POOHEAD189

The Enemy Beyond: Warhammer 40,000 Inquisitor RP

"Find the missing Cardinals? Do they not have residences?" I asked, a bland question one unused to such investigations might ask, but it was still prudent.

"Categorically," The Primate said with a wan smile. He gave a flourish of his hand, the long arm of his robe spilling past his hand so he might better grip a pewter jug filled with wine, set atop a porcelain tray upon a table set aside from the central walkway, pouring himself a cup. "There are, of course, sanctioned areas on Avignor where they preside and have abodes, but despite our claims of humbleness, we are inevitably men of means. Many of my peers have houses on estates, sequestered in some closed off area on the planet to pray in silence and contemplation."

I was a true believer, having seen the holy light of the emperor with my own eyes. However, I was a bit too traveled to believe even these holy men only seek isolation to better concentrate on the Emperor. It is unfortunate, but I am certain in some of the residences I would find substances or practices that might be frowned upon if brought to light. I dearly hoped these remaining five were an exception. It would be paramount to gather them without complication so we may better get to the bottom of the assassination.

"Is that normal?" I asked, a servant bringing me my own cup. I took it, then handed it to Emmaline, before accepting one of my own. "Is it possible they were so lost in their...contemplations that they might have simply forgotten to vote? And failing that, would their absence imply that we should not bother checking their sector's at all, and merely ferret out their estates and villas?"

Von Mandlebrot seemed to consider for a moment, before replying: "I have sent dispatches to their offices, already. Out of the five, only two have returned with messages of their aides assuring us of their absence. However, there is a curiosity." He turned back to the map, pointing at the upper left section of the map. A large swathe of the city looked almost shaped like a leaf-bladed sword, the main drag forming the fuller and two great cathedrals waxing and waning along the causeway, with a multitude of outer-lying buildings forming the finer points of the architectural painting. "Primate Fulstes is the closest of those absent, and we have yet to hear anything back from his aide, strangely enough. If you were to begin somewhere, I would start there."

"I don't suppose we can just land there and expect to be granted full access to the tombs and reliquary?" Emmaline added, sipping her wine with an aristocratic air.

"Good point, my lady. I will grant your husband, yourself, and any five men of your company with the seals of the ecclesiarchy. You may use them at your discretion." He conceded.

"You are putting a lot of faith in us, Osten. I am honored, but with all due respect, we just met. I am just a noblemen of Gudrun, after all." I added, having yet to touch my drink.

The Primate gave me a helpless smile. "I have little choice, now don't I? I trust you did not come here to dismantle any of our infrastructure, as even if you were complicit in the assassination of Primate Ratsini, you were only given leave to bring your handful of men down after the fact from a chance meeting, and no one save the Primates themselves knew of the voting debacle. It seems the emperor has brought you and your lovely wife to our aid. See to it you don't disappoint him. No pressure, of course."

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

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."

Pirates - Ye Be Warned

"You wanted sailors! I never said I had sailed before!" Galt exclaimed, daring not to move her boot, even if it was restricting his ability to breathe. The rain falling onto his face wasn't helping in that regard. He felt he was in some weird mixture of strangulation and drowning and the only way to get out of it was to admit something that might get him thrown off the boat in general. Galt saw the captain's eyes widened in warning, and he held his hands up disarmingly. "Ok! Ok, I'll talk!"

"Get him up," Jess ordered, stepping off him and taking another swig of the rum. Galt felt the robust dwarf ring a burly arm around his and haul him up.

-------------

A cutthroat shoved him into a hard wooden chair, black hair matted to his face and his hands clapped in irons. He blinked, the rough handling and the sudden lantern light a bit jarring. The ship still creaked, but the intermittent sounds of the storm was lessened now that he was inside. The room looked to be the captain's cabin, if he had to guess. It was grander than any room he expected to see, with a hammock and treasures from across the sea hung upon the walls. A skullstaff of a witch-doctor, a golden plaque from the ziggurat primitives of the southern isles, and even a bejeweled bra from the shah's pleasure houses of the desert sands. The scarred pirate behind him left the room judging by the sounds of the door, and now the thief found himself in the cabin alone with Jess, who sat, legs up on the desk between them and crossed casually. Also planted on the desk casually was the barrel of a blackpowder musket, which Jess held lazily in her offhand as she drank more of the rum she had nabbed. Whether it was the same bottle or a second one, he couldn't tell.

"Talk," she ordered with a dangerous calm. "Who are you?"

"Love what you've done with the place," Galt remarked. She pulled the hammer back on the rifle with an audible click, which rushed his mind back to business. "My name is Galt," he said suddenly, and had he time he would have cursed himself. He always used the alias 'Jack' when not in guild business. He was really off his game. "I'm uh... OK, I'm a thief. A stowaway on that galley you ransacked. I've never met any of those people in my life and I've never sailed a day. I steal things. Money, items of a precious nature, food when I can't get anything else. I'm from the Seven Ravens, a thieves guild, and I was run out of town by the watch. I jumped on a ship, you shot at it, and I wanted to save my own skin so I asked to join."

"And why not just tell us that?" She asked, quick on the draw. Galt gritted his teeth, thinking of being dishonest for a split second, before realizing the futility of it. "I got ahold of some information many would say is too...important to keep me alive." He saw her eyebrow raised, her interest piqued.

"And why should I not help them out in this noble endeavor? What if there's a price on your head I might want to collect on?"

Galt's next words were forced out of him, but he still managed to sound convincing. Which was good, considering he wasn't trying to deceive her. "You can do that, but then you'll be killing the only person in the known world who's seen the Map of Algorab."

esarus thar no'darador | a warcraft-based roleplay

Give me a day or two and I'll whip up a character!

City of Thieves

"That's criminal," Galt said, apparently unable or unwilling to see the irony in the statement. He snatched back the golden chain of the amulet, running the attractive noose through his fingers, wounding it around his palm. The fence, a tall man by the name of Warde, shook his wild head of hair in a mixture of consternation and resignation. The gall on this man had Galt fuming. He should have realized a fence bereft of the guild was a bad idea, but Aldahan had told him he might fetch a better price in more competitive markets.

"Only if the jewel is real, and it's not." Warde replied.

They were in a small den, almost a cubby within a cantina down the street from the Daybreak tavern. The only barrier between them and a raucous crowd was a small curtain. The wooden desk between them was old and in disrepair. Galt was afraid to put his weight on it lest it collapse quicker than his patience. The man was good. He hid his smile well, the glint in his eyes was muted, and he even kept his arms crossed. But Galt knew he was trying to be played.

"It is real, and you'll give me a good price for it. Ten thousand crowns or I leave." Galt warned.

"I have seen gem after gem in my time, boy, and that's not a real one." Warde assured him derisively. "What makes you so sure it is?"

"Fake gems are not guarded by six armed men behind a locked vault." Galt quipped.

"Could have been a ruse; a distraction." Warde reasoned. Galt bet if he asked Warde to explain why it was fake, he would say he need not explain such trivial things to him.

"I'm the one who makes distractions, I do not fall for them." The thief reiterated.

"If that's true, then how come you've fallen for the Guild's scheme to distract you with petty theft rather than help you ascend to lieutenant?" Warde said, cutting Galt to the quick. It was a misleading statement, of course. Galt knew full well what the guild was doing, but he had little choice but to fight the decisions through less direct means. But it was still enough to have Galt put the amulet back in his pocket and turn.

"Thanks Warde, you were a great help. May your business be honest." He said by way of a farewell, which was as insulting as one could get in their life. Galt pulled the curtain back and shouldered past a drunken patron stumbling his way back to his table. A woman carrying a tray high up above her shoulder turned suddenly, Galt leaning backwards even as his feet continued forward to duck under the iron tray and the half a dozen drinks atop it. Slinking through the crowd, he stepped out into the slowly lightening street, shielding his eyes from the rising sun. He heard a distant yell, and a woman's scream. A few heads turned and a handful of people were running across the street.

He blinked, and lithe woman nearly leaped into him. On instinct, Galt ducked and rolled as the woman flipped over him, both landing in a steady crouch, the dust on the street puffing from the sudden scrape of their feet. Once again, he was impressed with her acrobatic skills.

"You!" Kashvi exclaimed, her cheeks reddened from some unknown physical stress.

"Kash?" He asked aloud. He vaguely recalled she had told him not to use that name, but he was too surprised to really think on that at the moment. "What in the hells are you doing?"

Maverick Malediction

---

Music

---

The marketplace was bustling with activity. Even under the torrid heat, fish vendors waved palms to grab the attention of passersby and men called out to the dozens of men and women to offer samples of fresh fruit from the Heblenon. Laughter rose from one corner of the bazaar, but it was hushed as the crowd parted to make way for a dozen Mamluks, helms with points like pikes gleaming in the sunlight, scale mail glittering as they marched, passing the stalls of cramped wood and colorful fabric.

"Come on," Neil whispered to his companion, placing the cloth back over his lower face and slipping back into the shadows. Calliope followed, her form lithe but not used to the ducking and dodging of a practice thief. She followed him under a shadowed alcove, up a small set of stairs into an alleyway, entering the less reputable part of the merchant quarter of the fabulous city of Ragba Shahir.

The cloying scent of fresh baked bread pierced even their swathed faces, and Calliope's mouth had only just begun to water before Neil presented her with a freshly baked cake, his dark eye winking at her before moving along. The next scent was unfortunately less pleasant, a manure farmer shoveling what could only be described as brown gloop into a carriage wagon, his nose pinned and his eyes red. Neil and the black witch hurried past, leaping over a small wall and traversing past a quaint garden before turning a corner down another alley, this one more shadowed and filled with the eyes of watchers, from the windows and the trash heaps. Doors closed and whispers to Hayashim drifted past lips, but Neil paid them no mind.

He stepped down another corner, passing a man swathed in a cloak with two wicked daggers at his belt in comfortable reach. Neil only gave him a wave, stopping at the cusp of an opening, veiled by a heavy curtain. Neil pulled it aside and held it up for Calliope to enter through. Once she stepped past the unremarkable sandstone wall, she was met with a well-lit room of, if not opulence, then a merchant's luxury. The torches revealed a room with soft carpets and lush lounge sofas arrayed around a small, mahogany table. A painting of a large breasted bedouin girl was hung above a foyer table, and cups of brass were arrayed on the table at the center. Past that, two steps up led to a small counter and a large, comfortable armchair.

Out of a small door to the northern end of the abode stepped a short man, with thin limbs and a sizeable paunch. He bore a large nose and a cloth was swaddled around his head, almost with the shape and likeness of a beehive. He yelped when he saw Neil and Calliope in the middle of his great chamber, the strong young thief pulling the veil from his face, tipping the brass cup back and downing some of his expensive wine.

"Who the- It's you!" The small man cried. "How did you find me!? I told you-"

"I followed you," Neil said before finishing his cup. The small man was flabbergasted and offended at that, but he did not seem overly enthusiastic on kicking both of them out, considering they were already here and he was unarmed. Any weapons could be hiding within the thieves clothes the two had procured for themselves over the past day.

"Why are we here, exactly?" The witch asked, lips pursed in thought and sharp eyes boring into the little man, before flicking to her mischievous lover. "You still have yet to tell me where you went yesterday. I assume this is apart of it?"

Neil took the brass cup and used it to gesticulate to Calliope. "Calli, this is the man that is going to get us into the palace of Maza-dan Sheref. He has a few connections that can get us past a bit of the security, if we make it worth his while. Allow me the pleasure of introducing you to Muk Al-matuk."

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

"Move! Move!"

Torm's two-handed sword clove through the haft of a makeshift flail, opening the skull of a zealot even as he wailed to his god. The lieutenant shoved the corpse aside as it fell, having no time to catch his breath or celebrate the victory. Behind him, his men had dismounted to clamber over the trenches at the base of the pyre, the near 3 score knights now moving uphill, faces covered and brutal weapons in their hands. Even on foot, they moved in a rough wedge formation, Torm at the front, leading them ever forward through the throng. The zealots at the base of the pyre outnumbered them by a factor of four, maybe five, but they hadn't the skill or the arms to thwart them.

What they had was time, however. Something Torm and the dwarves had precious little of.

Sparks flew as a thick bladed axe banged into Torm's pauldron, eliciting a grunt from him. Torm elbowed the zealot in the face, splitting his lip and leaving him to get cut down by his fellows. Sir Robert Longfellow let out a warcry, impaling the fallen zealot with the spike of his poleaxe, blood gurgling out of the wound as he yanked it out, stepping past the still warm corpse.

"To the death!" Gregor the Bold yelled as he fought alongside Malakum the Mamluk against a rearguard assault of flagellants and militiamen, side by side with two Cataphracti Torm could not quite identify in the din. Turning back to the fore, he saw a parting in the sea of foes as their numbers dwindled to but a few score, and past them, dwarves now aflame. Many struggled in their bonds, their beards alight. Some of them cried to their gods as the flames slowly but surely consumed them. Torm had been their enemy, but he appreciated dwarven honor and did not even wish this death on his enemies, though he now felt he would make an exception for the Priest-Queen and her bastard spawn.

Torm wrestled his way to the top, shoving a zealot off the platform as his men-at-arms climbed up with him. He did not know how many dead or wounded on his side, hurrying to the pyres. Even in his armor, he felt the intense heat. Squinting, his eyes beginning to water, he rushed across the wooden platforms that were now catching fire along with the straw and their dwarven captives. He found burnt corpse after burnt corpse, one or two dwarves still moved their mouths even as their skin was charred black. The willpower of the stout folk was an impossible thing, he marveled.

He only found one dwarf still relatively unharmed, at the edge of the flames and gritting his teeth, his hands burnt and his brow sweating profusely. He cut the dwarf's bonds and let him fall into his grasp, pulling him from the flames even as the dwarf cursed from the pain.

"Sir Draufkrieg!" Sir Castor cried, running to him. Every knight was trained to live and sleep in their armor if need be. A man couldn't join their ranks if they could not sprint in their full wargear. Past him, the huge army still moved like a flood. Some tendrils of the vast army swept towards their position, deceptively slowly as an avalanche viewed from far away. "We have five survivors, six with yours."

"Put them on the horses!" Torm called to him, helping his blonde bearded dwarf up. They had to move before they were stuck here, an island in a sea of enemies. "We must get back into the city!"

Bodacious Bounties: Bounty Hunter AU

There was a grinding noise, accompanied by a loud PING.

Neil withdrew the dataslate and looked at the account, the transferred funds now erected on the screen. It wasn't quite physical currency, but he had a look in his eyes that could be described as money signs by anyone apt enough to notice. Jocasta did, swiping the dataslate out of his hands.

"Ah ah ah," She said, wagging a finger at him. She began to move the funds from their temporary, joint mech team account to her own. "This is a step in the right direction, but it's just a small step in the path to you paying me back."

"You mean paying you back for wanting the bounty on me, and your forceful abduction of me causing you to getting boarded by men in your line of work while I merely defended myself?"

"That's the one, yep." She said, handing his dataslate back to him, a satisfied smile on her lips. Neil deflated, but really, he couldn't even be mad. Her dogged determination to squeeze him for all he was worth was almost admirable, in a way.

"Ok, now these funds are going to my bird," She said, and then whipped her hair back, her blonde lockes turning brown even as her thick ponytail whipped him in the face in a tease. Neil blinked from the blow, crinkling his nose as she continued. "And some nice hair products. It's rough out there, ya know."

"And you don't like it, rough?" He teased, grinning.

She snickered, crossing her arms under her chest. "You got nerve, hotshot, I'll give you that."

"Look, Jocasta. Wait, just wait," He said, stepping in front of her, hands out to gesture she slow down. "We have two days until the next fight. I know you want to spend it all on your ship, and I get why because it's a pretty ship. But let me request something, from one ten to another."

"I'm an eleven, but continue." She said.

"Look, we got all this money, and we have a hunk of junk APC. We just fucking won in a big way. Like the crowd was just..." He made some strange gesture with his hand that could be construed as sexual, but it was hard to ascertain. He realized it wasn't working and stopped, waving his hands as if to erase a whiteboard. "Why don't we celebrate? We'll get drunk as fuck tonight, nurse a hangover until mid-afternoon tomorrow, then we go and grab some parts for the mech, then spend the whole next day fixing him up. Come on, let's get some drinks and chill, right? I know I'm a mark but like...you still remember how to party, right?"

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

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!"

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

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..."