Beren held out his hands to take the parchment, Jocasta handing it to him, the warrior monk scratching his chin before tracing his hand along the rune. It was almost hexagonal in shape, save for 4 indents and a multitude of facets, carved meticulously but with a clear goal in its make. "I could be wrong, but this looks to be an old symbol for nobility. No, one of the 12 great noble clans of ancient dwarven past. I remember something about another symbol much like this in Thundrim Kadrin." Beren looked up at the old man. "Your family could have taken artistic liberty, or perhaps they had once been gifted your sigil as a sign of honor, long ago."

The dwarves seemed to take this with solemnity, Otar getting back to his feet and walking over to inspect the scroll. Beren passed it to him, and after examining it, he started to speak in hushed tones to himself, using his native tongue. Radsvir had gotten to his feet and grabbed what he could of the bread and cheese. 

"Hope you don't mind me taking a bit," He said to the elder with cheer and raising his hand in thanks. If Martinus took offense, he didn't show it, giving a nod and a 'help yourself' to the dwarf. Gurin took some from Radsvir's grasp, just as Muragrim was digging into his own bag of jerky. Buri seemed to be inspecting the room itself with a professional air, before his eyes fell back to the helmet Otar had put down. Eventually he gave in and picked up the old piece, appraising it. Varin had become busy himself when the unexpected arrival of a wolfhound materialized, the hound lean but hale, though clearly it had not bathed in many months. The beast panted, making small curious growls at the newcomers. Varin scratched its shaggy head, asking Radsvir for a bit of cheese so he could feed the hound something small. 

"All of this talk reminds me of a story my father told me as a child. When my families future was promising, before the ice wyrms moved south." Martinus said, taking what whisp of a beard he had and stroking it. "He told me our ancestors once used these old tunnels beneath the house to bury our dead, and that our sigil was placed on the door to ward off spirits of ill intent. He said my uncle once went below, and was lost for two days before he crawled out of the waterfall a mile to the west of here." 

"The same with the sigil of your house?" Beren asked, sharing a look with Jocasta. 

"Indeed, but..." He stopped, as if he had lost himself in the time of his youth. Beren cleared his throat, and he drew himself back to the present. Beren saw some small movement to the left, and it seemed Varin had convinced Muragrim to hand him a bit of jerky to him for the hound. Muragrim could intimidate most anyone, and Varin was as meek as a dwarf could be. Beren gave a small smile at the interaction. "Yes, the door has been barred for ages. I don't even know if it's still down there." 

"Where have you buried your dead then?" Jocasta asked, ever inquisitive. 

"In the gardens," He said, though it just led to further questions. What gardens there had been weren't there any longer. "At least, for those that passed here, and did not flee or die in the wars." 

"Could the door or your crypts me of dwarf-make?" Beren wondered aloud, his cheeks still red from the cold. Otar lifted his head at that, his mind racing and analyzing every word that was said the entire conversation. Beren could see the words passing by the movement of the old dwarf cleric's eyes. There was reason dwarves had the distinction of being the oldest peoples in the world. They weren't necessarily the most scholarly race, but their minds had a knack for calculations, and they could 'rewind' their mind to listen to things, sometimes, that they might not have heard earlier. Even Beren did not completely understand it. Just as often, if a dwarf wasn't listening, they would be none-the-wiser. However, it seemed the older a dwarf was, the better he would be at it. 

"We will inspect them," Otar said as any commander might, closing the scroll and handing it back to Jocasta. He picked up his pack and grabbed his warhammer, the weapon faintly glowing as soon as his burly fist closed around the haft. "With your leave, of course." He said to Martinus.

"Hmm, now? I suppose..."