Never before has a dwarf been able to gaze upon the original works of his people. For so long they have had to scramble to retrieve scraps from the ground, never anything greater than a pot or stone tablet. Now here he was, standing before the most incredible find he could have ever dreamed of. Somehow though, it all just felt so...wrong.

Looking at these carvings, knowing that what he was taught as a lad about the history of this place, it was all true then. The dwarves of this place, his ancestors, were cruel taskmasters who raised the dead in order to do their bidding. Such an ugly history, a legacy which now belonged to Kazadime and his people, all while others reaped the after effects of these practices. Anger was beginning to boil in the pit of his stomach.

"I can't believe it...these were my ancestors...my kin" He said in abstract shock, the warrior struggling to keep his anger in check. "No...no this is not our way, this will not be our legacy!" With a swing of his mace, he struck the wall where a dwarf was carved holding a whip, disfiguring the picture as pieces of stone flew off. 

Zharak needed something to work out his anger on. His expertise on clockwork machinery was not nearly expansive enough to figure out how to unlock it. Since he couldn't use his mind to be helpful, he would put his sword arm to use as he stomped his way back towards the entrance of the cairn. He would deliver a true death to the monsters coming for them from the sand.

"Look out laddy!" Zharak said as he got close to where the battle mage was making his stand. "I got a bone to pick with these bastards." A skeleton tried to rush him from his left, one swing took out its legs, the next shattered its skull into fragmented pieces. "More where that came from. Groch Mokar!"