The stale air of Stonegarden, usually thick with the scent of ancient stone and dwarven toil, now crackled with an unfamiliar tension as the party made their way back into the upper marketplace.
A low hum of commotion, like a distant, agitated hive, had replaced the usual rhythmic clang of hammers and barking of trade. The party, having clawed their way back from the lightless depths, found themselves thrust into a fresh maelstrom of dwarven politics and whispered fears.
Where soldiers of different clans had been running about in the morning, the armored dwarves now stood grouped together and lazily gossiping. It was clear that no one had found any leads on the whereabouts of Prince Trondeval.
The Belderanian dwarves — desperate not to give other clans an edge during their succession crisis — still moved about with purpose. The adventurers knew that the clan couldn’t afford to cause any more harm to their reputation.
The corpulent King Turik of Belderan still drew breath, but it was rumored that his time was short. As the party wandered toward the royal wing of Stonegarden, they caught whispers of the king being called “the Shield Louse” due to his isolationist nature. Turik had closed the gates of his kingdom and refused to get involved in outside events. Other clans and even some of his own children were angered and demanded he intervene to stop orcs and humans from ravaging dwarven lands.
Unfortunately for the hastily assembled adventurers — Lucia Talene, Rudever the Druid, Torben the Raven Guard, the dwarves Grimnir and Sturmberg, and the wolfkin Zarah — news of their return had spread quickly. They knew it was only a matter of time before they were pressed on the status of Prince Trondeval and the whereabouts of Arvia of Crombe — information they were not inclined to share.
As they neared the entrance to the royal wing, a Crombe soldier barred their way. The guard spat in their direction and declared, “So the outsiders have returned from the holy depths alive… but without Princess Arvia.”
The guard leveled his gaze at Sturmberg and Grimnir in particular and issued a demand. “Where is Arvia? What have you done with her?”
Unaffected by the dwarf’s rudeness, Sturmberg replied, “She decided to leave for Vond early. We had no reason to detain her further after she helped us achieve the dwelver’s goals.”
The guard grew a look of suspicion across his face and said, “No one has ever returned from the depths alive except for the dwelvers themselves. You expect me to believe that a group of nameless nothings survived but the legendary warrior princess of the Crombe either did not or left?!”
Sturmberg calmly but bluntly replied,” She discovered things that were… unsettling to her in the depths. Arvia wanted some time alone before rejoining her troops. We have no reason to assume that she’s not already halfway to Vond.”
The guard was unconvinced by the story but accepted that there was nothing he could do about it.
“Clanless — know this,” He said. “The Crombes will have their eye on you. If your story proves false and if any harm comes to Arvia, you will be made to answer.”
“What are you on about?” Sturmberg forcefully replied. “You just said no one comes back — we did. We offered the princess the safety of our party, and she refused. That’s on her, not us, now get out of our way.”
The Crombe guard’s face flushed a furious purple-red before he stormed off, muttering angrily to his comrades, “Make sure every clansman knows of these fools. If harm comes to Arvia, they will be repaid in kind.”
Shuffling down the hushed hallways of the nobles, the adventurers knew that their time of reckoning approached. None of their choices seemed appealing. They could go immediately to the court of King Karnoax of the Canides and tell the whole truth of their expedition; they could tell a sanitized version of it, or they could talk to the Belderanians first and earn an even higher reward — but at the cost of tipping the balance between the clans. And those options didn’t even address the issue of the missing Prince Trondeval and his tragic fate.
“If we tell the truth,” Sturmberg’s voice was a low growl, “it just pisses off the Beleranians that we were there and things went bad. If we lie, say we didn’t find him, tell all the clans about the Scarne the dragon, we collect a paycheck, and chances are good it never blows back on us.”
The pragmatism was chilling, yet undeniably sound. Revealing Scarn’s continued existence would shatter Crombe’s prestige, forcing a reevaluation of dwarven history — a dangerous upheaval.
“Trondeval interacted with us before he was sent off to another dimension,” Grimnir reminded them, a grim edge to his tone. “He can tell them we were there.”
“What are the chances?” Lucia scoffed. “We tried to help him, to our credit, before he got sucked into the void.”
In the end, the party agreed that the less said about the prince, the better. They would claim ignorance of his fate and focus on the unsettling discovery of Scarne, the mother of all dragons.
“I’d rather talk to the Belderanians,” Grimnir declared, his dislike for royalty a palpable thing. “We’re clanless now. Let’s get that money.”
But then a thought sparked. “Could this be leveraged to regain a clan?” Torben asked.
“Unlikely,” Sturmberg replied, “our banishment was absolute.”
Yet, a glimmer of opportunity remained. Rudever’s helmet, a relic of Kerr of Belderan, an ancestor of the current royal family, could be priceless to King Turik. Coupled with the truth of Scarne, it was a powerful bargaining chip.
The group decided to tell the petron Berwyld of their achievements. He was more like his father, cautious and inward-looking, focused on dwarven religious ideology and building, not politics. Rigalda, the general, was militant, eager to expand dwarven influence and confront the encroaching threats. Berwyld seemed the safer, more lucrative bet.
They found the renowned stonesinger in his chambers; his face grew alight with anticipation at their entrance.
“None of us believed you would return,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Tell me what transpired.”
They spoke of the dangers, of Kritov’s mishap and of Rudever’s transformation, carefully omitting Trondal’s fate. Berwyld scoffed at “human” magic, praising the dwarven stone singing.
Then came the bombshell: “Are you familiar with the legend of Scarne?”
Berwyld’s eyes widened. “Indeed. The pride of the Crombe clan.”
“She’s still kicking down there,” Sturmberg revealed, “the source of the rattling.”
The petron exploded in manic laughter, a sound both unsettling and triumphant. “The mother of dragons is alive? The Crombes have lied all this time?”
His glee was palpable. “You have done my clan a great service.”
“We looked for the missing prince,” the group added, maintaining the lie, “but he must have taken a different path. We never saw any evidence of him.”
Berwyld scoffed again. “Trondeval will be missed by no one. He probably fell to his own doom.”
To help ease past the issue, the adventurers then brought out the ancient helmet.
“We found a little something,” Torben said, presenting the ancient relic. Berwyld’s eyes grew wide, his composure cracking. He touched each of them on the shoulder, his voice reverent. “This helmet, long lost from my family line… my father will be overjoyed. This will secure my claim to the throne. Ask a boon of me, and if it is in my power, it shall be so.”
The adventurers weighed their options carefully. Having a noble such as Berwyld in their pocket would provide untold benefits in the future, especially if he became king. However, they did have immediate concerns that he could solve for them quickly.
Sturmberg requested that skilled workers be sent to their holdfast in the east — Ogre’s Thorn. The keep was in crumbling condition and was only guarded by a handful of villagers and a lone wolfkin warrior. Grimnir, with a heavy heart, requested that his daughter be part of the work crew. The reason would have to remain secret even from her, but it would get her out of a dangerous entanglement.
Meanwhile, Torben pulled Lucia aside and revealed the dark secret of his past — that he failed to protect a Raven sister and wished to atone. He planned to have Berwyld provide sanctuary on his lands to any Raven sisters and to establish a network to support the order.
Lucia, herself a Raven Sister in secret, dared not hope that such a thing was possible. She had held her nature in the shadows for so long that she couldn’t allow herself to believe that she could trust anyone.
However, her tepid response was met with a quick resolve from the dark knight. Through their discourse, it became clear that Torben had discovered her secret. Realizing that her time in the shadows was over, the druidess pledged her support for his plan but did not outright confirm her identity.
Lastly, Zarah asked for a private hunting ground on Belderanian lands — a wild preserve just for her that would forever be under the clan’s protection.
Berwyld listened, his expression thoughtful until the party was done.
“Your asks are as humble as they are wise, and I believe them to be within my power.”
The petron promised a cadre of stonesingers to fix the keep, and discretion and safety for Grimnir’s daughter. When it came to Torben’s request, the prince said, “For now, I can only offer money and quiet influence. I’ll make it known that all stonesingers should do what they can to protect a Raven Sister. But when I become king, I can make it clear that they are considered honored guests in our lands.”
Laughing, he took out a parchment and quill before calling to the wolfkin huntress. “Zarah, your request amuses me greatly, and I will be keen to see how you use it. On this map, you’ll find our lands near the Feulenmark forest. I’ll have my woodsman etch several acres near our mountains with your mark. Those acres will be yours to use as you will for as long as you live. My your hunting be glorious.”
Turning to the rest of the adventurers, the prince said, “What will you tell King Karonax? Don’t worry yourselves with Trondeval, I’ll handle that fool. But for the rest, I ask that you tell them everything — leave no detail out. For the helm, tell my father that you found it at my request. Then present it to me so that I might gift it to him. I cannot wait to see the look on the Crombe’s faces when you speak the truth of Scarne. They’ve traded in lies for hundreds of years.”
Berwyld also gave each of them 20 silver coins and promised that any needs they had would be handled at no cost in the marketplace.
Leaving his chambers, the group walked slowly toward the royal hall. As they darkened the entrance, the festive mood in the hall quickly soured. None could believe that such a ragtag group could have survived.
The hall became silent during the telling of the quest. Finally, the Crombe dwarves were aghast and contorted in rage at the revelation of Scarne’s survival. Other clans showed small flickers of grim satisfaction.
Turning to his agent, King Karonax roared and demanded the validation from Lupendus Firm. The grizzled warrior backed the party’s story, saying every word of it was true.
“That wretch Arvia is nowhere to be found, of course,” Karnoax fumed. “While you have done a great service in caging the beast once more, I fear you have cursed us in the end. We will be responsible for Scarne forevermore, and I will have words with the dwelvers for their deception.”
The king glared at the party, “While you have my thanks, you have also earned my anger. This news should have been kept private and will cause untold harm to the relations between the clans and to the standing of the dwarves throughout the Ravenlands. This is a stain that can never be removed.”
He turned to look directly at Lupendus, Sturmberg, and Grimnir. “Clanless — never return to Stonegarden again. You are already dead to your clans, but now even your sacrifice cannot overcome the curse you have wrought. We cannot bear to see you here and remind us of our failures.”
Karnox bid a retainer forward and unlocked a small chest. The king took out several pouches and then doled out five gold pieces to each member.
“Consider our debts paid,” Karonax said. “Leave in the morning.”
No one argued. The money was taken, a cold, transactional exchange. They had shattered ancient myths, destabilized a kingdom, and secured their own pragmatic gains. Stonegarden, for all its ancient grandeur, had become a place of bitter triumph and lingering animosity.
The next day, the group settled out on a lazy path southeast toward their keep. They hoped to explore new lands along the way, keeping their eyes and ears open to any clues to the whereabouts of the Stanengeist and its missing rubies.
While Zarah warily kept watch, Lucia did her best to lead the party through the woods and toward a river she knew of. The forest closed in, a dense canopy of ancient trees. The air grew heavy, damp with the scent of slippery moss and strange, earthy mushrooms. Large insects buzzed in the twilight.
Suddenly, a deer, eyes wide with terror, crashed through the undergrowth, fleeing. A new scent, acrid and choking, filled the air. Over the distant trees, a column of black smoke clawed at the sky. The wind shifted, and the roar of a growing inferno reached them. The fire was coming. And with it, perhaps, whatever dark force had unleashed it upon the ancient woods.
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