The dinner banquet at Bladeborn’s Keep was coming to a close at long last. An iron cauldron brimming with mutton stew had been nearly drained by Muin Bladeborn and his court of voracious dwarves. Platters that had been neatly arranged with sorghum-roasted acorn squash, sautéed fennel and skirret, and braids of sweet-smelling cardamom bread were now strewn across the long dining table in utter disarray. The dwarves were renowned across the realms for their insatiable appetites and the court of Muin Bladeborn was no exception to that rule. But for the time being, the Hoarfrost dwarves seemed to have eaten their fill. One of the cook’s maidens went around the table to collect the plates and bowls from the diners.

“Have you any dessert made up, lass?” Dolmur Goutfoot – captain of Clan Hoarfrost’s dwarves-at-arms and perhaps the most voracious eater in the entire valley – asked, sopping up the remaining stew from his bowl with a handful of bread as the maiden retrieved his bowl.

“Dessert!?” She repeated incredulously. “Where do you put it all, Captain? By the Gods, one could spend all the riches of Malzhador feeding you. And you would still be liable to ask for seconds!”

“The girl raises a valid point. I will confess that I enjoy these banquets as much as Captain Goutfoot. But as frequently as we have them, they are becoming rather expensive,” Velmor Cragbuckle chimed in.

“They are a justified expense,” Fogrin Greyspine said over the Captain’s incomprehensible grumbling. “In my experience, the dinner table is a more agreeable meeting place than the court.  We are all in better spirits after a good meal, and more inclined to agree with one another. 

“Any thoughts on the matter, Master Bladeborn?” Cragbuckle asked across the table. Seated at the head of the table before the roaring fireplace at the far end of the dining hall, Bladeborn took a hearty swig from his ale horn and shook his head in disagreement.

“I had a feeling that would be an unpopular idea,” Cragbuckle sighed.

“Well then,” Greyspine began, allowing the cook’s maiden to clear the plates in front of him before he spoke up again, “I have heard that we have a foreign visitor in the valley; a dwarf of distinction from the old realms. They say he is Zigild Seventeeth.”

“I have never heard of him,” Bladeborn said dismissively. “What is his business in the Valley of Muin?”

“Nobody seems to know, Master Bladeborn. I have heard of him previously, and if memory serves correctly, Seventeeth is a bard or loremaster of some sort. What I do know is that he is joined by a caravan of great opulence and splendor. He has wealthy dwarves in his company. Nobledwarves or merchants, perhaps,” Greyspine reported.

“Suspicious timing if you ask me,” Goutfoot concluded. “The Lord Master dies without naming an heir and now moneyed dwarves are making their way to the valley with a loremaster to boot. This has all the earmarks of a fabricated claim of inheritance if you ask me.”

“I don’t find that particularly likely, Captain. Even if that was their intent, none of the clans would ever stand for it.”

“Keep an eye on them in any case,” Bladeborn ordered. “We have enough pretenders to my father’s throne as it currently stands. The last thing I need is a band of foreign charlatans trying to cheat me out of my birthright.”

“Seventeeth’s entourage may not be here to fabricate a claim over the entire valley. Perhaps they wish to issue a claim over a small portion of the valley.” Goutfoot added.

“How do you mean?” Greyspine asked.

“It has been well over a year since anyone has heard from Muin Orin, and I can’t recall the last time anyone returned from High Mountain Keep.”

“Indeed,” Cragbuckle added. “The couriers responsible for delivering an invoice I sent to Clan Orin could not gain passage into the Keep. The drawbridge is pulled shut, and the couriers reported that they could not see any guards across the chasm. They camped outside the drawbridge for three nights before giving up and returning home.”

“Something awful has likely befallen Orin and his kin. Perhaps these foreigners assume the worst as well, and have come to exercise their right to the Orin holdings.”

“Preposterous,” Greyspine dismissed. “Firstly, Muin Orin has no kin outside the valley. Secondly, fabricating a claim is a costly and timely endeavor. No one with the time and money to dedicate to fabricating a claim is going to waste their efforts on Clan Orin.”

“Does anyone have any idea what may have become of Orin and his folk?” Cragbuckle asked of Greyspine. “Is there any clue as to what happened?”

“Nothing is known, but it is safe to assume the worst.”

“Then why don’t we send a party to ascertain the fate of Orin and his clan?”

“I will not give any such endeavor my blessing,” Bladeborn snarled. “I have no love for my brother Orin, and I have no desire to ever hear from him again. Whatever happened to him is no concern of mine; let him rot in his mountain.” The dwarves exchanged uncomfortable glances upon hearing their master’s cold-hearted outburst.

“My concern is not for your brother and his kin,” Cragbuckle added, breaking the uncomfortable silence at last. “But High Mountain Keep had productive mines beneath the earth. I cannot help but imagine the coffers of Clan Orin. Piles of golden bullion sitting there in silent darkness, unguarded and ripe for the taking.”

“Unguarded [i]by dwarves[/i], perhaps. Make no mistake, something horrible almost certainly happened within that mountain. The miners may have struck a pocket of poisoned air, or their picks breached a pool of magma that engulfed their underground citadel. A pack of goblins may have found crags and caves that reached down into their mines, bypassing the keep’s defenses. For all we know, Cragbuckle, High Mountain Keep could be a goblin stronghold now.” Goutfoot explained.

“Master Bladeborn, we should send an armed expedition to High Mountain Keep to investigate the possibility of recovering some of Clan Orin’s wealth. Present it as an attempt to re-establish contact with High Mountain.”

“The other clans will never tolerate such an endeavor!” Goutfoot exclaimed. “If we had any genuine concern for Clan Orin, we should have tried to reach out to them a year ago. The clans will see this ‘expedition’ for what it truly is: grave robbery!”

“Perhaps not, so long as we present it correctly to a select few of the other clans… and offer a cut of the booty.” Greyspine suggested.

“Why should we share any bounty recovered from High Mountain?” Cragbuckle contested.

“High Mountain Keep is a redoubtable citadel, even without defenders.” Greyspine reminded. “If we have any hope of breaching the mountain’s stone gates, we will need many strong dwarves to punch through the walls.”

Bladeborn took one last gulp of his ale horn before speaking up again. The sound of the vessel slamming against the table commanded silence over the Hoarfrost court as readily a judge’s gavel. A dozen pairs of expectant eyes fell upon Master Bladeborn, waiting for his decision to be heard.

“Draft correspondence to Hornfel and Uncle Karolus. Let them know of my intention to send an expedition to High Mountain Keep to ascertain the fate of Orin, and that I would request some of their dwarves to accompany our party.”

“And what of the booty?” Greyspine asked.

“Make no mention of any of that.”

Without another word, Bladeborn pushed himself out of his seat and left his retinue to themselves.