Bronr had spotted the hold two days ago at the peaks behind Karag Yar, but it was only today as the sun began to set closer to the west did the party of Dawi he had guided made it into the pass. Only once had they been assailed by Greenskins, though it left two of the stout Soldiers injured. They had hired him two fortnight's ago to find the safest trails to travel through, the relatively flat roads where the goats and mules could haul the precious cargo of Iron and Silver the merchants so greedily kept under guard. Bronr did not blame him. He felt the Gold lust even less than most Dwarfs, and he was no thief. But even his eye was drawn to the metals once or twice. 

When he had made his way down the slope and had announced their arrival to the merchants, there were grumbles of cheer. The merchants, sturdy Dawi or no, were not soldiers. They merely traveled to sell their wares, and they had heard tell of the new activity at the fabled Hold of Eight Peaks and sought to exploit their wares at the old Silver Gate. With a cry in Khazalid, the mules and goats began to move once more, and the soldiers kept a watchful but less strict eye as they crested the hill and saw the settlement beneath them. 

Once Bronr received his payment, counting it thrice to make sure the merchants weren't being stingy, he wandered off into the Silver Gate in search of a pint and potential work to continue his growing hoard of funds. Oh, he could survive well enough on his own out in the wilderness or beneath the mountains, hunting and foraging. But like all good Dwarfs, he valued Gold and honest work nearly as much as he valued his beard he wore proudly for all to see. 

What he needed now was one other thing he truly valued. A good pint of Bugman's.