A DWARF HOLD TO THE WEST
A runner stumbled through the final steps of a mad sprint, arriving at the stone chamber where the War Council was convened. The hall was immense, crowned by a crystal dome that refracted the sun above into beams of pure azure, banishing all shadow within.
The beardling huffed, a crumpled missive clenched in his thick fist, flecked with sweat. He took a deep breath and hurriedly tucked his longest whiskers into his belt—an attempt to appear more worthy before the assembled Lords and Thanes. He was barely acknowledged as another dawi, whose whiskers were longer and more impressive, snatched the message from his hand and gruffly dismissed him to take water.
Thane Dargran Ironheel flipped a corner of the mangled scroll lazily. There were so many, now. These were times of woe; pleas for aid poured in from every corner of the Eternal Realm.
A quick glance turned into a brow-furrowing frown.
Without a word, Dargran’s gauntlet met that of his liege, Lord Edri Loneaxe—a practiced maneuver in these grim days, perfected by necessity. Edri, for his part, had long been considered jovial for a dwarf in the latter part of his fifth century, humming war songs where others grumbled and cursed. He hummed still as he unrolled the letter and brought it close to his elder eyes.
Perhaps it was from his cousin in Karak Hirn? Or the King in Karak Azul? Old Dargran wouldn’t bring him anything he couldn’t handle—
Slanted runes.
The East has fallen. I again beg the High King to save the women and children I safeguard in Uzkulak.
Dargran saw it too—the parchment nearly swallowed by a single, desperate Rune of Flight, leaving space for only that final plea. Tragedy abounded, and Karaz-a-Karak’s council met daily to coordinate reunification and rescue efforts across the Underway. But these missions were almost entirely military. Every beardling and maid had long been secured within Everpeak. If future generations could yet be saved…
As Dargran turned to speak, Lord Edri’s beard had already swished back into place, concealing the message—now firmly wedged in his belt. No word would be shared with the assembled council.
Dargran opened his mouth, but the glare from his lord and old friend stopped him cold. It could have killed a goblin. The Thane’s confusion turned to silent pleading. Why? Are we not all Grungni’s?
Edri’s face had hardened. The joy was gone. He muttered, like a blade sliding from a scabbard:
“They died when they left the Karaks for blighted plateaus. They died when they horked gold in the face of catastrophe. They died when they chose to hide in that cursed place rather than face doom with dignity. They are dead. The dead do not receive aid.”