Jocasta laughed and quickly covered her mouth with her hands. She had to admit that in his current state Beren looked like he had robbed several graves or was taking part in a poorly funded theatrical production about people who robbed graves. She crossed over to him in her own resplendent gown and began to stroke the front of his frock coat as though smoothing it, running her hands down over his chest.

“My clothes aren’t any better than yours,” she told him, despite the fact this was manifestly untrue. She moved around behind him and brushed dust from his pants, sneezing violently as she did so.



“All things, contain the seed of what they once were,” she told him as she ran her hands over his belt.

“Wha…” Beren asked, obviously taken aback by her strange behavior. Jocasta gently turned Beren to face mirror against the far wall. It was a lousy mirror and probably hadn’t been much better before it had been pulled from the house fire that had charred its frame and heated a long crack in the lower half of it, but it did the job. The clothing now looked brand new. The coat was no longer threadbare and shabby. Instead, gold thread had been woven through the taupe linen to give it a soft shimmer and the scuffed brass buttons shone as though freshly buffed. The cracks in the leather belt had vanished to be replaced with a soft sheen as though it had come directly from the tailor. The trousers and the button down too seamed brand new, the stains and tears of a lifetime of use erased.

“What did you do?” Beren asked, though that must have been obvious.

“You know that old story about the girl who goes to the ball with magic clothes and has to leave by midnight?” Jocasta asked. Beren nodded, it was a common enough child’s tale, though why the would be princess just didn’t tell the prince her name escaped Jocasta completely.

“I did that,” she told him, with an aura of smug satisfaction.

“So I’m going to turn back into a rag picker at midnight?” he queried. Jocasta put on a hurt expression.

“Of course not, I’m much better at this than that fairy witch or whatever.”

Beren gave her an ostentatious bow, speaking in an upper class Andredian accent. "Your magical aptitude is only matched by your stunning intellect."

"I read many books and my pedigree is the envy of the Academy of Vorriellioune." She said haughtily, standing above him and waving her arm with very little direction, overracting to an incredible degree.

"Hey, who are you two?" A grumbling voice asked, causing them to open their eyes like surprised deer. An older man with the outfit of a clerk looked at them, his muttonchops and scowl a sight to behold. A few other drifters looked at the commotion over the racks of clothes and rows of shoes. "You came in here just to mock my store? Get out of here so my customers can get back to browsing."

"No, we uh... it's a long-"

Jocasta placed a hand on Beren's mouth. "Our humblest apologies sir, we will vacate the premises immediately." She said, and took out a silver lordling, nimbly flipping it in her hand and tossing it onto the desk he stood just beside. It twirled and then fell flat. "A token of apology. I insist."

Beren caught on, and hid it from his face. He extended his arm to Jocasta, and the two waltzed out of the store before the man could even deny the rightful payment of the clothes he did not even recognize. Once they made it out, they shared a grin and then started laughing. The sun was starting to set, and the usual cold was turning freezing. They hurried back to the manor, arm in arm. They didn't speak, but somehow they just felt comfortable in such close proximity.

Perhaps it was all the times she landed in his lap?

---

The next day...

Beren and Jocasta had spent the night and day doing their own thing. Sleeping, eating, speaking to the servants and meeting with Baron Marius. They had only spent a couple of hours together, talking about the party that night and just talking like they had known one another for years. Beren had managed to go out a few times that day, running errands he wouldn't talk about. Once the hour was drawing close, the two changed into their clothes and were provided with baths beforehand.

Now, they stood on the giant-sized street brimming with people at the foot of the Grimstone Citadel, the seat of governmental power and central monument to the entire city. Men and women danced in the streets, torches and shows of fire from acrobats and magicians on a nearby street corner were alit as the sun began to sink behind the city walls. A few small pops of varying contraptions went off in the distance, but no fireworks as of yet.

Carriages drawn by well-bred horses and thoroughbred oxen routinely pulled up to the red carpet that was laid out at the entrance. The gateway to the greathall were two great wooden doors atop twelve wide steps of well paved stone, the carpet cascading down the stairway and led to the very edge of the street. Guards in breastplates and tabards with the symbol of Iskura tood with halberds at the fore, blocking the pathway with their pole weapons to keep the citizenry from entering.

"Halt! Without the proper papers you are not allowed to enter. Back up." The guard they approached warned, redirecting his polearm to better brain Beren with if it came down to it. Beren gave him a smile and produced the letter he had received with the seal of Baron Marius. Jocasta did the same and smiled wickedly.

"Oh...uh..." he stammered.

"If you'll excuse us." Beren said, taking Jocasta's hand and leading her past the guard, who stepped aside sheepishly. Beren gave him a "thanks" and walked into the great doors to ascend to the top floor, rumored to be using a pulley system from within the castle. Inside the great hall, they found the rumor to be true, as there was a section of the wall where the platform rested, and a chamberlain waited upon it with his hand on a wheel, attached to a mechanism.

"The top floor I presume, my lord, my lady..." He said to them.

For an outpost on the edge of nothing, Iskura was proving to be a surprisingly sophisticated place. The roof of the castle was clearly defensive in nature its, edges ringed by crenelations for archers to crouch behind in the last defense of the city, but for all its defensive practicality the local elite had done a remarkable job of transforming it. A soft layer of moss had been lain over the cold stones, neatly cut squares carefully interlaced to create the illusion of a single carpet. Short trees had been placed in small pots and small brass lanterns had been hung from their branches, the glass of each tinted a different color. Several musicians played stringed instruments from a stand on a platform that was probably meant for some kind of siege engine. Food and drink were heaped on long tables which ran around three sides of the space, the forth left open for the view out over the city. From this altitude that was a pleasant view of twinkling hearth lights rather than a sprawl of untidy alleys. Jocasta could see lights on a low hill beyond the city wall where the fireworks were being set up.

"Ah, the guests who brought the news about the unfortunate events to the south," a striking man with a neatly trimmed beard and a pointy mustache said with an accent Jocasta couldn't quite place. He gave every appearance of being genuinely excited to meet them.

"I must say I rather expected you to be dressed in bearskins and leather wot!" he joked, giving their costumes an approving look. He took Jocasta's hand and kissed it gallantly despite her making no move to offer it to him. As his hand touched hers she felt a slight twinge in the tattoo she had acquired when she struck her bargain with the outsider. She lowered her eyes, ashamed of herself for reasons that had nothing to do with social niceties.

"And you must be Beren, my you do live up to expectations," the suave noble continued turning his attention to the young monk with equal enthusiasm.

"I do?" Beren asked, surprised. He shook the noble's hand firmly, as all polite greetings warranted. The Baron winced at the shake and swiftly drew his hand back, and Beren tried not to show that he knew he should have been gentler. Sometimes he didn't know his own strength... The Baron's smile returned instantly, however, most likely to save face as to also be polite. Beren owed this man a lot, he would definitely let him have it.

"Yes," he said, babying his hand after he slid it behind his back. He held his head high to act as if it was merely a pose. "The delectable lady here was dreadfully worried about you. She stayed by your side throughout your affliction. I would consider myself lucky you've got such a smart, beautiful woman to care for you."

He laid it on so thick Beren's face flushed, but Jocasta used the opportunity to laugh and wave her hand dismissively. "Please, Lord Marius, Beren has saved my life more than once. Besides, he's so handsome." She said, snuggling up to Beren's arm. The monk knew she was playing a part, but he also had the distinct impression she was using the ploy additionally to toy with Beren and speak some truth. He'd get her for that, later. But he also couldn't deny he sort of enjoyed it.

"If you'll excuse us, my lord." Beren said, inclining his head. "I believe I need to borrow Jocasta for a moment."

"Of course, enjoy your evening. We'll shall speak soon," The Baron said with all the authority of his station, waving them away. It would have been rude had it been from a commoner, but from him it looked as natural as breathing. Beren and Jocasta gave a bow, and then made their way over to one of the standing tables.

"You didn't tell me you had a surprise for me," Jocasta said facetiously.

"You didn't tell me you could do magic when we first met. Surprised the hell out of me," He said with a smile.

"I like to keep you guessing," she winked. Beren couldn't tell she was trying to hide some pain, deep within herself. She could act well when she wanted to. She stepped in front of him. "Now, what would you like to tell me?"

"First, let me get some drinks and some of the free food. Stay here and hold down the fort, ok?"

Once she gave the nod, he waded across the banquet hall to the buffet. The food was steaming, well-done steak cut up into chunks wrapped in bacon accompanied by hashbrown casserole and assorted veggies, with water and red wine to wash it all down. Potato salad, creamy and rich, lay in a large bowl and lightly dressed with spices, and even more! Beren took his time, and as he did so, a signal was made.

The tall, statuesque Lord Vandenhardt stood speaking to Gloria Hawkmoore and Lord Glimburg, but his eyes had followed Beren's tracks. He pulled out a small mirror from within his jacket and fiddled with it, letting the light of the oil lamps flash across it twice, indicating now was the time. A shapely woman with red hair, spun and tied intricately, sporting a ball-gown that hugged her slim waist and full bosom, strode over to where Jocasta waited and lightly touched her arm to gain her attention.

"I'm sorry," the woman said breathily. "I was wondering... I've heard of your companion, the hunky one?" She pointed at the buffet. "I've been watching him the last half hour and I have to ask, are you two... together? Because if not, I think I'll ask him to dance. I hope you don't think I'm being boorish, but I have to ask."

"I hope you are better at small talk than telling time," Jocasta said snippily. The redhead didn't respond. Not only didn't she respond, she made no movement at all. In fact, now that Jocasta's attention was drawn to it, nobody was moving. Not that they were standing still, they weren't moving at all. Beren stood with a pastry half way to his lips. A servant was pouring wine which hung between bottle and goblet, a dark haired woman whose partner had whirled her fast enough that her hair had flown out was crowned by her now gravity defying locks. The entire feast was frozen in place, right down to the flames refusing to flicker. It was a moment of deep cosmological terror.

"Holy fuck," Jocasta observed curiously, "have I broken the fucking world?"

"You have done nothing," a sinister voice declared. Jocasta spun around to find herself face to face with the human form of the demon she had last seen in the wizards lair below the earth.

"If I'm being honest, not quite as much of a relief as I was hoping," Jocasta admitted backing away from the demonic being. It followed her unhurriedly, plucking a goblet of wine from the hand of an unmoving party guest and sipping at it.

"Quit squirming mortal, if I wanted to harm you..." the demon made a gesture with one hand. Pain exploded across Jocasta's midsection. She could feel taloned hands clawing their way through her insides. She feel to her knees, clutching at her midriff and squealing in agony. The demon examined its manicure for a moment and then snapped its fingers.

"I wouldn't have to chase you down to do it," the thing concluded. Jocasta lay in the fetal position for a few moments longer and then managed to pull herself up. Despite having collapsed on the mossy flooring her dress was unmarred.

"Then what do you want?" she demanded in what she had hoped to be a belligerent tone, but came out much squeakier than seemed reasonable.

"All I want is for you to live up to the agreement we made," the demon said in a calm tone. "If you'd like to reneg I can return your friend their to the state he was in back at Ikathan's dreary little study.

"What do you want," Jocasta demanded sullenly.

"Why only that our red headed friend show your stiff necked monk there a wonderful evening," the demon replied.

"Why?" Jocasta asked, moving over to the frozen redhead and flicking her in the nose. The woman didn't so much as flinch.

"It is enough for you to know that I wish it, do it for me and your friend's intestines stay on the inside, I might even see fit to reward you," the demon went on.

"Aren't they going to see me teleport out of position when you ... start time again?" Jocasta asked. The demon gave a superior chuckle.

"I haven't actually stopped time mortal, rather we are holding this conversation between moments, but your point is taken." He snapped his fingers again. Jocasta' body was wrenched back across the floor as she was ripped back into the exact position she had been in before she tried to speak, her hair smoothed itself out and her tears slid back up into her tear ducts. The red head suddenly arched an eyebrow and flinced as though to touch her nose. There was a confused gasp from behind her as one of the guests found that he was missing his drink.

"Go... go right ahead," Jocasta managed and then turned and headed for the liquor.

Beren finished his small starter, one of the diminutive sandwiches with the addicting sauces. They were expensive as hell, he knew. Only three other times in his life had he been lucky enough to eat one of these with this sort of sauce, and all of them were parties his father had been invited to when he was a small lad. He was going to take full advantage of the food here and Jocasta would likely want to try some too. He started filling up their plates, balancing the two on a tray like a skilled waiter.

As he did so, someone approached him. Beren glanced up, and then did a double take as he realized it was an elf. A brown haired elf, with squared shoulders and a noble air about him. He inclined his head to Beren in an uncharacteristically humble fashion, and Beren did the same as well. He might have been partially raised by dwarves, but he held no enmity to the fey folk. In fact, he had a few wood elven comrades he called friends back home.

"Well met. I hope I'm not interrupting," The Elf said with a smile, his face perfectly proportioned and his eyes filled with wisdom. Beren wondered if elves thought most men looked alike as how men often saw all elves as handsome, with high-cheek bones that accentuated their fair faces.

"No, of course not. What can I help you with?" Beren asked.

"I heard tell a young human here that fit your description had lived with the stout folk as a child. I wondered if that was you," He asked. Beren's surprise was evident apparently, for the elf pressed the issue. "What was that like?"

"Very fun," the monk remarked sincerely. He did not think of it as such at the time, but he found he increasingly looked back on the experience fondly. The work was hard and everyone was grumpy or grim, but there was a sense of loyalty and honor he had never known he could feel. No wonder the dwarves never had infighting. They had a singular purpose and a society that was as well built as their crafts. "It was tough on a teenage, especially a human one. But it taught me more than a few things. I wouldn't change it."

"There must be a tale there. Ah, I did not introduce myself. I am Alberad of Abelorn. I am here studying runic script of giants."

"Beren. It's nice to meet you, Alberad." He remarked, placing a plate down to shake the elf's hand. The silver elf glanced at the hand for a moment before something clicked and he reached for it, as if that wasn't a common greeting in his lands. Beren wouldn't know. Perhaps one day he would go there, if fate allowed. "May I ask you a question Alberad?"

"I am an open book, my friend." He replied.

"I've never asked an elf, and the dwarves I've spoken to never give me a good answer. What's it like living for centuries?" Beren inquired, and it sounded like a very innocent query whilst simultaneously being entirely morbid. The longing of wanting to know due to the short lives of the menfolk, and yet still presented as simple curiosity. Alberad took his hand back and took a moment to simply smile thoughtfully.

"Too long..." He said, and then added. "Too short, as well."

"Much the same with us," Beren remarked, and inclined his head once more. "I suppose it's all relative."

He saw Alberad's eyes flick to his right, and Beren heard the clearing of a throat that announced someone else wished to speak with him. He glanced to his right and saw a delectable redhead with big eyes looking at him, standing very close as if they were already familiar. Beren raised his brow's, not wanting to be impolite. "Hello, may I help you?"

"Care to dance?" She asked, brushing his arm with her hand.

"Eh, um, I don't know how. And I'm here with someone." He assured her, trying to let her down as gently as he could before looking past her to the table where he had left Jocasta. Instead, he saw her turned back as she made her way toward the drink table. That was sort of odd, he thought. "If you'll both excuse me."

She took his arm, just firmly enough so as not to spill the food in his hands. "I'm a good teacher," she assured him. "Please, just a few dances! It looks like she's already decided to make an exit."

"How do you know who she is?" Beren asked, suspicion forming in his face. "No, thank you. I appreciate it but I've made up my mind."

As he attempted to walk past her, she stuck her foot out as if she were attempting to bar his way. To his view it seemed a bit more sinister than that, and he caught himself easily, hopping a step forward and re-balancing the plates in his hands. He looked back at her with an accusatory gaze, only to see she had fallen herself. There was no way that was possible, he decided. The woman lifted her head and pointed at Beren, calling out. "You fiend! Striking a woman at a party?" She followed the accusation by sobbing into her hands.

The closest in the crowd looked over, some with curiosity and others with barely disguised disgust when they judged the situation. Beren felt this was going to get out of hand quick, and sure enough, four burly men in jerkins to show a veneer of civility to their rough faces waded from various designated points along the party to intercept him before he could go any further. Beren wondered if he should stop and talk his way out, fight, or simply allow himself to be escorted out. Where was Jocasta going?

"Jocasta!" Beren called over the din of the festivities. His arms with grabbed, but he struggled, a sandwich hitting the floor. "Jo!"

"He did not strike any woman!" Alberad called from across the table. "Unhand him!"

"What is the meaning of this!?" Baron Marius cried, striding forth through the crowd with the Duke in tow. Beren forgot the Duke's name, but he was understandably busy at the moment so he forgive himself forgetting at the moment. The brutes held Beren by the arms and waist, and one even had a leg, however all of them including Beren had stopped struggling when the nobles approached. With no answer forthcoming, he reiterated with: "I asked a question!"

"These men are attacking me, my lord." Beren said.

"This'n attacked the lady Rachel!" One of the thugs exclaimed.

"I didn't!"

"Where is Jocasta?" The Baron asked, and when one man opened his mouth to speak, he gave the man a cutting glare.

"She went on the balcony. I don't know sir, I was going after her when these guys jumped me. This girl here-"

"Lady..." the Baron reminded him. The woman had gotten up now, her cheeks flushed and her eyes looking nervously from side to side, downcast though they were. Beren couldn't guess her game or her problem, but she was attempting to do something to get him in trouble. He would find out at some point, but right now his priority was finding Jocasta.

"My lady here asked me for a dance, I said no and stepped past her, and she fell over somehow. I didn't touch her." Beren expressed.

"I can vouche, sir," Alberad stated with a courtly poise, striding around the buffet table to present himself before the leading nobles. He stepped like a dancer, and his eyes, though kind, were as sharp as knives. The Duke, a stately man in a dress of loud colors, gave a smile to the dignitary.

"None of us would dare question elven eyes, sir." He stated diplomatically, and looked to the men. "Let the man go about his business. It seems to have been a misunderstanding. Do it, now."

Slowly, Beren felt arms leaving his body and he was able to stretch again. He was just about to step away, before he remembered his manners and gave a bow to the elf, the baron, and the duke. "My lords, I appreciate it. If you'll excuse me."

"Go on," The Baron said.

Beren didn't wait for a second invitation. He jogged away, weaving around the dancers and servers and opening the curtain to the balcony to see Jocasta there, lounging above the balustrade, leaning with her arms and looked down into the lights of the street below. Beren started to announce his presence, but he paused and simply looked at her. This was nerve wracking, he realized. Ok, this is big but you can handle it.

"Hey," he said. Jocasta turned and looked at him, her eyes wide like saucers. Her lips moved, but no words were forthcoming and he held his hands up. "Hold on, let me speak. Uh... ok, I should think before I do that, probably. Ok, so... I don't know what's wrong. I know something is bothering you, but I was planning on..." Beren fished into his pockets, getting it wrong the first time but finding the other pocket held what he sought. "-giving you something..."

"Beren..."

He pulled out a small black case, small enough to fit in her palm. He walked up to the balcony's edge with the container in his hands, and her eyes bugged out when she saw it. "What are you doing?" She asked, aghast.

"Uh, well... look, I really like you. And, yesterday when you were back at the manor I went around and found something I thought you might like. I wanted tonight to kind of be special, but so far it's been strange. But stuff is only as awkward or weird as you decide to make it. I bought this for you, because... I realized over the last month or two, I have a big crush on you, and I wanted to get you this so..."

He placed it in her hands, and when she opened it, inside were two earrings of gilded bronze. They were carved into the likeness of a dragonfly, split down the middle. Each one had an eye of sapphire, and there were small grooves on the outer edges that looked as if they fit together like a small puzzle. A bit of parchment stuck out of the top of the case, and within was a small note that read:

Jocasta let snort of delighted laughter at the gift and the poem, more than a little taken aback that Beren had found time to go out and find such a wonderful item. She opened her mouth, to say she knew not what, when the red head from earlier marched across the roof top to where the two of them were standing, a stubborn set to her jaw. Jocasta opened her mouth to tell the woman to go about her own business when a ringing slap took her across the jaw. Jocasta rocked back in shock, her hand flying to her face.

"You harlot, you lead me on about him to embarrass me!" the red head raged. Jocasta tensed her muscles, preparing to show this scarlet haired slut that you couldn't just go around slapping people but Beren was already starting to move between them. Suddenly Jocasta realized that getting Beren into some kind of trouble must be what her demonic patron had planned with the whole charade, the woman was trying to get into an altercation. Without fully thinking it through, which was to say the same way she did most things, Jocasta stepped between Beren and the red head.

"I accept!" she declared her voice ringing uncomfortably in the sudden silence following the slap. The red head reeled back, confused and frustrated that her plan was not going well.

"What?!" the strumpet demanded in alarm.

"I accept your challenge," Jocasta declared, "you have struck me in a demand for satisfaction." The remark was met with a low muted buzz, as the Baron and his party hurried over, the look on his face suggesting that he wasn't best pleased to have his founders day celebration devolving into farce twice at the hands of the same duo, even though Beren and Jocasta were technically blameless.

"Now Mistress Jocasta, I'm sure that Lady Giroux will withdraw her challenge and apologize for her reckless behaviour," the Baron said, a touch of steel in his voice. The red head Giroux apparently gave a thankful nod.

"Of course, I uhhh, beg your pardon," Lady Giroux said insincerely. Jocasta stepped forward and delivered a slap of her own, no theatrical tap, but a full armed slug that snapped Giroux' head sideways and raised a red mark on her cheek. The Baron let out a frustrated sigh.

"It is not our custom for ladies of the court to duel," he said through gritted teeth.

"How dare you you lowborn bitch!" Giroux raged, "we will meet and I will gut you like a ..."

"I get my choice of weapons right?" Jocasta asked, short circuiting everyone's prepared outrage. There was an awkward pause before the Baron sighed again.

"Lady Giroux did strike you so I suppose..." he began.

"Great," Jocasta interrupted, "lances it will be, on horseback and everything!"

"I don't know how to use a lance," Giroux spluttered in rage. Jocasta crossed her arms.

"Might have thought of that before you went around slapping people," she snapped.

"She favors her left," Beren whispered conspiratorially in Jocasta's ear. Jo placed her hand against her mouth to hide her sudden laugh, but the redhead looked stricken in horror. He felt regretful the Baron was getting displeased, but the 'lady' had attacked Jocasta and pissed him off, and her indignation only egged Beren on. He spoke to Jocasta again. "Her hammer's bigger than her anvil. Horses might be good, but she's clumsy on her feet. You'd kill her in axes and shields."

"Anvil?" Jocasta asked, and lady Giroux took it with an entirely different meaning, trying to make her backside as small as possible. Earlier she had been flaunting it, but when things weren't going her way she seemed to fall apart. Beren had just said a common dwarven saying, and he tried to explain it to Jo in human terms. "Uh... her bark is bigger than her bite."

"I already apologized!" She said breathlessly. The crowd looked on with wide eyes, and the Baron seemed about to step in and order the guards to come with him. Giroux flushed at all the attention from how things were developing. Maybe not all publicity was good publicity, after all. Beren stood to his full height and crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow at her. Jocasta stood in a similar fashion, her eyes wild to act the part she meant every word of the knightly duel. Maybe she did? Beren wasn't entirely sure this was a farce.

"You're a few hairs short of a beard-" He started. Lady Giroux gently gasped and grabbed at her chin in fear as he spoke, again misreading his words. "You come in here, try to separate us, then try and frame me and ruin the good baron's party, and then come out here to assault my g- uh..." He looked at Jocasta and she glanced at him. They hadn't even had the time to talk about it. "-assault Jocasta and now you want to back out scot-free? I don't think so sister. Honor demands she meet you on the field."

"I can call for a champion!" She stated, though she sounded very unsure at her initial statement. As the words left her, the developing thought did bring some fire back to her eyes, however. Beren guessed she would be happy to have any win over Beren and Jo. The monk just grinned.

"Sure, and I'll step in for her. Choose your man, but we'll use fists." He said confidently.

That dropped her down a peg yet again. She had been as close as anyone in the party when Beren had nearly wrestled himself through four thugs, and it was clear he hadn't been trying to really harm anyone. She lifted her chin, trying to form words of retort, but Jocasta suddenly lurched forward like a dog on a leash. Lady Giroux screamed in surprise. "No stand-ins! She's mine! We'll meet at dawn!"

"Hold!" Baron Marius said with a stern countenance. He fixed his suit and stepped out of the crowd, joining Lady Giroux though not deigning to take her offered hand. She awkwardly dropped it and smoothed her dress, glaring at Beren and Jocasta with an air of what she thought was superiority. The Baron seemed as if he had taken their jibes as a respite so he might think of a way to solve this, and he had regrettably come up short. "Surely there's a way we can come to an agreement without coming to blows?"

Beren and Jocasta slowly looked at one another. Beren raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and Jocasta nodded in acquiescence.

"There is one thing, if the Lady Giroux would be so gracious..."

Jocasta was still enthusiastic about the idea of lances at dawn, but she had to admit that Beren's suggestion had alot of merit.

"We have been hoping to aquire charters to explore the ruins and the barrows," Beren said.

"And letters of introduction that will let us examine the libraries of noble families," Jocasta stuck in by way of twisting the knife and advocating for her own interests while she was at it. That might be useful if they needed to get access to the noble estate which sported the dwarven rune in its coat of arms. It wasn't likely that a noble family would welcome a group of rag tag adventuers to explore their land, essepcially if most of them were dwarves.

"I'm sure that a ... noble lady like Lady Giroux will be able to furnish us with the proper writs," Beren wheedled. That 'noble lady' looked like she was about to have a cornary on the spot, her face turning an almost eggplant shade of purple. Jocasta had no skill with lances, but her confident choice of weapons had clearly upset the woman. Jocasta wondered what her game was. It seemed unlikely that she was tangled with the demon, but whatever she was playing at must align with its fell purposes.

"I..." Giroux stumbled, but her liege lord was giving her a stern look which argued strongly against continuing to swim against the tide. She glowered but the aquiesced.

"I shall have the papers deliver by way of... appology," the last word hissed out from between her teeth, and she spun on her heel and stalked away.

There was a terse silence, followed by a slow, faint clapping that swelled into a moderately supportive chorus of clapping. Nobles weren't exactly the most brave sort, at least when they did not really know whether what had just occurred was socially acceptable or would later make them a subject of scorn. Only one rotund man with a thick red mustache guffawed and hooted, an island of exuberance in a sea of laodicean support. The good baron Marius did look relieved that the crisis had been solved, though Beren imagined he would be less excited to aid them in the future if they were to cause problems at every social gathering. It was well known the two of them stayed at his residence by way of prior service.

Jocasta took Beren by the arm, and she smiled up at him and whispered "victory!" with a grin.

"Poor girl, she had no idea who she was messing with," He replied with a posh accent.

"Now let us all go back inside and enjoy our refreshments," Marius said. Across the crowd, the Duke gave a nod in approval, before he cleared his throat and ushered everyone back inside with a call that dessert had been served. The lords and ladies filtered out one by one, chatting amongst themselves and trying to hide their amusement or glee, and in some cases, horror, at the scenario they had just witnessed. As they fled the balcony like sand tumbling down an hourglass, Beren glanced behind them over the gardens far below, illuminated by the full moon.

"So when do you think we should leave?" Beren asked.

"The city or the party?" Jocasta asked, wiggling her eyebrows.

"We'll bounce from here whenever you want baby," Beren joked with a voice like liquid gold. "But I mean, with the Dwarves."

"Whenever they get the paper work ready." She shrugged. "I think the bitch might try and weasel her way out of it, but hopefully within the week. We'll talk to the baron of it, later."

"If she tries to get out of it you could always joust her," Beren shrugged.

"You can be my squire." She said imperiously, patting his bicep as if she were doing him a great favor. "Of course you'll have to feed the horse and fetch my things, but it's an honorable station. A man of low birth can only rise so high."

"And yet you two seem to be doing quite well for yourselves." A voice said, drawing their attentions to the curtain. A tall man with a hawkish nose had decided to remain, concealing himself by the shadows of the drapes but stepping out now that the last of his peers were gone. He was well groomed, with a red coat embroidered with gold and long white breeches. His hair was cut rakishly short, and he bore handsome grey streaks along his temples. "What do you plan on doing now that you two are bona-fide adventurers?"

"I'm sorry, my lord. Have we met before?" Beren temporized, trying to remain polite though the mood had grown a bit soured. The man tried to hide a smirk.

"I am lord Vandenhartd, one of the proprietors of the city. Forgive me, I merely saw the commotion from earlier and your theatrics here and it piqued by curiosity. Have you been in Iskura long?" It was a harmless, innocuous question. Though there was a weight of intrigue behind it Beren didn't like.

"We have simply fallen in love with your lavish city. They say it was built by giants long ago, is there any truth to that?" Jocasta asked with a thespian flair so thick it was almost stilted. Beren wasn't slow on the uptake. Her question for a question was bypassing his query without engaging in it. Lord Vandenhartd's face was unreadable, but eventually he gestured passed the balustrade with a manicured hand.

"Yes, so the sages say. Though rumor has it men were enslaved by such beings millennia ago. I suppose human workers still might have had a hand in making this bastion of the north." He explained with a nonchalance. "Perhaps now that you can go into the wilderness with a letter of marque, you can find out just how many secrets this land has to offer. Just be careful. There have been many who have marched past Torm's Gate to find their fortune and instead were left in unmarked graves."

"Thank you for the warning, my lord. Now if you would excuse us, I believe the Duke himself would be sorely missed of your presence." Beren said.

It wasn't clever, but Jocasta placed a hand over her mouth and Vanderhartd looked taken aback. To asked to be excused was one thing, but Beren telling him to go himself was something else. Anger briefly flashed in the lord's eyes, but it was replaced by a vile mirth that he seemed to always have in abundant supply. "As you say. I leave you to your mingling. Perhaps we will have a chance to meet again soon." Beren and Jocasta watched him make his leave after that, and he glanced over his shoulder one last time before disappearing into the ballroom.

"Well that was ominous." Beren observed, crossing his arms.

"I would say he sicced the redhead on us, but maybe that's too obvious." Jocasta reasoned, rubbing her chin and pinching her lower lip as she considered the idea.

"Well, even if she was his, it backfired on him at least."

As fate would have it, the two were interrupted once again. Sudden bursts of sound that reverberated off the walls of the stone spun Jocasta around and had Beren about to leap on her for cover, thinking it was stolen dwarven artillery. Instead, dazzling flashes of coruscating colors erupted across the sky arrays polychromatic light. Red, green, blue, yellow, all of the colors of the rainbow light up the darkness above the city, illuminating every shadow for brief flashes of an instant. Beren and Jocasta placed their hands on the balustrade and watched as firework after firework launched up into the air in sizzling arcs before exploding in a cacophony of dazzling colors.

Jocasta dearly wished she hadn't drunk so much the previous night. The wine, which had been so fruity and delicious the night before, was a poor travelling companion as they set off on the East Road through the chill of a rainy morning. The Dwarves were in somewhat better spirits, being both more resilient to the effects of drinking and completely elated at the notion of marching off to adventure despite the rain. They were a strange people, by turns taciturn and exuberant with little apparent logic for the changes. Certainly they had seemed impressed that Beren had been able to secure the writs they needed so quickly, and despite their outward show of fatalism about the whole quest, Jocasta could tell they were excited.

Much of what had transpired the previous evening still troubled her. What had been Giroux's game? Why had the demon had her engineer Beren's encounter with her? Did it intend for events to transpire this way? and if so to what end? The line of enquiry curled back in on itself, accomplishing nothing other than to worsen her dull headache. Jocasta wore a traveling cloak and a wide brimmed sun hat that kept the worst of the rain off her. She whispered a simple spell that repelled the water, making her shimmer slightly in the gray morning light. As she worked the magic she felt a slight reverberation in the dragonfly ear rings that Beren had given her. She frowned slightly but she felt too miserable to investigate at the moment.

"Here eat this," Beren said, pulling his horse beside her and passing her a warm flat bread. Jocasta prodded at it unenthusiastically. It was heavy and dense.

"Dwarven trail bread," he explained, "flour, powdered mushroom and bacon fat with salt and herbs. Then its pressed dry and baked." If Beren had been a bread salesmen the pitch would have seen him starving before too long but Jocasta had to admit that it smelled good. She bit off a corner of it and found to be surprisingly tasty.

"Aye it's good for hangovers too," one of the dwarves snickered. Jocasta munched on the bread, feeling the improvement of having something on her stomach.

"How far is this Moreloke Estate?" she asked, having forgotten the minutiae of the discussion late last night.

"Three days if we push," Beren supplied. He paused and looked around. They were only a mile out of the city but the forest was already crowding the road. They had an unwholesome element to them, many of them crusted with moss and lichen above the snow line.

"You aren't even wet!" Beren accused as he brushed the semi frozen rain from his brow. They had been on the road for nearly four days, pushing on through the worsening weather. Nights had been spent on whatever piece of high ground could be found, stretched out under the wagon with the warmth of fires or rocks that Jocasta had enchanted to heat them.

"Well I am wearing a hat," Jocasta protested mildly. The rain fell around her without ever quite seeming to strike her. Beren peered at her and shook his head dismissing the matter with a good natured laugh.

"A little rain is good for ya," Gurin declared, looking up to the sky to allow the rain to run down the creases of his craggy face, soaking his beard. Buri pulled his cloak tighter, obviously not sharing the sentiment but to stoic to say so. The worse the weather had gotten the better the dwarves seemed to like it.

"Little being the operative word," Otar said, "the open sky can be too generous."

"I think I see something," Jocasta called out, calling attention back to the road. A stone gatehouse was emerging out of the rain. It was ancient and tumbledown, the teeth of a rusted portcullis drawn halfway up and frozen in place by rivulets of oxidation. The word 'Morelock' was chiseled into it like a headstone. It looked as if walls had once projected from it, but if so they had decayed into piles of unaffiliated rock within a few feet of the base of the gatehouse.

"Hello the gatehouse!" Jocasta called through cupped hands, earning herself some hard glares from her travelling companions. She shrugged her shoulders.

"We aren't going to know if we don't ask," she pointed out reasonably. There was no response. They advanced cautiously, but other than a rustle of irritated ravens taking flight it was abandoned. They passed under the ancient archway and made their way up a low hill. The ground around them was wild and overgrown but it had once been cultivated. Tangles of ancient grape vines made impenetrable walls and the tangled branches of fruit trees dripped with mossy tendrils. Upon the top of a hill stood an ancient house. It was a mass of peaked towers and crumbling chimeys. Windows rattled with toothy shards of long broken glass and the rooftile had collapsed into gaping holes in many places. A single window on the west side of the house gleamed with a wavering pale light.

"Well at least someone is home," Jocasta said brightly.

_____

Radsvir's fist nearly splinted the worm eaten door. Jocasta winced and even the dwarf seemed embarrassed, glancing up nervously as though the ancient masonry might avalanche down on him. For long moments they stood in silence. At last Radsvir shrugged and lifted his fist again. Before he could strike the door swung open to reveal an old man in a dressing gown. He held a tarnished lamp in his hand and peered at them through thick glasses.

"Hello?" he asked querulously.

"Master Morelocke?" Beren asked hesitantly, stepping closer to the old man.

"Morelocke?" the old man mumbled, his ancient lips rasping dryly over the world.

"I am Martinus Morelocke," he said, as though he had just discovered the fact himself. He stared away into the distance, eye focused on nothing in this world.

"The last Morelocke," he whispered.

Beren regarded the man solemnly, the smallest bit of rain sprinkling on his clothing and skin. The water was frigid, scattering the light frost that clung to Beren's jacket and cloak, clinging to his thick head of dark hair. The dwarves similarly stood there for a brief moment, sharing in Beren's melancholic sense of respect for the lost elder. It was a cultural sense for dwarves to treat older dwarves with respect, and it somewhat extended to other peoples as well. Beren wasn't sure if it was his dwarvish upbringing or his sense of empathy that had him take a moment in pause, but either way, Jocasta stepped forward as the wind picked up again. Beren almost felt he heard a wail of anguish in the wind, but his thoughts were muddled and pushed aside when Jocasta cleared her throat.

"Master Morelocke, might we come in? It's erm, dreadfully cold out here." She temporized, trying not to sound too rude stating the obvious. Even the dwarves seemed ready to come in out the wind, though they hid it well with typical stoicism. Beren glanced behind him, but even with his sharp eyes all he saw was the road fading into greyness, and what might be the obscured shapes of distant mountains miles into the wilderness.

"Hrm? Yes, yes," Martinus Morelocke said, slowly coming back to reality. His arm shook as he pushed the door further ajar, glazed eyes gazing at them past overly bushy brows. He sounded exceedingly weak and quiet in comparison to the weather just beyond his doorstep. "I have forgotten my manners, forgive me. Yes, come in."

The decrepit master Morelocke took a few long moments to step back, and Otar strode in first, followed by Buri, Muragrim, Gurin, Radsvir, and Varin, and Beren stepped aside for Jocasta to enter. She cocked an eyebrow at the dwarves, as they had almost run into her like a rolling boulder. Beren gave a helpless smile. "They go by age," He said, shrugging. She began to nod in understanding, then her eyes whipped back to Beren, sharp as arrows.

"Oh and you think I'm that much older than you?" She asked, and though it was clear she was having a bit of fun with Beren due to the barely suppressed smile and the cheek in her words, he could tell the wrong answer would still give her an excuse to get him into a bit of trouble.

"No!" He said quickly, his face screwing up incredulously. "I'm just trying to be, ya know, chivalrous. What?"

"This is why I get the hat," She said as if it was the most obvious thing in the word, ruffling Beren's thick head of moistened and cold hair. He batted her hand away, and she laughed as she walked in.

"Yeah yeah, I'm onto you witchy woman." Beren retorted playfully, following her and closing the door for the old master, who did not seem to understand Beren's motives first and stood there a long moment, unwilling or unable to let go of the door until he abruptly turned, mumbling something incoherent to himself. Beren closed the door gently, and locked it. Inside wasn't very warm, but compared to the road it was lovely. Down the corridor, a light glowed and wavered against the hallway wall, showing the way to the great chamber of the manor, where a great fire was lit. The paint on the walls looked old, much of the pillars and corners were partially peeled, bare from misuse and years of wear.

Ahead of him, Martinus continued to mumble. At times Beren thought he heard the name 'Marelda,' but he couldn't be sure, and he decided it was none of his business. He carefully passed the elder before making it to the room. The dwarves sat on the floor, a bit too short for the old, cushioned chairs. Jocasta had found a seat on what was once a nice couch, warming her hands by the fire. Beren sat beside her, clearing his throat.

"So," the elder asked as he stepped into the room. "Why have you come so far out here? It's been....it's been...the roads have not been with talk or movement since last year, I think."

The warmth of the fire felt very good on Jocasta's hands, she might have evaded the rain but not the cold. The North was cold, even during the summer, and autumn was fast fading into winter. She wondered how the old man was surviving out here, he seemed to have no servants, and was obviously living in aristocratic squalor. There was a full firebox beside the blaze though it seemed to be of gathered timber rather than professionally split. A dirty plate sat by a side table with the remains of a simple meal of bread and cheese.

"We have come seeking a hold of our people," Otar said, blunt and direct to a fault. The old man rocked back with surprise.

"A dwarf hold? I've never heard of such a thing in these parts, when I was a boy..." Martinus trailed off, apparently lost in some kind of reverie about his long ago childhood. The silence lengthened as Martinus stared off into space, it gradually dawned on Jocasta that none of the dwarves were going to interrupt an elder.

"When you were a boy?" Jocasta prompted, snapping Martinus back to the present moment. Rather than replying the old man stood creakily and moved over to an old cupboard. He pulled it open and rummaged through it, then turned with an object in his hand.

"By Runar..." Muragrim breathed, effectively doubling the number of syllables Jocasta had ever heard him speak. Martinus held an ancient helmet in his hands like a child. It had a square faceplate and was flanked on both sides by old rusted chainmail. The runes stamped around it's rim were unmistakably dwarven.

"We used to find things down by the waterfall, when the peasants plowed the fields," he turned the helmet over to reveal a bright gash, obviously made by a plow blade.

"Swords, arrowheads, all kinds of things," Martinus said, Jocasta realizes he had avoided mentioning bones for fear the dwarves would take the disturbance of their dead poorly.

"We must be near," Otar breathed, reaching hesitantly for the helmet. Martinus surrendered it and the dwarf cradled it like a child. Jocasta wasn't so sure, it was possible this was an isolated battlefield like Spellfarm or Krosibaker in the south. Peasants their made a profitable sideline in recovered goods from ancient battles.

"We found a symbol in a library, that looks like part of your sigil," Jocasta said, unrolling one of her innumerable scrolls to reveal the ancient dwarven rune. Martinus hobbled over and peered close.

"Well young lady, there is an ancient stone down by the waterfall I mentioned that bears this mark, touching it was supposed to be bad luck, but we dared each other to do it when we were lads. I must say I'd never drawn a connection to our coat of arms, but I suppose it might be possible."

Beren held out his hands to take the parchment, Jocasta handing it to him, the warrior monk scratching his chin before tracing his hand along the rune. It was almost hexagonal in shape, save for 4 indents and a multitude of facets, carved meticulously but with a clear goal in its make. "I could be wrong, but this looks to be an old symbol for nobility. No, one of the 12 great noble clans of ancient dwarven past. I remember something about another symbol much like this in Thundrim Kadrin." Beren looked up at the old man. "Your family could have taken artistic liberty, or perhaps they had once been gifted your sigil as a sign of honor, long ago."

The dwarves seemed to take this with solemnity, Otar getting back to his feet and walking over to inspect the scroll. Beren passed it to him, and after examining it, he started to speak in hushed tones to himself, using his native tongue. Radsvir had gotten to his feet and grabbed what he could of the bread and cheese.

"Hope you don't mind me taking a bit," He said to the elder with cheer and raising his hand in thanks. If Martinus took offense, he didn't show it, giving a nod and a 'help yourself' to the dwarf. Gurin took some from Radsvir's grasp, just as Muragrim was digging into his own bag of jerky. Buri seemed to be inspecting the room itself with a professional air, before his eyes fell back to the helmet Otar had put down. Eventually he gave in and picked up the old piece, appraising it. Varin had become busy himself when the unexpected arrival of a wolfhound materialized, the hound lean but hale, though clearly it had not bathed in many months. The beast panted, making small curious growls at the newcomers. Varin scratched its shaggy head, asking Radsvir for a bit of cheese so he could feed the hound something small.

"All of this talk reminds me of a story my father told me as a child. When my families future was promising, before the ice wyrms moved south." Martinus said, taking what whisp of a beard he had and stroking it. "He told me our ancestors once used these old tunnels beneath the house to bury our dead, and that our sigil was placed on the door to ward off spirits of ill intent. He said my uncle once went below, and was lost for two days before he crawled out of the waterfall a mile to the west of here."

"The same with the sigil of your house?" Beren asked, sharing a look with Jocasta.

"Indeed, but..." He stopped, as if he had lost himself in the time of his youth. Beren cleared his throat, and he drew himself back to the present. Beren saw some small movement to the left, and it seemed Varin had convinced Muragrim to hand him a bit of jerky to him for the hound. Muragrim could intimidate most anyone, and Varin was as meek as a dwarf could be. Beren gave a small smile at the interaction. "Yes, the door has been barred for ages. I don't even know if it's still down there."

"Where have you buried your dead then?" Jocasta asked, ever inquisitive.

"In the gardens," He said, though it just led to further questions. What gardens there had been weren't there any longer. "At least, for those that passed here, and did not flee or die in the wars."

"Could the door or your crypts me of dwarf-make?" Beren wondered aloud, his cheeks still red from the cold. Otar lifted his head at that, his mind racing and analyzing every word that was said the entire conversation. Beren could see the words passing by the movement of the old dwarf cleric's eyes. There was reason dwarves had the distinction of being the oldest peoples in the world. They weren't necessarily the most scholarly race, but their minds had a knack for calculations, and they could 'rewind' their mind to listen to things, sometimes, that they might not have heard earlier. Even Beren did not completely understand it. Just as often, if a dwarf wasn't listening, they would be none-the-wiser. However, it seemed the older a dwarf was, the better he would be at it.

"We will inspect them," Otar said as any commander might, closing the scroll and handing it back to Jocasta. He picked up his pack and grabbed his warhammer, the weapon faintly glowing as soon as his burly fist closed around the haft. "With your leave, of course." He said to Martinus.

"Hmm, now? I suppose..."

There was a palpable air of excitement as the party headed for the basement. The aches, chills, and exhaustion of the road was washed away as the party headed deeper into the dilapidated mansion. Even Martinus seemed a little more spry and decisive as he lead the way through moldering halls with an ancient sliver of candle on a tarnished silver dish. The house must once of been very grand indeed, with dozens of room with lush carpets and expensive plaster mouldings. Jocasta wondered how it had fallen into such disrepair in a single generation, or two at the most. Martinus had mentioned ice drakes and she wondered if they had driven off the peasants who had once supported such a grand estate. She belatedly wondered if there was a chance of dragon attack but then dismissed the notion. If the old man had been alone all this time, the likelyhood that some sudden calamity would descend on them seemed small.

"I used to play down here when I was a boy," Martinus mused, moving slowly to the evident frustration of a posse of dwarves eager to complete their quest. Jocasta thought they would bowl the old man over if they had known where they were going, respected for the aged bed damned. They passed down dismal stairways deeper and deeper into the house. The plaster here was moldy and falling away in patches to reveal ancient stonework beneath. Clearly they were beneath the foundation and still moving downwards. At last they reached an ancient crypt its door barred with a rusted metal gate of ornate and baroque design.

"No dwarf made that," Otar grumped. The old man fumbled along a wall and found an ancient stone, he pulled it free and produced a dusty key which had lain hidden for decades. He placed it in the door and turned it with a clink. He tried to push the door open but the corrosion bound it shut still. Beren leaned forward and helpfully shoved with his boot. Creaking and shedding a storm of rust flakes it opened. Otar stepped through, lighting his dwarven trail lantern to properly illuminate the space. Rows of sacophagai stretched down both sides of a long chamber.

"But dwarves laid these stones," he said, running his hand along the wall. True enough the stones were neatly fitted without motar, as solid as the day they were laid.

"We must be getting close..."

Beren placed the collar of his jacket close to his face so the dust now flying freely through the air wouldn't get sucked up into his nostrils. He had taken a small torch from a sconce in the hallway, and now strode down the length of the catacomb, trying to discern anything that stood out. Anything that could help them find some door that led further into the deep.

"Aye, dwarf work, or I'm a bearded gnome." Gurin said, nodding. He stroked his dark beard, leaning in and running his thick fingers almost delicately over one of the tombs shaped slabs. "Manlings must have paid a pretty penny." He pinched some small, minuscule bit of sediment in his fingers and tasted it on his tongue.

Beren turned when he heard an intake of breath, more than a dozen eyes went to see Martinus Morelocke standing before one of the stone caskets. Upon its foot was a bust of a hale man in knightly garb and the crown of a king, holding up a banner, and though it was small, anyone with keen eyes could see the intricate designs etched upon it with a meticulous, almost impossible detail. Martinus exhaled the breath he was holding, the small candle in his left hand shaking from emotion.

"Who is that, manling?" Varin asked quizzically, always the most curious of the troupe. The beardling stepped up beside the elderly lord, bushy eyebrow raised. It was hard to see, but it was entirely possible Varin was very close to the decrepit old man in age.

"My thrice great grandfather." Martinus replied, speaking in slow reverence. "Herod Morelocke, Herod Wyrmslayer. The patriarch of my house." He spoke in a whisper, as if afraid he would disturb the slumber of his ancestor. "I should have remembered he was buried down here amongst my more immediate kin. I... when I think of what I have never accomplished. I am ashamed."

Beren nor the dwarves had the heart to add context to his story. The War of the Wyrms was a recent (by dwarvish estimation) conflict in history, when the northern frost wyrms, flightless but large intelligent creatures, moved south, leading an army of northmen as slave soldiers. For thirty eight years they fought the dwarves of the Frostfell mountains, and only the smallest vanguard made it to the Grey Marches, where the men of the region essentially 'cleaned up' what was left. No doubt this Herod was a captain among men, but as usual, the dwarves had shouldered the threat so that men may live.

"Is that old Anduic engraved on the tomb?" Jocasta asked, her head popping up from behind one of the sarcophagi. She hurried over, eyes wide with curiosity. Suddenly, her foot touched something in the ground that led to a sudden shift, dust and kindling falling from the ceiling as something rumbled. It was as loud and low as the rumbling of a dragon's belly. A small statue in the corner fell, shattering on the ground. Fortunately, it did not add to the lack of integrity of the superstructure, but it was a portent of what might come if they weren't careful.

"Hold!" Gunir called even as the rumbling began, holding his meaty hand out to her. Jocasta was not alone. Everyone froze. Beren was the furthest down the line, his normally youthful, pleasant visage almost grim in the light of the torch. Even Otar held his breath for a long moment, his white beard obscuring his buttoned lip.

"Everyone start to move out," Beren said to cut through the silence. He could tell he had the longest to go, but out of everyone he had the longest legs. "Muragrim, pick Jocasta up and carry her out of here. Varin, help the lord. We need to move before it-"

A large crack erupted between Beren's feet, and the edge of the corridor cracked open without warning. The rumbling slowed to a pause, Beren's entire form rigid. He glared at them. "Move!"

Jocasta’s eyes widened as the crack spread and opened like a yawning mouth. One of the dwarves scooped he up and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. With an eerie unison the dwarves and Beren leaped sideways pressing themselves close to the wall. The stonework there had humped strangely, and Jocasta realized that it must be some feature of dwarven architecture to guard against being crushed during cave ins. The human architecture did not fare so well. Sarcophagi and their cargos of ancient bones slide down into the expanding rift like a charnel avalanche and the dwarves were suddenly wading against a tide of rubble. For a moment Jocasta thought they would make it to safety, when a sudden blast of dusty air exploded upwards from beneath the rumbling floor. It stank of mould and old death and then a vast dagger shaped head emerged from the dust, ice blue orbs glowed with malevolent light as dust ran in rivers off scales the color of late season snow.

One of the dwarves, perhaps several, shouted a word in their own language Jocasta had never head it before, but it seemed somehow seared deep into her memory, like an ancient primordial truth never truly forgotten.

Dragon.

The dwarf caring her dropped her without ceremony and she landed on her rump. She twisted around to keep her eyes on the beast now blocking the way back to the house even as it continued to shoulder its way upwards, crumbling stone work and ancient timber around it. Great foreclaws appeared now , clutching at the edges of the crevice, half obscured by the billowing dusk. The beast opened its mouth in a mockery of a smile revealing fangs of yellowed ivory the size of daggers. They were laid out in rows like some great marine predators, jagged and crosswise like a lamprey.

“At last,” the dragon rumbled, its voice a primal force of nature which would have driven Jocasta to her knees had she not already been there.

“Long have I lain imprisoned in this place, a great wyrm bound by the blood magic of a petty human rat,” it rumbled.The dialect was a human one, though very old and hard to parse.

“Kar gaz chul, largarama kel svar!” Otar snarled in his own tongue. The dragon made a sound that Jocasta recognized as laughter only by context.

“No stone skin runs will stand between and my freedom. I was cursed to lay bound till the last of the House of Morelocke has passed away… and now I shall see it done. Come forward mewling beast and meet your end!”

To Jocasta’s horror she saw Martinus crabbing forward along the wall, drawing closer to the dragon as the dwarves readied their weapons. Beren looked as though he wanted to make a grab for the old man but there wasn’t room for him to get past Otar and Varin.
“I am the last,” Martinus said, his voice strong and dignified with none of the quavering weakness he had displayed earlier.
“I have heard of you Frimssarr, heard how my ancestor damned you with his death curse, have you truely lain trapped beneath the earth all these years on the strength of a humans word?” there was pride and a hint of mockery in Martinus’ voice, which was either total embrace of the inevitable or insane stupidity.

“No longer human,” Frimssarr gloated a great greyish tongue curling in glee. Jocasta stared at Martinus in horror as she saw that the old man was clutching a jagged piece of stone behind his back. At once she fathomed his intent but she knew he was never going to make it. The dragon’s head slid back, its maw opening to reveal a bluish glow of hellfire deep in its gullet. She acted without thinking.

“Wait!” she shouted in what came out more of a squeak than the bellow she had intended.

“He lies! He is a faithful servant only! I am the last Morelocke!” she shouted. Martinus let out an anguished sound and the dragon whipped its head around to face Jocasta. A jet of flame so blue it seared her retina jetted towards her. She ducked behind the sarcophagus, gripping the stone and channeling all the warding energy she could into the solid rock. Alot of things happened at once. The flame struck the warded stone, shattering it to powder and hurling Jocasta back into the billowing dust. The dwarves surged forward eager to reach their ancient enemies. The fireblast divided by Jocasta’s spell craft blasted out horizontally, smashing deep into the sides of the ancient crypt, pulverizing stone like a wave washing over a childs sand castle. Martinus struck, with what proved to be the broken tip of a stone sword, salvaged from one the tombs. He struck with all the force he could muster, plunging the sharp rock into the wyrm's left eye, which exploded in a gout of flame that burned off Martinus’ hand and set his dressing gown on fire. The beast roared and went berserk, thrashing wildly and sending hellfire in all directions. Support joists exploded, there was dust everywhere. The beasts great limbs spasmed in wild disharmony, shredding the earth beneath them like tissue paper. The entire crypt simply gave way, dropping everyone into a void of roiling dust, screaming stone, and thrashing dragon. Jocasta’s last thought before something struck the side of her head and dropped her into unconsciousness was that, just this once, she should have kept her mouth shut.

Beren was, unfortunately, awake for the entirety of the catacomb's destruction. The dragons cried like a wraith and the cracking of stone hammered into his ears like a thunderclap. He felt the ground beneath him give way, but to his credit he managed to leap away and bound onto a sarcophagus, but that soon crumbled underneath his feet, and he found no more handhold or steady place to land. Beren fell into darkness, the last thing he saw before the air was knocked from his lungs was the great head of the dragon rearing back, eye impaled, as the dwarves and Jocasta cried out, arms up and faces panicked as darkness fell.

There was a great rumbling and the shattering of rocks, Beren hit something hard and bounced down a long slope before falling another handful of meters and landing on a flat, hard surface. Something heavy hit him in the stomach, and it seemed almost forever before the sound of falling debris ended. A soft light appeared from far, far above, almost like a distant moon on the mountain road. Beren almost wanted to drift to sleep, but an image of Jocasta flashed through his mind, and his training kicked in as his eyes snapped open. Whatever was on him, he was about to shove off, until he realized it was actually Jo herself. He sat up, his hands behind him and planted on the floor of the large chamber.

He felt her pulse, and a wave of relief flooded through him when he realized she was still alive. He pressed his hand gently along her head to make sure she wasn't bleeding from her skull, and she began to stir.

"Jo," He breathed, helping her slowly to lift herself up. She blinked, her light hair wild and her left arm bleeding from a scrape, but otherwise she seemed unhurt. He still had to make sure. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah," she said tiredly, clinging to his shirt to keep herself upright, but turning her head to get a view of their surroundings. "You?"

"If you're good, I'm good." He said, giving her a warm, albeit lopsided smile. She turned back and looked at him, both of their impressive chests pressed against each other, their noses almost touching.

She shook her head and smiled, before the arcane-archaeologist leaned in, whispering: "I should have known I'd fall in your lap again." Her lips parted for a kiss. Beren's face flushed, blood rushing to his cheeks as he felt a thrill pass through him, as he had fantasized about this moment for the past month, but just before their lips met, a gruff, ugly growl rang out from the debris. Both of the two humans turn their heads, eyes wide as a large stone was overturned, Muragrim pushing it off of him to roll away into the darkness. He muttered something in dwarvish, too quiet for Beren to translate. Behind Muragrim, the very still corpse of the reptilian behemoth lay just under the streaming light from above, its blue-white scales shining brilliantly to give off a soft glow to the entire cavernous chamber they lay within.

Their surroundings suddenly began to shift as more rocks were pushed and dwarves got to their feet. The white bearded Otar grumbled, mumbling 'hammer and tongs' in northern. He had a large gash over his left eye, blood pouring freely down his face, but he seemed alright. Everyone else seemed to have a few bruises and scrapes. Even Buri only gave a few complaints, the fat merchant still a bit too stubborn to get too hurt save for some scrapes. Nonetheless they were fine. All save for Gunir.

"Me damned arm!" The soldier bellowed, Radsvir knocking some debris off him as Muragrim helped him to his feet. As Beren helped Jocasta to her feet, he winced when he saw the unnatural angle Gurin's arm was bent in. Blood seeped out of the chainmail and cloth of his upper dressing, but other than a few grunts, he held himself together well, save for complaints. "Blasted thing must have hit the wall when the drakk's tail hit me, stone take the damned wyrm!"

"Looks a bit bad," Varin said, inspecting it.

"Out of me way!" Otar ordered, and the rest of them parted to give room for the elder, who knelt beside the tough dwarf warrior. He lifted his arm, causing Gunir to wince, but he had too much pride to cry out again. Otar nodded to himself once, his face grim. For many moments he stayed silent, until he stood up. "I cannae heal it all the way, but we can set it back, make a splint, and I can call on Runar to speed up the process for ye."