[color=568A54][center][b]VRAROK ADALSTEUNE[/b][/center][/color]
[b]Duur Kharag, in the Deep Roads of the Ivuldiruuk[/b]

[i]“Vrarok! Vrarok, look out behind ya!”

A voice cried out in the creeping dark as a large black shape exploded from the rock, accompanied by the hellish squeal of an angered beast, and then the sudden symphony of gunfire.

“Vrarok ya fool! Move out the way!”

The young dwarf turned to the wicked form of a ratoskr approaching fast, charging toward the group. Another moved in front of him, the sheen of his mithril axe caught as firelight hit it. The axe connected, but so did something else, there were screams, and finally a crushing thud.

“DURMAR!”[/i]

[hr]
“Wake up, fool! You’ll wake half the district!” a familiar voice cut through the fog of his haunted slumber. A sudden cold deluge splashed across his face, instantly shocking the dwarf and bringing him to. He sat up immediately, rivulets of water slid from his forehead and collected on his shirt. Another dwarf stood over him with her arms crossed and her dim blue eyes furrowed in annoyance. Her expression eased as he woke. “The tunnels again?”

He rubbed his eyes before regarding her. He smiled in relief. Miriam was one of the few friends he had in Tyberia, one who had put up with his troublesome antics since he arrived in the city and first came in contact with the Legion of Lead. She worked for one of the organisation’s prized financiers, a connection that led to her meeting the wayward dwarven noble. Many of the dwarves he knew had some kind of connection with the Legion. Vrarok nodded, “Aye lass, the tunnels.”

“Did you take the poultice before you slept?”

He shook his head slowly, avoiding her eyes. The poultice, a mix of herbs and a very potent drug, was supposed to help him sleep better and suppress his nightmares. While time had eased the scars he earned deep in the Ivuldiruuk, and his thoughts avoided the subject altogether, the nightmares continued to plague him.

Miriam sighed, and strode over to the kitchen, her shock of fiery hair bound in one singular tail. She and Vrarok were vastly different. While he was raised in one of the dwarven strongholds of the Free East, she had been treated to a human upbringing. Orphaned as a child, the widow of a wealthy merchant adopted her and raised her as if she were a wealthy human of Tyberia. The thick accent, questionable phonology and mannerisms shared by Vrarok and other mountain-dwarves were lost on Miriam, who maintained posture and eloquence at all times.

“Hati delivered a message for you, Vrarok. From Alaric. It seemed urgent, I don’t think he’s happy.”

“I ‘aven’t done anythin’ wrong for that cunt to be un’appy.”

“You are kidding, right? You disobeyed his orders.”

“’e wanted information, I got information.”

“You killed three imperial soldiers!” she snapped in a hush tone.

“Shit ‘appens love, leave it alone yeah?”

Her scowl had almost burned through her face and seemed to glower at him from behind her head. She was right, though. While he did find what Alaric wanted, three Asgardians had to die. Two were necessary casualties, the other was… a lack of foresight on the old dwarf’s part.

“Alaric has enough information on you to have you arrested four times over.”

“I’ll blast a neat lil’ hole between his legs ‘fore ‘e does anythin’, don’t ye worry,” he giggled. The thought of killing that up-jumped cunt from the streets would make him very happy. Alaric was new to the management of the Legion of Lead, a street rat favoured by the former Magnar-Legionnaire Grim’dan. He was the only human that the late dwarf really trusted, but Vrarok loathed him. Since he took over, more humans – more vermin from the streets – had been inducted in the organisation, while its dwarven members were being isolated or relegated to the mundane duties of the Legion. Though Vrarok was never truly a member in the traditional sense, he took pride in his association with Grim’dan and his legionnaires, and seeing a friend’s work dismantled by an overworlder made him sick to his dwarf stomach.

“Hurry up, Vrarok.”

“Yeah, yeah, hold ye britches.”

Vrarok did as he was told. Miriam had done a lot for him, a lot more than she needed to, and a lot more than he had ever done for her, the best he could do was listen to her and do his best to keep her out of his dealings. He washed his face with a damp cloth and slung the jade cloak over his shoulders. He made his way to an old, grey stone building. They called this ‘the Workshop’, the base of operations for the Legion of Lead, but it made for a decent blacksmith.

A pair of dwarves were hard at work at the smithy, their beards slick with sleet. It comprised of an expertly built chimney of stone, tendrils of smoke rose from its spout as a bright, orange glow seemed to grow dimmer as he walked by. One of the dwarves was hard at work on one of the anvils, hammering a sword that’s blade glowered with heat. He nodded at them, “good day fer it lads.”

One of them scoffed at his mockery. Vrarok smirked and continued on inside the Workshop. The foyer was the most pristine part of the joint – finely woven carpet lining wall-to-wall, a chandelier of cyan crystals that twinkled and shimmied in the light, a line of oak chairs with velvet-skinned cushions in formation against the wall and a long desk. Behind that desk sat Ysondra of Cragenstead. A crone of a woman, with a violet silk bandana to mask her balding head and scrutinising grey eyes, she had always been in the employ of the Legion of Lead as a receptionist: the wizened, blunt face of the Workshop.

“Ysondre, ravishin’ as ever lass,” the dwarf made his way over to the desk. The usual annoyance painted on her face grew increasingly vexed as he mispronounced her name.

“I presume that you’re here for your letter,” she said matter-of-factly, withdrawing an envelope from her drawer.

“Letter? I was told Alaric wanted me.”

“Asked for you, but no. A letter.”

Ysondra placed the letter on the desk, lips pursed as tightly as ever. Vrarok took it and opened it. There was only an address, and an initial. An initial he knew all too well in his recent dealings.

He smirked at Ysondra and left, making his way towards the most expensive districts of Tyberia. After an hour and a half, his little legs began to ache slightly. He cursed his old body, but continued, finding the stately manor just as a human entered its ornate doors. The dwarf strolled over to the still open doors with an air of casual reverence.

“Vrarok Adalsteune, blah blah blah,” he chuckled as he walked in, he was never good at pleasantries. Then again, dwarven nobility and politics never demanded pleasantries – only action. “Up there then, yeah?” He regarded the Butler with a wry smile. “Hope ye got some beer or somethin’, ‘tis colder than a nun’s fanny out there! Phew, look at this place!” the dwarf took in the sight of the foyer with wide eyes. He hadn’t been so awed by something since he first arrived in Tyberia. With a slow pace, he made his way around, bobbing his head into all kinds of doorways before he discovered the dining room, and the lovely cast of characters in it.

There were elves.

He swallowed.

But then he spotted a tray, and on it, liquid. A plum-coloured liquid. It wasn’t beer, but it’d do. He strode over and took the bottle, bringing it over to the long dining table and taking whichever seat he desired. He took one long scull of the sweet alcohol and tried to hide his grimace. He forced a smile.

“Vrarok Adalsteune, only dwarf in this room, at ye service.”