Muin Bladeborn, fourthborn son of the fallen dwarven lord, did naught but seethe in silence as his brothers and extended kin bickered among themselves. Standing at breastheight to a human, Bladeborn stood a full head and shoulders above the average dwarven specimen. Under his contemptuous glaze, the case for Dourhorn and Agrim went on. The thought of such spineless whelps commanding the valley made Bladeborn's stomach turn. Bladeborn would sooner throw his head against his own battleaxe than answer to that pathetic milksop Dourhorn. Agrim was no better of an alternative; he likened himself a warrior, but Bladeborn knew him to be a pretender. After all, where was Agrim when Lord Muin was slain?

Bladeborn was proud to say he was present with his father during that bloody final hour. He and his companion Captain Goutfoot were there in the western pass when the goblins ambushed. Bladeborn remembered as the pines and bushes erupted with a chittering horde of the wretched beasts. Bladeborn's aptly-named battleaxe Shebalog split many goblin skulls that day. But despite the best efforts of Bladeborn and Goutfoot to send those vile savages back into the mountain crags from whence they came, the battle's aftermath was tragic indeed for the dwarves. Bladeborn and Goutfoot were among the lucky few to leave the pass with their lives, though Goutfoot's grievous hatchet wound to the thigh prevented him from joining the mourning procession. A blood-encrusted wrap covering the arrow wound on his right shoulder gave proof of Bladeborn's own participation in that battle.

So what did any of this pathetic lot know of the valley's enemies? How could Dourhorn - who was barely strong enough to walk to the privy before soiling himself - call himself the rightful heir to the valley? It was all Bladeborn could do to keep himself quiet. The entire affair was enough to make his blood boil. His fists clenched at his side, the knuckles going white as his fists quivered in anger. A mad idea crossed his mind. Bladeborn imagined himself drawing Shebalog from her straps on his back and cleaving his witless brothers in twain right at the foot of their father's sarcophagus. Mother, a mindless harpy though she may be, could not deny Bladeborn the valley's lordship if all the other heirs were dead.

A cold, clammy hand held Bladeborn's quivering fist fast. Bladeborn's macabre delusions were squelched as he felt a bony, withered palm press against his fist.
"Be calm, child," whispered the ancient dwarf standing beside him.

“Leave me be, Greyspine,” Bladeborn snarled, recognizing this dwarf as one of the late lord’s advisers. Fogrin Greyspine was old even by dwarven standards. He sported a long beard and a mane of gray hair pulled taut into a braided bun on the back of his head, and wore a simple robe of dark blue wool. “You have no business speaking with me.”

“On the contrary, I have every reason to speak with you.” Greyspine said softly, not that any of the other mourners were paying Bladeborn and Grayspine much attention what with the arguments going on amongst themselves. “I am but an old dwarf sworn in allegiance to Lord Master Muin. But now my lord has passed, and I find myself without a master to serve.”

“What matter does that make?” Bladeborn growled.

“For a young dwarf, it means little. A warrior, engineer, or mason can find service under any of the numerous lords of the dwarves. But the realms of our people are distant, and scattered far and wide. Even for able dwarves, the journey from one dwarven realm to another can be arduous. And I am an old dwarf – too old now to travel to find a new master to serve.”

“Clan Hoarfrost has not the gold nor the patience to care for an aging dwarf. You are not a warrior nor a stonecarver, and I doubt you are even strong enough to swing a pick in the mines. I have no place for you.”

“Make no mistake, Son of Muin, I am skilled in a valuable trade to be sure. My advanced age does not hinder my ability to practice my craft in the least. Just as a miner claws precious gold and silver from the Earth, I scour the realms for knowledge worth more than any jewel or nugget. Knowledge you will need in spades if you have any hope of commanding this realm.”

“I never claimed to desire the lordship of the valley.”

“Not with words,” Greyspine contested. “But the look of an ambitious dwarf is not difficult to spot. And I see not only ambition in your face, but [i]hunger[/i]. You want this lordship more than anything, but you lack the intellect to make your desire a reality. 

You need me and I need you.”

Bladeborn stood in contemplative silence for a moment, listening to his brothers and kin argue.

“What shall I do about them?” Bladeborn asked, nodding to his family gathered around the grave.

“Say nothing,” said Greyspine. “Let your siblings put daggers to their own throats. Nothing you say here will put you any closer to lordship of this valley. You will only make enemies here. And you must choose your enemies and allies very carefully. There is nothing for you here. Allow me to ride with you back to Troutglen, and I will help you plan your next moves.”

Bladeborn gave a nod of agreement. And with that, he turned away from the bickering relatives. Without a word, Bladeborn and his new spymaster crossed over the bridge and ascended from the crypt.