Beren placed the collar of his jacket close to his face so the dust now flying freely through the air wouldn't get sucked up into his nostrils. He had taken a small torch from a sconce in the hallway, and now strode down the length of the catacomb, trying to discern anything that stood out. Anything that could help them find some door that led further into the deep. 

"Aye, dwarf work, or I'm a bearded gnome." Gurin said, nodding. He stroked his dark beard, leaning in and running his thick fingers almost delicately over one of the tombs shaped slabs. "Manlings must have paid a pretty penny." He pinched some small, minuscule bit of sediment in his fingers and tasted it on his tongue. 

Beren turned when he heard an intake of breath, more than a dozen eyes went to see Martinus Morelocke standing before one of the stone caskets. Upon its foot was a bust of a hale man in knightly garb and the crown of a king, holding up a banner, and though it was small, anyone with keen eyes could see the intricate designs etched upon it with a meticulous, almost impossible detail. Martinus exhaled the breath he was holding, the small candle in his left hand shaking from emotion. 

"Who is that, manling?" Varin asked quizzically, always the most curious of the troupe. The beardling stepped up beside the elderly lord, bushy eyebrow raised. It was hard to see, but it was entirely possible Varin was very close to the decrepit old man in age.

"My thrice great grandfather." Martinus replied, speaking in slow reverence. "Herod Morelocke, Herod Wyrmslayer. The patriarch of my house." He spoke in a whisper, as if afraid he would disturb the slumber of his ancestor. "I should have remembered he was buried down here amongst my more immediate kin. I... when I think of what I have never accomplished. I am ashamed." 

Beren nor the dwarves had the heart to add context to his story. The War of the Wyrms was a recent (by dwarvish estimation) conflict in history, when the northern frost wyrms, flightless but large intelligent creatures, moved south, leading an army of northmen as slave soldiers. For thirty eight years they fought the dwarves of the Frostfell mountains, and only the smallest vanguard made it to the Grey Marches, where the men of the region essentially 'cleaned up' what was left. No doubt this Herod was a captain among men, but as usual, the dwarves had shouldered the threat so that men may live. 

"Is that old Anduic engraved on the tomb?" Jocasta asked, her head popping up from behind one of the sarcophagi. She hurried over, eyes wide with curiosity. Suddenly, her foot touched something in the ground that led to a sudden shift, dust and kindling falling from the ceiling as something rumbled. It was as loud and low as the rumbling of a dragon's belly. A small statue in the corner fell, shattering on the ground. Fortunately, it did not add to the lack of integrity of the superstructure, but it was a portent of what might come if they weren't careful.

"Hold!" Gunir called even as the rumbling began, holding his meaty hand out to her. Jocasta was not alone. Everyone froze. Beren was the furthest down the line, his normally youthful, pleasant visage almost grim in the light of the torch. Even Otar held his breath for a long moment, his white beard obscuring his buttoned lip. 

"Everyone start to move out," Beren said to cut through the silence. He could tell he had the longest to go, but out of everyone he had the longest legs. "Muragrim, pick Jocasta up and carry her out of here. Varin, help the lord. We need to move before it-" 

A large crack erupted between Beren's feet, and the edge of the corridor cracked open without warning. The rumbling slowed to a pause, Beren's entire form rigid. He glared at them. "Move!"