The biting wind of fall in the Ravenlands gnawed at the travellers as they began their ascent. The path to Stonegarden, stronghold of the Canide dwarves, was a treacherous ribbon clinging to an almost vertical mountainside. Parapets and cleverly disguised mobile masonry jutted from the rock, and the party felt the keen, appraising eyes of unseen sentinels tracking their every laborious step.
As they climbed, the thin air doing little to ease their burning lungs, Lucia the druid turned to the dwarven warrior Sturmberg.
“This Stonegarden of yours, Sturmberg,” she began, her voice carrying easily in the quiet, “you’ve been rather tight-lipped about your ancestral home.”
Sturmberg, his beard braided with the customary iron rings of his clan, paused, his gaze sweeping over the jagged peaks. “It is… significant,” he rumbled, the understatement heavy in his tone. He then shared the legend of Stonegarden, his voice imbued with a reverence that Lucia and Kristov had rarely heard from the usually stoic dwarf. “It is said that the moon itself, stunned by the beauty of Stonegarden, will linger in its course above our halls. For most dwarves, it is a pilgrimage site, the very cradle of our kind in this world – though the Crombe clan would grumble otherwise. This year’s Veneration of the Earth is whispered to be the grandest in generations. The royal children of Belderan are here, they say, to discuss King Turik’s succession. There is even talk of the warrior princess Arvia of Crombe making an appearance.”
He exhaled, a plume of white in the cold air. “I left as a youngling, seeking a name for myself. My rank here is… modest. I am Canide, but an outsider in many ways.”
The ascent, already arduous, took an extra quarter day due to its steepness and the need for caution. As they neared the monumental stone gates, Lucia, ever observant, spotted a contingent of dwarves whose attire and bearing spoke of immense wealth and status. “Well, Sturmberg,” she said, nudging Kristov with a smirk, “is that your Princess Arvia of the Crombes? Quite the entourage.” Kristov the peddler craned his neck, a speculative gleam in his eyes.
The massive gates of Stonegarden groaned open, revealing stern Canide warriors whose gazes were as unyielding as the mountain itself. Once inside, even in what they were informed were merely the guest quarters, Lucia and Kristov were momentarily struck dumb by the sheer splendor of the Stone Gardens.
“Only true dwarves may enter the inner halls of the Canides,” one guard informed them, his voice a gravelly echo, “and even amongst our kind, it is a rare honour.”
The vaults above sparkled with an artificial night sky, countless gems set into intricate patterns that mirrored the constellations, their facets catching and multiplying the light of strategically placed braziers a thousandfold. Promenades wound through mineral beds where crystals, meticulously cut to resemble flowers, stood on tourmaline stems, their petals shimmering amidst greenery hewn from dark, polished malachite. Clearings with stone benches offered havens for quiet contemplation amidst the dazzling brilliance.
The party huddled. “The messenger from Belderan is dead,” Kristov stated, referring to the unfortunate dwarf whose effects they carried. His eyes still subtly casing the gem-encrusted walls, “We could claim to be his replacements…”
“Or,” Sturmberg interjected, “we could approach this with the honour it deserves. We are duty-bound to inform the esteemed Berwyld of his friend’s unfortunate demise. And,” he added with a flourish, “I also hope to gain an audience with the famed Princess Arvia.”
Kristov nodded slowly. “Berwyld. Yes, that seems the most direct path. He was the dead messenger’s petron.”
As they approached another set of guards, deeper within the guest complex, one of them noted Sturmberg’s clan rings. “A Canide, far from the deeper halls. What assistance can we offer?”
“We carry an invitation,” Sturmberg explained, “though its intended recipient has met a grim fate. We wish to speak with his petron, to convey the news.”
When he mentioned Berwyld, the guards exchanged blank looks. “Berwyld?” one grunted. “What business would a high prince and petron of the Belderans have with a Canide warrior?”
Sturmberg’s brow furrowed. “Not only do I bear an invitation,” he pressed, producing the ornate, ancient candelabra they had recovered, “but a family heirloom of the Belderans, which we sought to return.”
Their attention was drawn to the nearby Belderan royal entourage. The prince, stout and richly attired, was unmistakable, as was the stern-faced Princess Rigalda, whose dark eyes seemed to dismiss everything around her with regal disdain.
Lucia and Kristov felt a familiar prickle of annoyance at the casual dismissal often afforded non-dwarves, but they followed Sturmberg’s cues. “Be deferential,” he had advised in a low murmur. “Dwarven pride is as hard as the mountain stone.”
Sturmberg approached the Belderan prince, presenting the messenger’s letter and the candelabra. Kristov, ever the showman, made a grand spectacle of retrieving the candelabra from his magic pack, first pulling out a battered dwarven helm, a slightly singed stone singer’s hat, and a carved ivory pipe, much to the amusement of the gathered dwarves, before finally producing the artifact with a flourish.
The prince, initially impatient, studied the candelabra. “My apologies for the delay,” he said, his tone shifting.
Sturmberg relayed the news of the messenger’s demise. “I believe he was hunting a relic in the ruins near the Dankwood and met his end there. Duty compelled us to inform you and return this to his family, or yours, as it seems to be.”
Kristov, sensing an opportunity, launched into an elaborate, and largely fabricated, tale of the candelabra’s Belderan origins and its miraculous recovery. The prince, caught up in the moment and perhaps the Veneration’s festive spirit, seemed to accept the tale.
“A great service!” he declared. “Name your boon!”
“I have heard legendary tales of the princess of the Crombe clan,” Sturmberg said, a flicker of an old dream in his eyes. “An audience with her would be an honour.”
Kristov, meanwhile, muttered about a “finder’s fee,” which the prince conveniently ignored. “Entry to the market, you shall have!” the prince granted, though he politely requested the party’s hired hunters remain outside the inner sanctums.
Led by a royal attendant, the trio descended broad stairs into vast, cavernous spaces carved deep within the mountain. The air in the marketplace was a heady mix: the sharp tang of spices, the musky scent of beasts of burden, the comforting aroma of roasting food, and the ever-present smell of embers, all mingling with other, stranger, more metallic and mineral odors. The place was a hive of activity. Most transactions involved bulk goods; bins, barrels, and massive bales of cloth were constantly being moved by sturdy dwarves and well-laden pack animals, while valuables clinked and changed hands. A wide passage at the far end led to another set of enormous gates, presumably opening to the outside world for trade caravans.
They were finally brought before the assembled royal families – Canide, Belderan, Meromannian, and even a stern delegation from the Crombe clan. The air crackled with unspoken tensions and the awkwardness of disparate groups forced into proximity.
Kristov found his fingers itching to liberate a few of the carelessly displayed gems, but the omnipresent, heavily armed guards were a potent deterrent. Sturmberg, acutely aware of the solemnity and the eyes of his estranged kin upon him, studiously avoided the offered flagons of potent dwarven ale.
Princess Arvia of Crombe glowered at Lucia and Kristov, her disdain for the humans palpable. The Canide King and Queen, Karonax and Sulma, regarded Sturmberg with a complex expression; there was pride for his deeds, but also a hesitancy, as if they wished to say more but were constrained by ancient protocols. The effort of maintaining a stoic, deferential composure sent a dull throb through Sturmberg’s temples.
Sensing Arvia’s hostility, Sturmberg inclined his head. “Your Highness, forgive the presence of these surface-dwellers. They are… companions of circumstance.”
Lucia and Kristov exchanged a hurt glance. “We hear,” Sturmberg continued, turning to the assembled nobles, “that there is talk of retaking Vond. We may be of use.”
A murmur ran through the dwarves. Vond. The legendary ancestral capital of all dwarves, lost centuries ago in the First Demon War. Its glittering halls and fathomless mithril mines were now supposedly patrolled by the demonic legions of Zygofer and his corrupted creations. To reclaim Vond was the deepest, most cherished dream of every dwarf, a cause that could unite even the most disparate clans.
Arvia, seizing the moment, leaped onto a sturdy crate.
“Zytera!” she roared, his voice echoing through the cavern. “That blight upon the land! Her shadow has stretched long enough! Vond shall be free!”
She then launched into a surprisingly impassioned tirade against the demonic overlord, her words striking a chord with the assembled dwarves, who roared their approval, their earlier grumbling forgotten in a wave of fervent, righteous anger. Kristov even earned approving cheers when he yelled choice insults about the demonic sorcerer.
Sturmberg, amidst the din, noticed Rigalda Raven, a princess of the Belderan clan, her eyes alight with a fierce, almost predatory gleam at the prospect of war.
Suddenly, a hush fell over the assembly. A procession of figures, shorter and older than even the eldest dwarves, their movements slow and deliberate, emerged from a shadowed tunnel. The Dwelvers – the ancient, mute forbears of the dwarves.
Through a series of cumbersome but expressive gestures, they conveyed their urgent need. A beast, imprisoned by them since the dawn of time in the lightless depths far below Stonegarden, threatened to break free. They required materials from the surface to repair its ancient prison and sought an escort for their perilous journey.
King Karonax of the Canides made a great show of understanding their silent language, puffing his chest out as their “friend and interpreter.” He explained that any dwarf who ventured into those elder layers with the Dwelvers would be forever sundered from their clan bonds, their ties to the surface world irrevocably broken. Thus, strangers were sought for this grim task. Before anyone else could speak, Lupendus Firm, a gaunt, grim-faced warrior known for his death-seeking bravado, stepped forward. “I shall lead this journey into the dark!” he declared.
Lucia, despite her earlier slight, felt a surge of protectiveness for Sturmberg. “To lose your clan, Sturmberg…” she began, her voice filled with concern.
Sturmberg straightened, his gaze fixed on the Dwelvers. “I would rather know the truth and be prepared for it than live a life founded on comfortable ignorance. I am ready.”
Internally, a different truth resonated: he had never truly felt he belonged here, among the rigid traditions of the Canides. This was his chance, not just for fame, but to carve his own legend, to find a purpose deeper than any clan bond.
King Karonax launched into a booming speech, extolling Sturmberg’s selfless sacrifice, emphasizing the vital importance of the mission and the honour of such a profound severance for the greater good. Princess Arvia, surprisingly, also volunteered, her earlier disdain replaced by a grim determination.
Later that night, as an uneasy quiet settled over Stonegarden, the Belderan majordomo discreetly summoned the trio to the royal chambers. Kristov, attempting to move with stealth, tripped over a loose flagstone, the clatter echoing embarrassingly in the corridor suffering a twisted ankle.
Inside, Princess Rigalda Raven and the prince petron, Berwyld – a wiry dwarf with eyes that missed nothing – awaited them.
“A discreet fee,” Berwyld purred, “for a full report upon your return. To us, and us alone.” He then produced a small, lead-stoppered vial. “A contingency. If anything in the depths threatens the surface world… use this.”
Kristov’s eyes lit up at the mention of a fee. Lucia recoiled slightly from the vial, a shiver tracing her spine. Sturmberg found the entire proposition deeply unsettling, yet the potential support and resources these powerful figures offered seemed to outweigh the inherent risks. They agreed.
As they were attempting to slink back to their modest quarters, a hushed voice called from the shadows. “A moment.”
It was Rigalda Raven, alone this time, her regal composure softened by a clear anxiety. She pulled them into a darkened alcove. “My little brother, Trondeval,” she whispered, her voice tight with worry. “He’s gone missing amidst all this… succession talk. He’s impulsive, always trying to prove himself a hero. I fear he might have done something foolish… perhaps even ventured into the underground on his own.”
She pressed a gold coin into Sturmberg’s hand. “Three more, if you find him and bring him back safely.”
The trio exchanged weary glances. Dwarven politics were a viper’s nest they had little desire to disturb further. Yet, the princess’s genuine distress was hard to ignore. They offered vague assurances to keep an eye out for the young princeling.
Rigalda searched their faces, a flicker of concern in her eyes, but seemed to take them at their word as they melted back into the darkness, the weight of new burdens and ancient secrets settling heavily upon them. The depths awaited.
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