and her steps were muffled amidst the discomposure and disputes...

'And we love you too, mother.' Thought Hornfel as he slowly pinched the gap between his eyebrows. He wanted to say how mother was merely in grief and surely would come to her senses in a few weeks but, knowing the stubbornness of the dwarves it was doubtful neither his brothers would calm down or their mother change her mind. No, the only way to calm things down was to form a slab of granite with enough of his brothers that they could convince the rest to regroup around... around whom? The obvious choice was Dourhorn, the first born, but he had just been specifically disowned by the mother of them all (And really, did he want Dourhorn as Lord-Master?). But then... who?

Someone who didn't mind trade so Hornfel may continue to earn his coins, one who didn't mind outsiders for he may continue to drink with his fellow adventurers, one who didn't force him to battle or to church so he might continue to drink without worry. But lets face it, no one in this room filled these criteria. Hornfel sighed on his island of solitude in the middle of the conflict. No one but him. Eh, the thought was laughable almost, his eldests recognize him as their Lord-Master.

Right now, it was.

But obviously this situation probably wouldn't resolve itself today. Taking a moment to think about this furthermore, Hornfel moved his perspective to that of an outsider, trying to ignore how he was right in the thick of all of this and think of how a merchant would walk out of this with more in his pocket than when he entered. Suddenly the obvious thing to do became clear as daylight. As things began to heat up even more, Hornfel spoke.

"Dourhorn."

He raised his voice, so all in the hall might hear him.

"Dourhorn, the first son, is the rightful heir as it is written in stone! And I shall be at his side!"

With a brisk pace, Hornfel walked to his eldest brother and placed a firm hand on his shoulder, locking eyes with him for a moment before nodding to him. Hornfel turned to his kinsmen. "And no matter your arguments so should you!"

To be fair, that was debatable. But the way Hornfel saw it, if anyone was to walk out with the title of Lord-Master here, it was Dourhorn. In one scenario people were rallied by this and they could all end this feuding before it comes to, plus, as an added bonus, being the first to support him Hornfel could hopefully stand tall in Dourhorn's eyes and maybe insure some kindness in return, and maybe some trust when the time where Hornfel would have to look at Dourhorn in the eyes and say that he understood traditions and its importance. If that didn't work... well, the gesture certainly would place him on Dourhorn's good side and make him maybe willing to work out a compromise.

A compromise that could very well be named Lord-Master Hornfel.

"No!"

Leth, Murins Grandson, had held himself in the background, yet now he stepped forward. His hair was still in a deep red, and his eyes were young and filled with fire. Dwarfs lived far longer then men, almost as long as elves, and in the eyes of his uncles Leth might be barley considered an adult at all. Yet little did he cared for their opinion in that matter. He had been called out warden by his rangers, and Murin had accepted him in this Rank.

"I have been in this halls many times before! For my father lies not far from here! He died the same way, my beloved Grandfather Murin did! Killed by the wicked Goblins!"

He slowly stepped towards the grave, resting his hand on it, before turning back around, a flash of fury in his eyes, as he focused on Dourhorn. Taking another breath, he could feel how is palms shivered, as he knew that there was no going back. This was a final decision, and he had to live with the consequences that would follow. He had considered to simply remain a dutiful warden, and keep himself out of the conflict that seemed inevitable. But inside him was a desire for more, then just to content with what he had. He owned it to himself, and to this wife to strive for more! And he owned it to the valley, to save it from the clutches of an incapable cripple.

"My Grandmother called us a pack, so be it! Dourhorn, i call you the runt of it! The Clan of Longstrider will never bow to your will, Cripple!"

Leth step were slow, yet he moved towards his oldest uncle, his eyes narrowed. "For when my father died i descended into the darkness, swearing not to return until i had wiped out the beasts that had killed my father! And so i did..." He stepped closer and his face was only a few inches away of Dourhorn. Leth would not blink, nor flinch, as the next words were only whispered. His eyes had a sudden coldness, just as cold as the winter of the valley. "So where is your armor, where is your shield and where is your axe? Or do you want to read goblins to death?"

Leth eyes moved towards Hornfel, and a displeased look moved into them. He hadnt expect him to declare himself so soon, but he would need to react to his declaration. "I respect you, uncle! And i hold your words in high regard! But you are making a mistake! The Runt is not fit to lead! That you support him speaks for your honor, and your regard to our traditions of inheritance, yet..." Leth slowly stepped away from Dourhorn, yet kept him faced. "...i will rather shave my beard, bury my axe and live with humans, then to have Dourhorn as our leader! For he will never achieve justice for my grandfather!"

With that said, he turned around, facing his uncle Agrim. From all the dwarfs in this room, he had the highest hopes for his support. Knowing him to be a warrior like himself, he also counted on his bound to his father. If there was one dwarf in his room, that Leth could see ruling the Valley, other then him, then it was his uncle. "The Clan of Longstrider, Warden of the Valley, declares its support for the second born of Murin, or his rightful heir! Uncle, who was the first to see the light of this world! You, or my father?"

Muin Dourhorn, first son of Muin, and heir to Muin's Valley, followed Buri Bizidurum with a bowed head. His face solemn beneath his brown beard, Dourhorn wouldn't even let himself wince as pain from the long walk began to shoot up his right leg, leaving his features still as stone. His cane left within the keep among his attendants, Dourhorn had vowed to make this walk upon his own legs. The pain that drove up from his ankle and cut like a knife into his thigh was little when compared to the crushing loss of losing his father.

Limping into the burial chamber, Dourhorn took up position across from Buri the Runemaster, his head lowered in prayer as his father's incantation began. His eyes closed, Dourhorn could hear his father's voice in his head, as if he himself spoke the words from beyond the mortal world. Each verse stirred deep within him, resonating out some transcendent power. The pain in his leg ebbed and the Dwarf had the sensation of being outside himself. As the final verse was being spoken, a shriek silenced Buri and Dourhorn opened his eyes to see his mother stricken mad with grief.

"Not the key will my firstborn receive. Where was him at the fall of his Master? Mother of a pack, they will call me, for I did not raise dwarves of high birth but the lowest wolves of evil thirst. Seven times you be cursed, and I will not give away the Key of the Home of the Valley, no one here is worth to step through the godly gates of Muin."

Dourhorn brought his left hand to his chest as if he was struck. Yulna had broke the incantation, defiled it with a curse. The mourning, pitiful Dwarf slunk from the light of the braziers and disappeared into the shadows.

The chamber was silent for what seemed an eternity, their grief replaced by shock. It was Hornfel that broke the silence. To Dourhorn's surprise, his younger brother rushed to his side, proclaiming his support. Leth, Dourhorn's nephew and son of fallen Ragnar, was quick to object.

Dourhorn met the young Dwarf's gaze as he stepped before him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of shrinking away. The young Dwarf was strong, he didn't doubt it, and he was acutely aware of how easily the lad could snap his neck if caught in his grasp. Petulance flew from Leth's mouth as he openly mocked Dourhorn. Once he fished for the support of Agrim, proclaiming beyond doubt that his clan would bow to no one save himself or Agrim, Dourhorn seized the momentary silence to speak his case.

Taking a step forward with his good foot, Dourhorn spoke in his usual low tone, a deep and powerful voice that belied the broken Dwarf from which it uttered. "Impudent welp," He said flatly with measured disdain. "Our dear mother, mad with grief has broken the incantation. I can forgive her for her scornful words, but what excuse can you give, Leth, for furthering this blasphemy other then to sate your own ambitions!"

Turning to face his brothers, Dourhorn's deep voice echoed across the walls of the chamber. "Is this to be the future of our father's valley? To be led by reckless arrogance? Ever and anon I advised constraint. Urged our lord-father to exercise caution when faced with the threats against the valley. If only he had heeded my advice, and not gone chasing the fancies of our youth, clinging to the notions of victories worthy of song!

"Nay, brothers, this ill fate was sewn long ago. Never again will the Dwarves of Muin Valley charge heedless into the fray! We have lost too much to walk this perilous course. We must have our wits about us, for it is our wits that make us Dwarves! Abandon that and you are left with but an axe to swing blindly.

"Our father's word is clear. Divide and be cursed. Only together can we ensure the safety and prosperity of the valley. Rule is mine by right. Swear to me, brothers, and together we will brave the darkness, and by the light of knowledge and the Gods, we will prevail."

The crypt of the keep. Whenever Agrim had heard other dwarves speak of their family burial chambers they always sounded like great, sprawling catacombs, with runes and depictions of the family history etched into every wall. He'd even seen one when he was serving in the halls of Clan Azul. He hadn't gotten much of a chance to appreciate the architecture with all the manic goblins running about the place but he remembered what it felt to get lost in those winding halls. Looking at their little chamber here in the home valley reminded him of just how young their clans were, how recent Father's rise to the nobility had been. As dark as the past few days had been Agrim couldn't help but muster a bittersweet smile under his beard.

'I get it now, old man, I get it.' He thought to himself. Agrim and his father had butted heads plenty of times during his youth, parting ways with hot heads and harsh words. But you had to let that kind of thing go eventually. The dark haired dwarf had always thought of talk of 'being the bigger man' and all that as cowards talk, the last refuge of the loser's denial as they tried to save face and pride. War had changed that. Watching young lads die leagues away from home, calling for mother or a warm hand to hold as they passed through death's door.

The scar in his side, hidden beneath layers of thick wool and leather itched as he recalled his own brush with the death god's fold. A Thing like that put things into perspective in a big way. A pity it took him so long and needed such harsh methods to learn it. At least they'd had some better times when he got back, however short they were. At least he could look at his cal with pride and think that the future would see them grow stronger from the foundations his father had laid.

Mother of a pack, they will call me, for I did not raise dwarves of high birth but the lowest wolves of evil thirst.

Or maybe not.

The old sage's words came as a shock to all of them, sending a bristling shock through the gathered family. Agrim had always just assumed that Dourhorn would inherit the title of the lord of the valley, it was the assumed thing for all their lives! But this, to deny him and not leave another heir in his place... to leave the valley leaderless and undermine all the work so many of his brothers had dedicated their lives to. What madness had overtaken his father in his final days that none of them had seen?

Or was this their mother's doing? They'd never been overly close and father's death had hit her harder than any of them but to practically disown her own children was something deeper than a moment of grief fueled madness. Agrim was shaking off the initial surprise of it all and was considering going after her when that thought was cut short. The battle lines were already being drawn.

It was surprising to hear Hornfel announce for their elder given how rocky the two of them had been with each other in the past but at least the little wanderer could see past personal disputes in the name of the families unity. Which just made what Leth had to say knock Agrim for an even bigger loop.

If Dourhorn was being passed over then that would make the second born the next logical choice, just as the lad said. That could make Agrim the rightful lord! No one knew which of the twins had entered the world first, they came into it hand in hand, too similar to truly tell apart until their colours had started to show. Even Leth was asking for his word... if Agrim wanted he could stake his claim. Longstrider might support him, he had name and a circle to call on, funds of his own. He could make a grab for the power, the wealth. The lust for treasure that lived in the hearts of all his kind lit up behind Agrim's eyes, memories of the grand halls he'd seen in his time at war flooded back, this time with his own clan's blue hanging from their halls. IT could be so easy, he had some of the best warriors in the valley and far more that Dourhorn. Blazing hell if Leth jumped in they could just force the claim on his brothers right now...

'What are you thinking, you mad old git!' Agrim chided himself. He wasn't some wastrel of a thug any more! He'd seen too much blood to think of spilling it so idly. He'd sworn to Fia and the gods he'd be a better than that. No he wouldn't damn his name and soul by turning on kin for such selfish gains.

Yet as he was left in thought voiced were still being raised and Agrim worried in his brooding that this tomb would find itself needing another coffin all too soon.

"We've cursed over Pa's body long enough." Agrim growled. "We're all of us black in mood and hot in blood. Buri hasn't even finished his words yet and already folk are fighting for the will. I say we let the runesmith finish the wrights and each say our goodbyes, kinsmen. Let each mourn and we can gather again the next day to talk about matters of the valley with clearer heads." Damn but Agrim was no diplomat or wordsmith, he could only hope he might have calmed the chamber.

Muin Bladeborn, fourthborn son of the fallen dwarven lord, did naught but seethe in silence as his brothers and extended kin bickered among themselves. Standing at breastheight to a human, Bladeborn stood a full head and shoulders above the average dwarven specimen. Under his contemptuous glaze, the case for Dourhorn and Agrim went on. The thought of such spineless whelps commanding the valley made Bladeborn's stomach turn. Bladeborn would sooner throw his head against his own battleaxe than answer to that pathetic milksop Dourhorn. Agrim was no better of an alternative; he likened himself a warrior, but Bladeborn knew him to be a pretender. After all, where was Agrim when Lord Muin was slain?

Bladeborn was proud to say he was present with his father during that bloody final hour. He and his companion Captain Goutfoot were there in the western pass when the goblins ambushed. Bladeborn remembered as the pines and bushes erupted with a chittering horde of the wretched beasts. Bladeborn's aptly-named battleaxe Shebalog split many goblin skulls that day. But despite the best efforts of Bladeborn and Goutfoot to send those vile savages back into the mountain crags from whence they came, the battle's aftermath was tragic indeed for the dwarves. Bladeborn and Goutfoot were among the lucky few to leave the pass with their lives, though Goutfoot's grievous hatchet wound to the thigh prevented him from joining the mourning procession. A blood-encrusted wrap covering the arrow wound on his right shoulder gave proof of Bladeborn's own participation in that battle.

So what did any of this pathetic lot know of the valley's enemies? How could Dourhorn - who was barely strong enough to walk to the privy before soiling himself - call himself the rightful heir to the valley? It was all Bladeborn could do to keep himself quiet. The entire affair was enough to make his blood boil. His fists clenched at his side, the knuckles going white as his fists quivered in anger. A mad idea crossed his mind. Bladeborn imagined himself drawing Shebalog from her straps on his back and cleaving his witless brothers in twain right at the foot of their father's sarcophagus. Mother, a mindless harpy though she may be, could not deny Bladeborn the valley's lordship if all the other heirs were dead.

A cold, clammy hand held Bladeborn's quivering fist fast. Bladeborn's macabre delusions were squelched as he felt a bony, withered palm press against his fist.
"Be calm, child," whispered the ancient dwarf standing beside him.

“Leave me be, Greyspine,” Bladeborn snarled, recognizing this dwarf as one of the late lord’s advisers. Fogrin Greyspine was old even by dwarven standards. He sported a long beard and a mane of gray hair pulled taut into a braided bun on the back of his head, and wore a simple robe of dark blue wool. “You have no business speaking with me.”

“On the contrary, I have every reason to speak with you.” Greyspine said softly, not that any of the other mourners were paying Bladeborn and Grayspine much attention what with the arguments going on amongst themselves. “I am but an old dwarf sworn in allegiance to Lord Master Muin. But now my lord has passed, and I find myself without a master to serve.”

“What matter does that make?” Bladeborn growled.

“For a young dwarf, it means little. A warrior, engineer, or mason can find service under any of the numerous lords of the dwarves. But the realms of our people are distant, and scattered far and wide. Even for able dwarves, the journey from one dwarven realm to another can be arduous. And I am an old dwarf – too old now to travel to find a new master to serve.”

“Clan Hoarfrost has not the gold nor the patience to care for an aging dwarf. You are not a warrior nor a stonecarver, and I doubt you are even strong enough to swing a pick in the mines. I have no place for you.”

“Make no mistake, Son of Muin, I am skilled in a valuable trade to be sure. My advanced age does not hinder my ability to practice my craft in the least. Just as a miner claws precious gold and silver from the Earth, I scour the realms for knowledge worth more than any jewel or nugget. Knowledge you will need in spades if you have any hope of commanding this realm.”

“I never claimed to desire the lordship of the valley.”

“Not with words,” Greyspine contested. “But the look of an ambitious dwarf is not difficult to spot. And I see not only ambition in your face, but hunger. You want this lordship more than anything, but you lack the intellect to make your desire a reality.

You need me and I need you.”

Bladeborn stood in contemplative silence for a moment, listening to his brothers and kin argue.

“What shall I do about them?” Bladeborn asked, nodding to his family gathered around the grave.

“Say nothing,” said Greyspine. “Let your siblings put daggers to their own throats. Nothing you say here will put you any closer to lordship of this valley. You will only make enemies here. And you must choose your enemies and allies very carefully. There is nothing for you here. Allow me to ride with you back to Troutglen, and I will help you plan your next moves.”

Bladeborn gave a nod of agreement. And with that, he turned away from the bickering relatives. Without a word, Bladeborn and his new spymaster crossed over the bridge and ascended from the crypt.

“Enough!” a leathery voice boomed. Karolus stepped out from the shadows of the cavern, his face grim. “Listen to Agrim, you fools. Will you blacken your father’s memory by arguing over his body? I would like to see my cousin and friend laid down without this dirge! This is a matter to be resolved later.”

Karolus turned a disapproving gaze to the youngest among them and said, “Know your place, boy. You shame your uncle with your words. And your grandfather with your impudence! Show your elders proper regard.”

“Dourhorn, you are the eldest.” Karolus raised a finger towards the frail dwarf. “The wishes of your father are uncertain, but for the time being, it is your duty to hold your kin together until this matter is sorted - as if you were to be king. Command your brothers’ obedience.”

The old dwarf nodded to Buri to continue. The altercations were not entirely what he was expecting, but they did not surprise him either. Hurin’s kin had always been an eclectic mix, and their rivalry only grew with their age. He wouldn’t suffer himself to babysit them, however. By traditional law, succession should fall to Dourhorn. That meant it was his responsibility to hold their reins.

Heavy rain broke against the incomplete fortifications of Muin's keep. That very week many of the scaffolds, unatended for too long, fell into the mud of the streets below. Few people remained in Muin's Keep, but those engaged in offial tasks as keeping the archives, the treasure and the prayers and offerings, and few lost souls who did not understand that decadence had closed upon the castle. And among those who stayed, some deep pain, foolishness or melancholy had sprouted in their before rock hard hearts.

In the Watermill Tower, peeking above Kalerodom lake, Yulna, the Wolf-Lady as some both mockingly and seriously started to call her, had secluded herself in the high Watermill Tower and let the city be ruled by the carrion-like nobles that had stayed. In her mind, she waited her sons, whom she had cast away, to apologize, to love her back, to surrender to her insane impositions, and to be tangled in never ending disputes to torment them. And so, she watched everyday, expecting to see a boat, across the misty lake, bringing back home her Muin and his gorious expedition. Alone, in her tower, watter was slowly dripping. Maybe the repetitive dripping kept her awake and wore off the sadness and despair that assailed her.

In her pain, she had called for the adivines, who read the old runes, the bones and their marrow, the guts and the odd gems. She could not bear the parting of her Master, and she had let in the underground halls, before filled with nobility and joy, all kind of sorcerers and charlatans, who managed to slip out the treasures and rich works of Muin before the madly blinded eyes of the Lady. Meanwhile, the unlaborious dwellers of the keep, thrown into orgy and indulgence kept consuming the ale, wines, and stored foods until nothing was left. And after nothign was left, the charitable and unnoticed help of the now distanced Clans of the Sons of Muin, provided, even just for charity, to feed this folly.

And so, the castle run unstopably into ruin and degeneration. And so into corruption was driven the mind of Yulna, by the sweet-words of those beguiling dwarves who promised her to see Muin again in life. Into the sacred burial vault she drove these dwarves of witchcraft all impure rituals were conducted, also in the tombs of the other dwarves fallen in the West Pass. Soon, the underground halls, for a while silent since the departure of their Lord, were filled with sounds again. But not the noise of noble craft or the art of arms, not the heart-lifting drums and the long-remembered songs of glory, but whispers of dark spectres and consumed sanity.

Buri Bizidurum, as old as he was,now looked perpetuosly fatigated since the recent events. His beard had become sparse, his teeth weakly falling, his ears barely being able to listen to his apprentices. He wished he could sweep out all the scum and parasytes that had took home in these halls, but he had not anymore the strenght to do it. Oh, how much he missed his Lord, and his youth times when he could have spoke into reason the most fool drunkard. But, ah, he was done, and he had settled to remain loyal to his Lord and his Castle, to sink with it if it was necessary.
Important news had arrived, and he knew that Lady Yulna may not listen to any other than him, if anyone. Decided but hopeless, he slowly climbed up the stair steps, and knocked the door. No answer came from Lady Yulna, as he expected. He went on:

- My Lady, there are important errands - he paused, maybe to listen an answer - My Lady, please. Your Son Orin has not sent us manutenance since last spring. Remember, I told My lady that he had rallied all the brothers and villages of the Valley no to provide us either. He has secluded himself in his Mountain - more agitated, he knocked the door - Mylady open the eyes! Please see that this mistrust will contagiate to the Sons. Send a letter to Karolus... he has proved a friend of the House now and always. I have written one, and with your consent My Lady... the is no need to let Valley fall - he heard steps from below the tower and agitation took control of elder Buri - With tears My Lady, I oathed to protect these Halls. Heed my advise, we will not survive the winter like this. Please My Lady...

- Master Bizidurum, your head always in the fairy tales of old, as old as you are - a creaking voice answered- You want me to open my eyes into reason, or rather give the Keep, to one of the rats that call themselves Sons of Muin. Well, if betrayal is what you seeked, now openly go to your new Master. Go and shame further the House you always greeded to rule. Have not I seen that in your eyes, that has been seen by the Loremasters? They have clearly unveiled your lies and those of the priests, of my Sons. Be gone Master Bizidurum, and do not return to this halls ever.

The steps were louder and louder. Where should this old man go now? As he waited to be taken away by the ravenous bullies of Yulna, he undressed himself from every symbol of his status, ready to be humbled and without a home, as he came to the world. He knew he would not make it past the winter, as the the Keep, as the Sons. His time was gone, he accepted deep in his heart, without complaints, without remorse,but he could not give up for the Valley.When would the srping of this Valley come again?

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________


- Clan Orin has withdrawn into their Mountain and closed from every contact with the outside world since last spring. The Mountain lies as silent as Lord Orin, son of Muin, about the future King of the Valley. Out of curiosity, mercy, friendship or politics, contact should be retaken.
- In the woods laying below the peaks in the northern shore of the lake, northwest of the lands of Clan Brightshield, several hunters and dwarfs have gone missing.
- The road surrounding the southern contour of Kalerodom lake is intransitable: aside from several fallen trees and landslided ways, some unloyal dwarves, fleeing from Muin's keep with stolen weapons have been assaulting the traders and travelers in the way.
- A caravan has arrived to the southern pass, and it is rumoured that the famous skald Zigild Seventeeth comes along a most extravagant company of Dwarves from far Kingdoms.

Autumn. One year and a half after Master Muin death.
Leth Longstrider never waited for the first light of the day to wake him. His dreams mostly woke him far earlier, and rather then staying in his bed, near the warmth of his wife, Longstrider would slowly climb out of it, to start his day.
Today was one of these days! He heared the soft breath of Xara next to him, and turned around, to watch her for a moment. Her skin had a darker tone then the dwarfs of these lands, and her slim body gently lifted up and down with her breath. Once more, he couldnt stop the smile on his lips, as he looked at the bulge that formed under the wool sheet. "My child.." Soon, the first of blood would be set foot into this valley, and become a ranger, just like he was! But then Leth turned away from his sleeping wife, and climbed out of the bed, picking up his cloak and wrapping it around his body. It was already freezing, and if the knife-ears outside the valley were right, this winter would be a cold one. "Never trust a bloody knife-ear!"

His steps carried him away from the bed, past the fireplace and out of his personal quarters. Since his marriage, it had turned from a barren and simple room, into a warm, decorated place, and a true home to return to! Once more, he recalled his fathers words, as he made his way to the great hall. "One a woman can turn a hall into a home." The way had been carved into the stone, and even the inner sanctum of it, was densely used. As he came past the guards of the great hall, both raised their heads, and smashed their fists against their chests. "The first Watch, stands attention, Warden of the Valley!" With a simply nod, Leth showed his approval, and pushed the door open. Making his way to the high table, he found the hall mostly empty, except for another figure at the high table.

Kregoc Irontooth already was at his breakfast, and was ditching a pieces of bread into a bowl of bashed eggs, before he raised his head. "Lord Master!" His long black beard had long been the envy of many, but after losing all his theef to an orc fist, and replacing them with iron casts, it had become his new signature. "Lord Master of a single clan! Beside, my uncle still remains silent over the matter of the firstborn...Warden for them, Leth for you!"
Kregoc didnt seem quite entusiastic about this, and simply picked up a roll of paper, before laying it on the table. While Leth was taking it, he loudly slurped down the egg-bread creation, while the warden began to read.

Leths eyes narrowed as there still were no news about what had happened to Clan Orin, yet he pushed the thought aside. For the moment it wasnt his concern, and he never had liked Orin that much, so he would cry no tear after him if he should have simply left the valley.
It were the news of the missing Hunters that caught his attention. Using one hand to fill a horn with some breakfast Ale, he pointed at this sentence of the reports, and looked at Kregoc. The Dwarf with the Iron Teeth simply let out a burp, before cleaning his mouth with his arm. "Thats all we know about! Green boys who made that report, so they were clever enough to simply return and tell about it!"
Leth took a deep sip of the Ale, before scratching his nose. "Send a Patrol! Its the duty of the Rangers to clean such dangers out, if it turns out as one! Wouldnt be the first time, that a few hunters simply turned poachers! To the next point..." His face turned grim, as he read the part once more. "Traitors! Stealing my grandfathers arms, and turning bandits! Be ready for any calls of aid, we will respond with a fitting force, and make an example out of them!"
Kregoc chuckled, as he filled his own horn. "The hammers of this hold will rejoice! Has been quite a while since he had the pleasure!"

The last point seemed quite unimportant at first, but it slowly took his notice more and more. Xara had a refined taste, and longed for the luxuries of her youth. The clan of Longstrider never was rich in gold, but the smile on her face, would be more then worth it in Leths eyes. "Make sure that one patrol comes pass them i...." He took a deep breath, as he emptied his horn. "Scratch the Patrol! Wake Brodic and Trakec! We leave at Noon! I will take care of these vanished Hunters myself!" If he ever wanted to become the Lord Master of the Valley, he would need the loyalty of all clans! And for that, they would need to know, who would protect them.

The dinner banquet at Bladeborn’s Keep was coming to a close at long last. An iron cauldron brimming with mutton stew had been nearly drained by Muin Bladeborn and his court of voracious dwarves. Platters that had been neatly arranged with sorghum-roasted acorn squash, sautéed fennel and skirret, and braids of sweet-smelling cardamom bread were now strewn across the long dining table in utter disarray. The dwarves were renowned across the realms for their insatiable appetites and the court of Muin Bladeborn was no exception to that rule. But for the time being, the Hoarfrost dwarves seemed to have eaten their fill. One of the cook’s maidens went around the table to collect the plates and bowls from the diners.

“Have you any dessert made up, lass?” Dolmur Goutfoot – captain of Clan Hoarfrost’s dwarves-at-arms and perhaps the most voracious eater in the entire valley – asked, sopping up the remaining stew from his bowl with a handful of bread as the maiden retrieved his bowl.

“Dessert!?” She repeated incredulously. “Where do you put it all, Captain? By the Gods, one could spend all the riches of Malzhador feeding you. And you would still be liable to ask for seconds!”

“The girl raises a valid point. I will confess that I enjoy these banquets as much as Captain Goutfoot. But as frequently as we have them, they are becoming rather expensive,” Velmor Cragbuckle chimed in.

“They are a justified expense,” Fogrin Greyspine said over the Captain’s incomprehensible grumbling. “In my experience, the dinner table is a more agreeable meeting place than the court. We are all in better spirits after a good meal, and more inclined to agree with one another.

“Any thoughts on the matter, Master Bladeborn?” Cragbuckle asked across the table. Seated at the head of the table before the roaring fireplace at the far end of the dining hall, Bladeborn took a hearty swig from his ale horn and shook his head in disagreement.

“I had a feeling that would be an unpopular idea,” Cragbuckle sighed.

“Well then,” Greyspine began, allowing the cook’s maiden to clear the plates in front of him before he spoke up again, “I have heard that we have a foreign visitor in the valley; a dwarf of distinction from the old realms. They say he is Zigild Seventeeth.”

“I have never heard of him,” Bladeborn said dismissively. “What is his business in the Valley of Muin?”

“Nobody seems to know, Master Bladeborn. I have heard of him previously, and if memory serves correctly, Seventeeth is a bard or loremaster of some sort. What I do know is that he is joined by a caravan of great opulence and splendor. He has wealthy dwarves in his company. Nobledwarves or merchants, perhaps,” Greyspine reported.

“Suspicious timing if you ask me,” Goutfoot concluded. “The Lord Master dies without naming an heir and now moneyed dwarves are making their way to the valley with a loremaster to boot. This has all the earmarks of a fabricated claim of inheritance if you ask me.”

“I don’t find that particularly likely, Captain. Even if that was their intent, none of the clans would ever stand for it.”

“Keep an eye on them in any case,” Bladeborn ordered. “We have enough pretenders to my father’s throne as it currently stands. The last thing I need is a band of foreign charlatans trying to cheat me out of my birthright.”

“Seventeeth’s entourage may not be here to fabricate a claim over the entire valley. Perhaps they wish to issue a claim over a small portion of the valley.” Goutfoot added.

“How do you mean?” Greyspine asked.

“It has been well over a year since anyone has heard from Muin Orin, and I can’t recall the last time anyone returned from High Mountain Keep.”

“Indeed,” Cragbuckle added. “The couriers responsible for delivering an invoice I sent to Clan Orin could not gain passage into the Keep. The drawbridge is pulled shut, and the couriers reported that they could not see any guards across the chasm. They camped outside the drawbridge for three nights before giving up and returning home.”

“Something awful has likely befallen Orin and his kin. Perhaps these foreigners assume the worst as well, and have come to exercise their right to the Orin holdings.”

“Preposterous,” Greyspine dismissed. “Firstly, Muin Orin has no kin outside the valley. Secondly, fabricating a claim is a costly and timely endeavor. No one with the time and money to dedicate to fabricating a claim is going to waste their efforts on Clan Orin.”

“Does anyone have any idea what may have become of Orin and his folk?” Cragbuckle asked of Greyspine. “Is there any clue as to what happened?”

“Nothing is known, but it is safe to assume the worst.”

“Then why don’t we send a party to ascertain the fate of Orin and his clan?”

“I will not give any such endeavor my blessing,” Bladeborn snarled. “I have no love for my brother Orin, and I have no desire to ever hear from him again. Whatever happened to him is no concern of mine; let him rot in his mountain.” The dwarves exchanged uncomfortable glances upon hearing their master’s cold-hearted outburst.

“My concern is not for your brother and his kin,” Cragbuckle added, breaking the uncomfortable silence at last. “But High Mountain Keep had productive mines beneath the earth. I cannot help but imagine the coffers of Clan Orin. Piles of golden bullion sitting there in silent darkness, unguarded and ripe for the taking.”

“Unguarded by dwarves, perhaps. Make no mistake, something horrible almost certainly happened within that mountain. The miners may have struck a pocket of poisoned air, or their picks breached a pool of magma that engulfed their underground citadel. A pack of goblins may have found crags and caves that reached down into their mines, bypassing the keep’s defenses. For all we know, Cragbuckle, High Mountain Keep could be a goblin stronghold now.” Goutfoot explained.

“Master Bladeborn, we should send an armed expedition to High Mountain Keep to investigate the possibility of recovering some of Clan Orin’s wealth. Present it as an attempt to re-establish contact with High Mountain.”

“The other clans will never tolerate such an endeavor!” Goutfoot exclaimed. “If we had any genuine concern for Clan Orin, we should have tried to reach out to them a year ago. The clans will see this ‘expedition’ for what it truly is: grave robbery!”

“Perhaps not, so long as we present it correctly to a select few of the other clans… and offer a cut of the booty.” Greyspine suggested.

“Why should we share any bounty recovered from High Mountain?” Cragbuckle contested.

“High Mountain Keep is a redoubtable citadel, even without defenders.” Greyspine reminded. “If we have any hope of breaching the mountain’s stone gates, we will need many strong dwarves to punch through the walls.”

Bladeborn took one last gulp of his ale horn before speaking up again. The sound of the vessel slamming against the table commanded silence over the Hoarfrost court as readily a judge’s gavel. A dozen pairs of expectant eyes fell upon Master Bladeborn, waiting for his decision to be heard.

“Draft correspondence to Hornfel and Uncle Karolus. Let them know of my intention to send an expedition to High Mountain Keep to ascertain the fate of Orin, and that I would request some of their dwarves to accompany our party.”

“And what of the booty?” Greyspine asked.

“Make no mention of any of that.”

Without another word, Bladeborn pushed himself out of his seat and left his retinue to themselves.

"And it was then, as the orc chieftain was gloating about how he's slaughter Hornfel for minutes on end that I saw my friend just slap his face in boredom before charging with this axe! Even if he won, the orcs would have slaughtered us but the plan was to have our companion, an elf impossibly good with a bow begin to rain down arrows as soon as possible so the orcs thought this was an ambush by at least dozens of people. I thought this was crazy and I readied myself to fight to the death but I guess it made sense afterward when Hornfel told me 'If that elf is good enough to pull this off, then by the time I charged he had to be ready'. But that was after you see, at that moment I just saw Hornfel charge in, roll next to a tree-splitting sword chop before taking his axe like so..."

The visitors, enthralled by Vibrek's story watched him position himself with an invisible weapon at the center of the crowd and mimicking coming from a roll, swung it with visible force in a 315 degree axis. "...And chopped his leg, big as an oak trunk with these crude orcish plating, clean of! But then he continued his movement, like so, and landed another blow right in the middle of his chest. He spat on the now dead orc chieftain's face and looked up to the rest of them, about a hundred, and walked toward them with his axe, and I swear to Moradin, the look on their face as they all took a step back! Just said he was on a tight schedule and had to be at Caergoth, a big human city, before the new moon!"

'Ooooh's' and 'Aaaaaah's' followed Vibrek's stories, Hornfel had to admit that he had a knack for it, but he himself didn't care much about them, he, after all, had been there. It was the same thing for Yulia who sat a bit in retreat alongside him in the main salon. The room was hardly like most others in the valley for Hornfel had taken a liking for wood and for windows, something rare in most dwarven citadels. As such, his residency and main keep that had been built just above the main township of his clan, rather than being deep inside the Watching Mountain overlooking the pass, was built on it side with the first few levels being windowless and on top of that having a long walkway for the guards to patrol. Still on top, far away from the foul smell of the forges in the city, were balconies overlooking the pass, richly sculpted in the rock that hid windows with thick velvet curtain. Some would frown at this, doubting of the security of such an arrangement, but the glass windows and doors were laden with thick iron bars so no man may enter by infraction.

The inside was normally luminous but right now had only a massive fireplace and a few silver and crystal chandeliers providing. A more experienced eye would notice how the floor, which was in different shades of marbles to create a map of the known world, was arranged perfectly in relation to the sun that would shine from the west. All this stone and metal however came in contrast with the furnishing of the salon which was mostly made of mahogany and oak made comfortable by cushions, most of the cloth appearing in the place having mostly Burgundian red patterns on them. Overall, the place was a stange human and dwarvish hybrid showing some elvish elements. That and gnomish, as suggested the large metal 'things', steam heaters powered by a central boiler that made this place always comfortably warm in the winter.

"I have to say Master Hornfel, you have quite a few stories from your adventure! You should have come by the Old Mountains in your travel so I could have picked some of them up! They would have gone formidably with those of your brother Agrim" The voice of the Skald, Ziglid Seventeeth (Named after the Seventeeth of gold he now had to replace his real ones, lost to nature and nurture in his old age) brought him back from the thoughts of the lands far from the valley to the reality. Hornfel laughed abundantly as he raised his mug, half full with black ale to what had just been said, hiding rather well the bitterness that Ziglid's mention of Agrim had brought to him. Somehow however, Hornfel thought Ziglid had noticed. "I wish I did! But I always found it easier to quest with humans. They don't leave as long as us so they always have something that needs to be done for yesterday. Still, I'd be glad to hear a song about these stories if you think there's one to be made."

The old dwarf with his shining smile scratched his beard for a moment. "I wonder of you can make a rhyme with 'Orc leg'..." He was silent for a moment but ultimately shrugged. "But I think that will have to wait, I already promised you that I'll compose one about your departed father so I think I have my hands full at the moment, speaking of which..." Hornfel nodded at Ziglid without answering and snapped his fingers at a couple of servants waiting in front of the door to serve the guests anything they wanted, they left the room to fetch what Hornfel asked. "Of course, I haven't forgotten! I am just glad I could get a Skald as illustrious as you to come in our valley... even if it did take a year and a half for you to make place in your schedule." He said with a wink. It wasn't long until the servants came back with a small chest they placed on the table next to Hornfel and Yulia. Suddenly the room got very quiet as the Skald and his entourage showed bright smiles. Maybe he'll be Ziglid Heightteeth once he was done here. Hornfel opened the chest containing several bags of the same size and took one out to push it toward Ziglid. "A little more than we agreed to, but this is to cover the fees of your travel in the valley... but you know what?"

Having said that, Hornfel took a second bag and gave it to Ziglid with a smile, the Skald showing a bright smile at the generosity. "This is for you. I think its just a shame, you know? That the artists of our land are at the mercy of the moneymakers... Take this and treat yourself to something you really want to make." The eyes of the old dwarf gleamed with cunning and as the two looked at each other's eyes they knew exactly what this meant. "Thank you, Master Hornfel. I think I do have a dwarf in mind that deserves songs in his names. A great dwarf that explored the land questing for others and returning to his home to provide the help he could get to his family. Doesn't matter if everyone calls him lord master, he always corrects them to say-"

Hornfel interrupted him, Ziglid indeed knew this was a political plot: Hornfel had tasked him to visit each of the clans of the valley to tell them of Muin so he could record his Saga for all dwarves to hear but in doing so would also entertain with what happened to be the tales of 'the only dwarf from this valley he knew the tale of', which would conveniently be Hornfel, thus increasing his prestige as Ziglid would be glad to say he wasn't asked to do so with the 'generous donation' he had just received. But Ziglid lacked just a bit of understanding of his plan. "No, I do not correct them." There was a silence as Ziglid tried to figure out why saying he accepted the title would help him, it would just enrage his brothers no? "But I don't confirm it either. You see its the burden of the task, if the outsiders knew we still have no Lord-Master, they could get the wrong idea about the state of affairs in the valley. So to the outsiders I 'Play along', but only because I... because we need this." Ziglid couldn't help but have a small laugh now that he knew Hornfel's scheme. If Hornfel continued to deny the leadership he'd get in a position where people wouldn't even consider him for it. But the way he presented this... he wasn't taking the leadership, its just that aspects of it kept falling into his hands! Make him seem like the obvious choice but keep modesty as well... The old Skald showed his golden teeth and nodded in agreement.

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Hornfel sat in his enormous bed, getting more comfortable as he undid his leather boots, first with his hands but then loosing patience and finishing with his feet. Standing in the light of a single candle he took a deep breath. Soon after a pair of slender hands moved behind him on his shoulder to massage them, making him relax. Yulia had her ways. "It went well I think." She said and to this Hornfel closed his eyes and nodding while exhaling in satisfaction of the care she took of him again tonight. "Yes, Ziglid knows how this game is played. My brothers don't, they don't know the world like I do... well, maybe Orin does but..." But he had been silent for long. Too long. Of course Yulia knew this, he told her everything. "No matter. I might not have gained too much in the last year but my position is as strong as ever. After this winter, I think things will change a little." Yes, a long winter here with nothing to do but have fun with Yulia. It would be a welcome pause. He thought about everything he did for today and figured he hadn't forgotten anything.

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Outside, Vibrek had already left with his troops along with the Skald's host, departing for Muin's keep. The first destination as Ziglid decided to encounter Karolus first and with how dangerous the woods were, they'd need the escort. That was their official reason, but Vibrek knew there was more to this. Now that he was left alone, it was time to read the further details about this 'Orin expedition' Hornfel had told him about. He took out the letter and immediately frowned. The thing was written in Elvish, which might as well be the most perfect cypher in the valley since only he, Hornfel and Yulia knew how to read it.

Friend.

Along with this letter is an invitation from my brother Bladeborn to join a little expedition at High Mountain Peek to know the whereabouts of my brother Orin. I know my brother well and I know he wouldn't care about me or any other getting lost in the mountains, he'd probably enjoy seeing he has one less opponent to claim the Lordship. He hasn't presented his claim, but he didn't give his allegiance to anyone else either so I figure as much at least. No, if we follow this train of thought, he must care about something else and I have a fairly good idea what.

Now, he was probably expecting just a dozen warriors but I want you to go straight to High Mountain with your 160 dwarves to meet up with Orin's troops so he doesn't know about it. Once you're there your presence will be fait accomplie and we'll have a decisive advantage to salvage whatever is left of Orin's clan. I want you to do what you think is necessary to protect my interests.

With respect,
Hornfel.

PS, of Orin should be alive, just leave him be.

Ugh. 'Fait Accomplie'. Vibrek hated how Hornfel, being completely fluent in elvish, wrote expressions and sentences that only make sense to elves rather than have a direct translation in dwarvish. Still, he also hated his habit to leave him to do 'what he think is necessary'. It was just a fancy way of saying 'kill Bladeborn's men and seize the treasure if it is convenient to do so', but in a way that left him responsible and able to deny knowledge of this if it was discovered.

Vibrek had sworn when Muin died that he'd help Hornfel get what he wanted, being the muscle that did his dirty work and in exchange he'd get a clan of his own once Hornfel was Lord-Master. Through that last year, he had done a lot of dirty work for Hornfel but had been good enough not to leave any evidence... Still, he wanted to trust Hornfel but in the end there was always that doubt... after all, he inspired complete trust to his brothers but was still plotting in their back.

_______________________________________________

Dear Brother.

We have recently come under attack by several bandits at the south of the lake and it is doing harm to trade and the peasantry. I fear they are distraught peasants from Muin's keep that the current predicament in the valley has alienated from us. I suggest as much mercy as possible but still we cannot let them act in such criminal ways and they must be dealt with. Surely I can count on your help?

Your kin,
Hornfel.

To the regent of the Valley, Clan Chief Karolus.
My Friend.

Surely you have heard of the banditry problems we face in the south? I would like to pledge 40 good warriors as well as my sword-arm to solve the problem, although I would recommend if at all possible a more clement solution than to resolve to violence. I would request any reinforcement you may send.

With great hope,
Clan Chief Hornfel.

PS: You might have received a visitor in the form of Skald Ziglid Seventeeth, know that I have hired him to write a Saga about the life of my father, Lord-Master Muin, so he may be remembered across all the lands for all of eternity. He is peculiar but came highly recommended. Perhaps you could ask Master Buri to show him the crypt and tell him of the story as he has written it?

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TLDR;

-1: The Skald is a political agent, his official mission is to write the Saga of Muin and as such will travel all of the valley, starting with Karolus. While doing so however, he will do propaganda about Hornfel's bravery and greatness, telling how outside the valley he is known as an epic badass already.
-2: The Bladeborn request will be answered by sending all of the 150 warriors of the Vibrek company directly to Orin's keep, although the answer given by letter is just 'Yeah, I'll send a few people, good idea Bladeborn!'.
-3: Asked Clan Reverent, Longstrider and Karolus for help dealing with the bandits, didn't tell any of the clans I invited the others though.