Chronicle Day: 153 (continued)
Back on solid stone, but the weight of the vault still clingin’ tae the bones.
We emerged back on the first floor of the vault, the air blessedly free of steam, rust, and screaming metal. Kaz still clutched the orb, its runes pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. The dwarves gathered around it, muttering in low tones.
The runes shared a root with our own script — not identical, but kin.
Old kin.
The kind that makes a dwarf’s beard bristle with memory.
Ryn handed over a massive cog he’d salvaged.
“Da’ll want tae see this,” he said.
Aye — and Da would tear it apart with the enthusiasm of a child unwrapping Yule gifts.
Foreman Rymnal wasted no time.
“Come. The King’ll want your report.”
Audience with King Alisdair Ironspine
Ryn noticed Rudy looking pale — sideburns drooping, eyes unfocused — and healed him quietly, the way a friend does when pride’s involved.
Throsh began the report, hands moving, voice rising and falling like a bard at court.
We interjected here and there — clarifications, details, the occasional correction — and Throsh wove it all together without missing a beat.
King Alisdair listened in silence, fingers steepled, eyes sharp as chisels.
When we finished, he nodded once.
“You’ve done well. But Rooty Hill willnae open its gates tae just anyone.
Each of ye must earn three merits before ye’re allowed entry.”
He gestured, and a steward stepped forward with a chest.
“Five hundred gold each, for what ye’ve uncovered.”
A tidy sum. Enough to keep the forges warm and the packs full.
A Brief Return Home
We lingered in Mt Druitt a while.
I went home — to the missus, the kids, the warmth of a hearth that dinnae try tae kill me.
Thalia’s come a long way as a journeyman.
I gave her the wyrmling wing to work, and the way her eyes lit up…
Aye. That’s a memory I’ll keep.
Rudy, Kaz, Throsh, and Sergei stayed at the palace as honoured guests.
Ryn, meanwhile, finished crafting his sending stones, with Da’s help and the right rune to bind them.
Sergei tested the stones immediately, sending a message to Illiana — and then on to his own people.
Illiana asked after our success, and Ryn relayed the tale with his usual enthusiasm.
Prospect, she said, was chaotic — monsters more active than usual — but scouts would be sent.
And then, with a fondness only she can muster:
“Come back soon, Sasquatch.”
Sergei pretended not to smile.
He failed.
LET’S GO SHOPPING!
(As Tony Barber would say.)
With coin in hand and time to spare, we descended upon the markets like a pack of hungry badgers.
I purchased:
- a Dagger of Warning
- a Cloak of Displacement
- and a curious Mizzium trinket — a new metal, volatile and promising
The others scattered to their own interests — potions, gear, gods know what else.
We regrouped, packs heavier and purses lighter, and boarded a carriage bound for the outskirts of Rooty Hill.
Ahead lay the merits, the trials, and whatever secrets the next vault held.
Stone beneath us.
Stone ahead.
Final Thoughts — Abercrombie’s Recollection
There’s a strange calm that settles on a dwarf after a battle — not peace, exactly, but the space tae breathe again. The kind of quiet where the mind finally catches up tae what the body’s been doing all day. Today had more of that than most.
Seeing the missus and the kids… aye, that grounded me. Reminded me why we keep stepping into vaults full of steam vents, shadow carvings, and things that shouldnae move but do. Thalia’s hands are steady now — steadier than mine were at her age. Watching her take that wyrmling wing with such purpose… it made the world feel a little less heavy.
But even in the warmth of home, the vault clung tae the back of my thoughts.
Those runes on the orb — kin tae our own script, but older, deeper.
Those carvings — six figures, two dwarves among them, locked in battle with a shadow that felt too familiar for comfort.
And that seventh shape… half‑erased, half‑remembered. A horn. A wing. A warning.
Rooty Hill lies ahead, and with it the merits we must earn. The King’s words still echo: prove yourselves.
As if the vault hadn’t already tested every inch of us.
Still, there’s something steady in the company I keep.
Kaz, charging headlong into danger with a grin.
Rudy, sharp as a blade and twice as quick.
Sergei, all heart and fists and unexpected tenderness.
Ryn, mind always ticking like the cogs he carries.
Throsh, singing courage into the air whether we want it or not.
And me?
I watch.
I write.
I try tae make sense of the path we’re walking — a path that seems older than any of us, carved long before we set foot on it.
The stone remembers.
The runes whisper.
And somewhere out there, the shadow waits.
But for now, we’ve coin in our pockets, gear on our backs, and a road ahead.
Stone beneath us.
Stone before us.
And the Chronicle continues.
