The messenger's tale

he dusty great hall thrummed with quiet anticipation for the messenger’s words, the dusky silence seemingly punctuated by the young dwarf’s rasping breath. Gaunt and exhausted, the dwarf had paused a moment to rest and clear his thoughts – his message was of utmost importance, and his words must be carefully chosen. The gyrocopter pilot departed the port hold of Barak Varr a fortnight ago, with express instructions to deliver a missive directly to the Lord of Kazad Valdahaz with utmost haste, however, due to his rush he was incautious. His flying machine had been poached out of the sky by an orc watchtower, and crashed into the expansive forest carpet that surrounded the Shiverpeaks. Barely evading his would be captors, the pilot had run for many day’s without rest or provisions – from the wooded foothills of the Shiverpeaks to the lofty hold he now found himself in. Believing his nightmarish journey at an end, he however realised had yet the hardest part to complete...

Raising himself heavily off of the floor of the great hall, he met the iron clad gaze of the surprisingly young dwarf lord. Nodding grimly he began:

“My Lord Ironfist, I bring you the direst tidings. Of your uncle Thorek... And of your sister Bethrigen..”

The disapproving glare at the mention of the first name was only superseded by the look of shock at the mention of the second. A nervous murmur rippled around the hall, and a long moment passed before the resonant voice of Graell Ironfist, Lord of Clan Ironfist and steward of Kazad Valdahaz, boomed out.

“Continue.”

And the pilot told his tale...