Truk'tosh, with Garidan's assistance, manages to bring the tub to the base of the stairs leading out of the crypt. The faint sounds of battle can be heard above, but the murmur of priests and sound of feet rhythmically pounding the stone floor as dwarven warriors are march in formation, lets you know that the battle above has been won as well... but not without losses.
As the group piles up the bodies and assesses their bounty from the post battle scavenging, you hear the approaching footsteps of several armored warriors followed by Grymdor's voice.
No sooner had he stopped speaking, Grymdor appears at the top of the steps with Katadante and four other warriors. With a nod from Katadante, Grymdor looks down upon you then turns and leaves. Katadante followed by the warriors descend the stairs to you.
"Haul the bodies to the Dragon Raod," the commander says to the two younger warriors in leather armor. Without a word, they begin carrying up two of the bodies. Turning to the other guards in dwarven plate, "Secure the font, wait for my orders." The pair march off without as much as a glance in your direction.
Finally, Katadante turns to you.
"So, I hear you did well... eighteen goblins, eh? And a couple of casters among them?"
Huffing slightly from helping to haul that heavy tub without sloshing its unwholesome contents, Garidan initially confines himself to a simple nod of confirmation. After a few deep breaths, he stretches to work loose a kink in his back, then replies more properly. "Exactly so, Commander Ironhelm. They were attempting some ritual to foul the font, but we managed to stop them just in time." He points out the tub sitting next to the piled loot. "They were pouring that nasty stuff into the font itself, so you'll probably want to be a little careful in how you get rid of it."
Usually loathe to draw attention to herself, Niyut offers her analysis of the situation. The dwarves had treated them fairly and kindly. Such treatment calls for reciprocity.
"We found a note that called the substance the 'blood of fire'; they were here on the orders of a 'Mother' who promised that their sacrifice would be remembered. Your enemies took this space specifically to desecrate your sacral font, which suggests they have a strong working knowledge of your hold and the desire to hurt your people in a spiritual fashion."
The battle was won!
... yet the cost was heavy. Gruskorb's own major injuries were grievous, though he'd endured such pain in his past, the hobgoblin's functionality wasn't overly-impaired. What was a danger, however, was the reason behind the attack.
They struck at the heart not only of the dwarves' city, but of the dwarves' hearts.
I think they'd prefer that to actually being struck with the weapons.
You are wrong. The dwarves are a proud people. To defile their holy places is worse than a mortal wound.
Then they are fools.
They are proud.
You make my point for me.
But the spirit wasn't wrong; Gruskorb knew dwarves were stubborn, and they had prioritized this mission for them.
It was during this introspection Niyut fell to the floor. The aegean jerked his head about.
"Could be a curse of some kind. I'll keep an eye out for someone trying to take advantage."
But someone never came. As she arose though, it seemed the spiritualist was not a stranger to these episodes.
"This time? Collapsing like that would have gotten you killed had it come a few minutes earlier!" He knew Truk would be defensive of his sister, but this was life or death for them.
The deer that stumbles falls prey to the wolf.
After watching the extraction of power from the room, the rogue sought advice from the elf. "There is no convenient way to store such power? Potion, wand, or gem won't work?" Not an arcanist by any stretch, Gruskorb had already benefitted from the magics at hand, but he didn't know the fine points of how the field worked. What he did know was power like that was valuable. And the dwarves should trust us...
Katadante was understandably focused on the results of their expedition, though Gruskorb kept his own goals in mind as he deferred them in lieu of the man's topics for now. "While Garidan is right the font was tampered with, it might be good to know why they chose that way to mess with it." There might be more to this feud than he's letting on...
Thought Niyut confirmed his suspicions, it was the dwarves' reactions Gruskorb was more interested in at this point.
"Most disturbing, indeed. I dunna know what Blood of Fire is, but it sounds like Dragon's Fire. And I've no clue who their muther is, but I'm sure she's even uglier than my cousin, Bryburl! Haha! Now, our font is sacred to our traditions and is part of our rights of burial. However, the goblins sent most of their reinforcements to take the alchemist's fire. We 'eld them off and drove them back beyond our halls. I dunna think they were focused on our crypt, but I'm glad you were hear to defeat them." Katadante nudges the body of the goblins with his foot. "They do seem to be growin' them larger, don't they..."
"The Emerald Guard took a large hit when we regained the Alchemist's Guild and had to be reinforced with the Ruby Guard. So, while we won... there won't be a feast tonight. There is still much to be done. Our guard on the lower levels have reported that the goblins have fallen back from the frontlines down there, ever since the battle. If you want to make for the catacombs and find a way to the Mountain Tower, tonight is probably your best bet. Grymdor will lead you as far as he can. I've asked him to return to us with a scouting report about what you find. Also, I've had some provisions left for you back in the temple with your other gear." Katadante bows low then thumps his chest twice with a clenched fist. "Thank you... May the gods protect you and should you fall in battle, may Jolnar embrace you with the welcome arms of a mighty warrior."
Hearing of the battle's other results, and of the losses sustained among Garidan is both cheered and saddened in turn. Learning that party likely won't have time for much of anything--such as rest--before leaving puts a slight frown on his face as he thinks of the difference between what he'd like to do before leaving, and what he'll actually have time for. "If we're to leave tonight, then I beg the temporary assistance of a couple of your men, Commander." Indicating the piled goblin equipment, he continues. "I need to get this to the quartermaster as soon as possible, and won't have time for several trips back and forth."
Even as he speaks, Garidan has slung the bow over his shoulder and begun piling equipment up for transport, starting with the bows and swords. As he slings the former over his other shoulder, he looks to the other members of the party and gives a nod toward the red-stained armor. "If one of you could get that and add it to our gear, I'd appreciate it. Regardless of what it may, or may not, be made of, it's good armor and we're not exactly so rich for choices in that regard that we can just ignore a set when we find one." He then considers Gruskorb's own armor carefully. "Besides, it may not go unclaimed for very long," Garidan says as he carefully gathers the shortswords in both arms before disappearing up the stairs and off to the armory.
Reaching the armory with only a few checks for directions from passing dwarves, Garidan unloads the swords onto the nearest clear surface with a rattling clatter of metal, then gets the looted bows off of his shoulder with a happy sigh as the strings finally stop cutting into him where his armor doesn't cover. Finding the quartermaster, he puts on his friendliest smile and prepares for the negotiation to come. "And hello once again, sir. I've come with more prizes of war to offer you." Picking up one of the bows, he presents it for inspection. "Got eight of these, average quality. Bit on the small side, but perhaps just right for some children to sit back at the gate and learn the archer's trade while putting shafts into those undead out there."
The Quartermaster takes a look at the bounty and grunts, "Well... the swords are crap. But we can melt them down and salvage the ore. And perhaps we can use the bows as training weapons, I suppose your right about that. So, what will you be wanting?"
Garidan nods ruefully as the quartermaster quite rightly pegs the quality of the blades. "I know well enough that the swords are metal salvage at best, but waste not, want not, right? There are also thirteen suits of leather armor, average quality and not sized for anything larger than goblin, a shortspear, and a suit of hide armor that, honestly, could do with a nice, cleansing soak in fire." Frowning, he steps to armory door and looks out. "I had hoped that Commander Ironhelm could spare a couple of his soldiers for a quick bit of hauling, but if not, I'll have to make a few trips between the crypt and here to bring in the remainder."
Facing the quartermaster once more, he returns to the haggling. "For the blades, seeing as they're trash more likely to kill by the rust on them than the edges, and you'll need to scrap them and all, I'll be content with five crowns. I'd take it in kind, but a tavern keeper is requiring actual coin for something I need to pick up. For the bows, I'll be quite content with more arrows and bolts, say an even hundred of each? Maybe a few more of those special arrows you provided on my last visit, if you've any rattling around in here."
Humming thoughtfully, he looks around the armory, examing the various bits of equipment with a considering gaze while considering what would best aid the party. "Provided the rest of the equipment is deemed acceptable by you, I'd be willing to turn it over to you for a bit more coin, and a friendly introuction to an alchemist with some product to sell for that coin."
Niyut will look for the dwarven wizard, Dtukk. She wants to get a second opinion on the "Blood of Fire."
"You won't find any alchemical supplies in the East Gate for sale. Katadante has confiscated all of the Guilds supplies for the defense of the city. And I've no more of any high quality arrows they've all been distributed. I can give you 50 standard arrows and no bolts, along with ten crowns for everything you've brought me... but your taking the hide with you. It's putrid!"
Looking about the armory, you can see that it is mostly cleared out. Only about half the workers are here now compared to earlier and only a few finished weapons hang on the walls. Four dwarves are scurrying about cleaning and gathering scrap to melt down in the massive vessels above the forge. A large, older dwarf is working the forge while a short, burly dwarf with a beard touching the floor pounds a head to a battleaxe. In the far corner two young dwarves and making sheets of chainmail while a another crafts them together.
While the others tend to their own errands, Truk'tosh goes to the instinctive location of the Hammerfist holdings.
While the others tend to their own errands, Truk'tosh goes to the instinctive location of the Hammerfist holdings.
Truk'tosh finds himself standing outside a large metal gate on the southern main passage two levels above the Dragon Road. A lowered portcullis guards the entrance to a well maintained courtyard. Above the entrance a hand-chiseled relief of the Hammerfist family crest is set into the keystone of the archway. A braided cord of silk hangs within arm's reach just on the other side of the portcullis.
As Niyut searches for the wizard, she reflects on her conversation with Katadante. He seemed to have missed the point of her observation. The worrisome part was not that the Goblins placed a high priority on the alchemists' guild than the crypt. That seemed likely. Her concern was that the Goblins knew where the crypt or the guild were at all.
When they had first arrived in the dwarven stronghold, Katadante said that the shifting of the earth open a passage between an unknown goblin warren and their halls.
Is Katadante lying? Did he know of the goblins before their recent assault? Is he simply unconcerned that the goblins seem to know much more about the dwarves than the dwarves knew about them? Perhaps he is being merely obtuse.
Not for the last time, Niyut wishes she could share her worries with her brother. Truk'tosh is not as quick as his sister, but he has a solid wisdom that is a useful sounding board. Unfortunately, she fears to mention her concerns in mixed company.
Garidan seems friendly enough, but I question his judgment. He is quick to kowtow to authority. Gruskorb is competent, but his nerves are rattled. If he knew I fear treachery, I do not know how he would react. Malthazir, I simply do not trust. I wonder where the elven woman is . . . what did she say her name was? Worse, if I cannot share my suspicions about the dwarven story, I certainly cannot mention the creature that assaulted me in the spirit world.
"Ya you! Be careful with that... its highly explosive! shouts the dwarven wizard at the troops clearing alchemical supplies from the Guild house. He turns to greet Niyut, "Well, hello there! Kata said you were lookin for me... what can an old man do ya for?"
"Hello, wizard Dtukk. In our recent assault on the goblins who were defiling the sacral font, we found them pouring this substance into the font to desecrate it. They called it the "blood of fire." I believe it may have been created from some fusion of alchemy and divine ritual. Though it has a faint necromantic aura, it is not precisely magical. Could you examine the sample I took and tell me what you observe of its nature?"
Niyut pulls out the sample she took.
Truk'tosh reaches between the bars of the portcullis to tug on the braided silk, expecting a bell or chime. He looks for guards or other signs of habitation.
Dtukk takes the vial in hand, "Ah... its warm to the touch! He examines the substance closely and casts several incantations. "True... I too sense the necromancy, but this is beyond my knowledge. Come with me," he says as he leads Niyut to the Alchemist's Guildhall.
The smell of death surrounds the entrance to the guildhall as Niyut sees several female dwarves in grey robes kneeling in silent prayer before rows of dwarven corpses. Another set of workers haul the bodies of slain goblins away while still more go about cleaning the spilled blood from the grand stairs leading up to the entrance. Atop the stairs, you see that the iron gates of the center and left archways into the guildhall have stood strong, but the right archway is partially collapsed and the metal gate lies in a twisted heap upon the stairs.
As Dtukk and Niyut approach, the center gate opens and they pass into the guildhall. Dtukk waves to a venerable female dwarf bent with age. She reciprocates the wave, and Dtukk greets her with a very low bow. "Graetl, may I present Niyut of the Firebird Clan. She was among the outsiders that reclaimed the crypt. What do you make of this?" Dtukk asks as he hands over the vial to Graetl.
The alchemist unseals the vial and takes a studied smell. Then waves her hand over the vial and regards it with a sudden scowl. "Evil it is, but not always. I sense the life blood of a red dragon, and yet while this came from a living creature... it is not that of a dragon. It is corrupted with a necrotic essence and blessed by divinity. Where did you find such a thing, child?"
As Truk-tosh pulls the cord, a series of bells begin to chime in low rumbling tones. On the far side of the courtyard, a thick dwarf clad in armor exits the residence and comes Truk's way.
Keen to any subtle details, Truk-tosh notes that the doors to this estate are narrow and short as if scaled slightly smaller than the typical dwarven archetecture he has seen in the East Gate.
As the warrior closes the distance between himself and Truk, the half-orc realizes that his vision has been playing tricks on him. It is not that the buildings are smaller, but rather that this particular dwarf is much larger. As he finally comes together face to face with the half-orc, the dwarf stands nearly as tall as Truk-tosh and certainly more than twice as heavy. His greying beard gives away his age, however.
"State your business..."
Involuntarily, a smirk crosses Truk's face and a thought enters his mind.
Still alive, unbelievable...
The dwarves coming in just as Garidan finishes his hoped-for payment interrupts the conversation, and the dwarves have dumped the armor--and a single--and cleared the armory with muttered words in tbeir own tongue that likely involve that hide armor, given the glares aimed at it. Soon the smell of the armor is making itself known, which likely speeds the quartermaster's inspection of the armor so he can finish the dealing and be rid of it.
Recognizing that the offer from the quartermaster isn't getting any better, Garidan shrugs in resignation and nods. That last stipulation catches him off guard, however, and before Garidan can muster an objection, he finds himself standing outside the armory with payment clutched in one hand, the rank-smelling armor in the other, and the armory doors slammed decisively shut against his back. Glancing at the armor, he tries very hard not to breathe while wondering just where he can get rid of it. Attempts to ask nearby dwarves come to naught, as they get one whiff of the armor and either leave before he can get a word out, or wordlessly hold him at bay with menacing glares.
He's eventually forced to trek to Eastgate's main entrance, where a bit of abject pleading--and an ill-timed crossbreeze--convinces the guards to open the door just long enough and far enough for Garidan to fling the unwanted armor out into the plaza amidst the charred remains. A trace of the vile odor still lingers on his hand, and Garidan takes the time to find someplace where he can wash tha off before resuming his search for supplies. Heading to the Headless Bugbear, he once again meets with the brewmaster about a keg. "Hello mistress, and a good day to you. I'm here about that keg."
"HEY! IT'S THE PEACHED-FUZZ FACED BOY!
The room responds with a hearty roar of laughter, followed by much muttering and curses as several dwarves open their coin purses and pay off their lost wagers. Even the Brewmaster pulls out a gold crown from her pocket and flips it to the bartender with the surly grin.
"So... you're back... wanting that wine cask, I imagine. What did I say 20 gold crowns?"
"HOY! You said that you'd give 'em the cask for 10 crowns if 'e comes back alive and all four limbs intact, Hwalda!" shouts the bartender.
At these moments, the Brewmaster wishes she could fire daggers out of her eyes. Glaring back at Garidan, she restarts, "10 gold crowns..." and holds her hand open.
"I am Truk'tosh", the big orc explains plainly. "Myself and some companions have been helping Katadante Ironhelm with securing your crypts from the goblin invaders."
"I would like to talk if you can spare the time. I believe we once shared a mutual friend - a proud priest of Jolnar", Truk adds while tapping the wooden holy symbol hanging from a cord around his thick neck.
Not quite certain just what's going on, beyond being the subject of a wager of some sort, Garidan hands over the required amount--conveniently, just he got from the quartermaster--and doesn't say anything, though his face reddens a bit as a result of the unexpected attention. When the keg arrives, he hefts it up with a grunt and leaves with a nod of thanks. "A pleasure doing business, mistress."
Making his way back to the temple and the res area shared by the party, he notes with some surprise that Niyut and Truk'tosh both are absent. Wondering what they could be doing in a predominantly dwarven city such as Eastgate, he sets about ensuring that the gear is properly packed for loading onto the cart, save for keg which must be cleaned and refilled with clean water before he can find a priest to properly bless it, and the packs that will be loaded into their animals. Garidan takes the opportunity to properly catalogue the supplies provided by Commander Ironhelm.
The dwarf stares with a fixed expression at the symbol of Jonar and then nods to Truk-tosh. "This house has many friends that are priests of Jolnar."
Truk'tosh reflects for a moment, hoping his spiritual companion will chime in. "Does the name Morgrym sound familiar?"
Upon returning to the temple, Garidan finds a small stockpile of provisions set amongst your belongings. On top of the provisions, he also finds a small wooden box containing five small silver medallions, a rolled parchment sealed with wax, and a note from Klagor.
Many thanks are due you, but I have still another favor to ask. Please deliver this parchment to Bill at the Mountain Tower. The medallions in this box will grant each of you safe passage and respect from our brethren. - Klagor
Niyut contains a smile. Some young practitioners might bristle at being called "child." But Niyut knows that she is a child, especially to this woman who could measure the difference in their ages in centuries instead of moons.
Revered Elder, Katadante asked my companions to retake the sacral font from the goblins. After defeating a shaman and several skirmishers, we caught several of them pouring this substance into the font while a sorcerer chanted the incantation for some ritual. The effects of this ritual seemed to confuse the world of flesh for the world of spirits, so I crossed over into the spirit world and with the aid of the dwarven ancestors was able to draw out their malice."
The young oracle pauses to let the story sink in before she continues, "Which god do you think blessed this blood? How can something be both a dragon and not a dragon? A sorcerer of the blood?"
Of course, he will know me...
Yes, quite. But to call him 'friend', is asking too much for my Lady."
"Tell me more. What did Morgrym do to earn your Lady's distrust? I want to know more about him."
"Clever, this one is," Graetl remarks smiling at Niyut but addressing the wizard. "But wisdom won't come until the crow leaves his mark. A sorcerer is not what you seek..." The old woman turns and begins to shuffle away. "A wyvern," she comments without turning back. "A wyvern has given its blood. But what divine power blessed this ritual, the blood does not say. Be safe, my child."
"He broke his father's heart, he did. Renounced his title and left his house with no heir for now none have claim to the Hammerfist name."
Truk'tosh waits for a moment, hoping for a word from Morgrym.
"What about Lady Garlana? Why can't she return and claim it?"
Stsring in puzzlement at the content of the box, Garidan knows tht there's something wrong, but he can't figure out what it is. Saying as much aloud draws a swift reply from his sister.
"There are only five of those medallions, but there are six people in this little group. Well, six with actual bodies of their own, that is. Though I haven't seen that little slip of an elf since we arrived here, as a matter of fact."
Once his attention is drawn to the discrepancy, and the related issue, Garidan spends the rest of the time packing in deep thought. Why wasn't Elannaris with them in the crypt. For that matter, where did she go off to to begin with? He made a mental note to bring the issue up with the others at the first chance, after he does a final bit of scrounging. Approaching what he believes is one of the more junior priests, Garidan gets directions to the temple's kitchens, where he spends a good bit of time cleaning the keg out properly and checking it for any signs of leaks or flaws.
Finding none, and satisfied that the keg won't accidentally contaminate its new contents, Garidan fills it brimful with clean water and seals it. He then sets out to find Klagor Deephammer with the hopes that he can convince the priest to apply a proper blessing to the water, turning it into an effective weapon against the undead.
Niyut gives Graetl's back a small bow as the older woman shuffles off. She has more questions, but it seems churlish to call after her. Mysterious exits are the prerogative of the aged afterall.
She instead turns her inquiries towards Dtukk. "The shamans of the Firebird teach that this world is two-and-one and that balance is achieved in its distinction and separation."
The truth of the shamans' wisdom seems clear to Niyut in the aftermath of the First Hazard's great sin. She continues, "The world of spirits gives the world of flesh energy and mutability. The world of flesh gives the world of spirit substance and power. Therefore, they work with the magic closest to the world of flesh because it causes the least imbalance and abjure more esoteric workings. This has left gaps in my knowledge. I do not know the favored appearances of the greatest of the spirits, the ones lowlanders call gods. If I described a great spirit to you could you tell me what it might be or know some other expert?"
Niyut does not mention that her own magic tended towards the esoteric and her clan's shamans mistrusted her as a result. She was their intercessor with the other world, part gatekeeper, part goat staked out in the wilderness to appease greater hungers. Ignorance was too great a luxury and too great a weakness in this new, never-ending night.
"Lady Garlana is still in the Eastgate and lives in these Halls. But as there is no male heir, the name will die. I only wish..."
A loud grinding of stone echoes and the front door into the Hammerfist Halls opens. Grymdor and a young female dwarf emerge, stopping momentarily as the see Truk'tosh speaking with the burly dwarf. The girl, already agitated when she exited the Hall, looks even more distraught as she speaks a few words that only Grymdor can hear. He bows his head in deference and leaves. As he passes the pair at the gate, Grymdor does not raise his eyes to meet Truk'tosh but holds his head bowed.
"I have matters to attend to," the massive dwarf states, "Good day." He pauses as if waiting to be dismissed.
"A whole keg of it... holy water?" the dwarf says with a look of bewilderment. "I suppose it's proper that we grant you this request. You did save Jolnar's Font from whatever evil the goblins brought with them. Give it here... I'll have it back to you before dinner." Klagor hoists the keg on his shoulder and begins to walk away towards the back of the temple.
"This is the first of these I've carried on my shoulder... and not drank!"
"I know a bit o' religion, I do. And what I don't know, Klagor surely does. Tell me of this dark spirit," Dtukk asks as he takes a seat at a nearby table. The dwarf keeps is deep set eyes fixed on Niyut as she describes her encounter.
Truk'tosh hesitates and then calls out. "What if I told you Morgrym lives on... in a ways. Could he legitimize her claim to the family name?"
In a quiet voice, she asks:
"It was a hunched figure of shadow and flow burning flame. Its eyes were like coals, and its teeth were as rubies. Its arms were distended and too long for its frame. Like the mythical beast men of the jungle."
With the priest off to bless the keg's contents, Garidan finally takes a break, checking over his equipment but otherwise just watching the dwarves around him. After a while, a thought occurs to him and he looks around to confirm that, yes, he only sees dwarves. But didn't Commander Ironhelm mention something about surviving refugees from the city? Odd that he hasn't seen any of them around.
The problem nags at his mind enough that Garidan finally decides to satisfy his curiousity with a bit of exploration. While he could ask someone, certainly, he has to go out anyway to find, and hopefully purchase, the last item on his shopping list. Stepping out the temple, he does as he has several times before and asks a passing dwarf for directions. "Excuse me for the interruption, mistress," he says to the matron whose attention he's caught. "But could you possibly direct me to someone here in Eastgate selling flasks? Nothing fancy, just common stuff that's usually bought by the crateful."
Niyut's questionable fortitude combined with the dwarves' merely matching strength to the goblins gave the rogue pause with exploiting their advantage for a quick bit of coin before they left. We might need them later, and we might need them to abandon their safety for our own. That is a tough needle to thread...
Though accompanying Garidan as he rid them of the spoils of combat, Gurskorb did not wish to follow him toward his futher venues. Rather, he wanted to keep to the shadows and really see what transpired in this place. How bad were their losses? How acclimated are the folk to those sorts of deaths?
He felt more confident of his ability in a fight after those encounters, and as the dwarves proved to not be out of his league, he stood a notch taller in their halls.
What are you running from?
The spirit nibbled at his nerves. Damn it! I'm not here to be chatted at. Leave me be!
You avoid getting to know your companions. Why is that?
I make my own path. They have their uses.
As do you. You are better used together.
And we've done just that, right?
But you dislike it. Something from your past?
That's enough.
A faint laugh could be heard at the back of his mind. Gruskorb ran his coarse hands across his skull in frustration.
Come. Tell me what roots your soul had in its younger days.
Better idea. You tell me your story, and then I'll think about it. Clearly upset with the inability to defenestrate the spirit, Gruskorb retreated to negotiating with it.
Truk'tosh hesitates and then calls out. "What if I told you Morgrym lives on... in a ways. Could he legitimize her claim to the family name?"
"It would warm my heart to know that he lives, for I loved the boy he was, but lambast the man he became," the dwarf says with a look of disappointment. "... and Lady Garlana's claim is not challenged, but without a male heir, title shall pass to her daughter. When she weds, these halls will change houses and the Hammerfist's will be no more."
As before a rush of emotions overtakes Truk'tosh.
A dreadful look of concern upon Dtukk's face underscores the danger he foresees. "I know of no god that takes that shape, but the Lord of Lies takes many forms.... perhaps it was Quarraine. He is deceptive beyond belief and can make a fool of any that cross his path. Caution, I would advise you."
As Gruskorb wrestles with the voice inside his head and heart, he wanders through the halls of the dwarves of Eastgate, ever mindful of his hosts' actions.
He watches intently as the Dragon Guard assemble the bodies of their dead comrades in neat, orderly rows just inside the Halls of Mourning. He witnesses the procession of families that file through the hall, stopping momentarily before each of the deceased of their individual houses. He blinks in disbelief as he sees no tears of sorrow and hears no wails of anguish from those that have gathered to say their final fare-thee-well. He feels the undeniable draw of wealth as each warrior clad in his jeweled armor is lifted onto the shoulders of the honor guard and taken to the Crypt.
Greed... that separates you and I. You desire to possess what I've spent a lifetime preserving... but with the Shaping, perhaps both of our lives have been for naught...