1. Targos

The old dwarf half lifts his head to nod with a smile at Rayne, well... the table in front of Rayne, anyway.

"Th.. th.. that's very kind, young man. It should be arriving on the fifteenth day of Uktar. Is that tomorrow? I so lose track of time. I do hope the yeti out there don't trouble the young dwarves bringing it. Is that okay with you?"

He reaches inside his jerkin and retrieves an order confirming the delivery date as the Uktar the fifteenth.

Today is the sixteenth day of Uktar.

"Ca.. ca.. can you read that? They said the fifteenth. My knees might be gone, but my memory is still sound.

Bu.. bu.. but I would like a hand unloading it. It's quite valuable, you see? I would hate to have to leave it outside getting rusty. The Battlehammers cover it with seal oil and tarps, but as soon as you remove those it becomes a bit of race against time to get it away, and my knees aren't what they once were. Of course, I'll pay you for your time. But you should look after your knees too, you never know when they'll go..."

The dwarf talks about the importance of knees, seemingly unaware that his precious iron delivery is already a day late.

The hard dwarven woman peers at Bells over her pipe. It's like she's either cataloguing Bells or checking her against a mental list.

Apparently satisfied, the dwarf leans forward so close that she's almost smelling Bell's neck. Harsh tobacco smoke rises up Bells' nose.

"Hmmm...? Oh, to my forge. It... it... it's in Targos. Here. Not far away.

The iron's on a sled. About six hundredweight. Very good for weapons and armour. You have to alloy it for weapons though. Weapons need sharpness and toughness, you see? Young smiths today don't realise that, think it's all about the sharpness. Bu.. bu.. but that's fine to sell a sword, but where will it be after a battle? Eh? Broken, that's what, you see?"

The old dwarf begins to settle into a familiar rhythm complaining about the smiths of today.

Poor Graendel chews at the edge of his beard in silent embarrassment as he shuffles back to his table in shame.

Ma begins to tidy up the glasses, quietly muttering as she stacks glasses on the tray.

"I hope ye live long enough to be an elder, Okto. An’ if ye do, youngsters be learnin’ the manners not to be chucklin’ at your mistakes."

Okto knows Ma, and those are the harshest words he’s ever heard her use. Other than the demonic stuff, obviously.

She shouts over to the dwarf as she gives Okto a warning stare.

"Hold up Graendel. Let these coves walk ye back."

Targos - 16 Uktar 11:00



The light outside the tavern is thin, strained grey, and pastel-washed with Auril's magical aurora despite approaching noon.

Graendel shuffles towards his forge; he hunches against the driving snow and stinging wind. His steps are slow and unsure; his staff slips in the ice.

Once, he was a warrior of the Mithral Hall who fought at the Battle of Bryn Shander, and the Ten Towns hailed him as a hero who helped defend civilisation against the barbarian hordes. Graendel's talents as a smith were renowned along the Sword Coast. Waterdhavian nobles would proudly show off fine blades, taking care to draw attention to the foaming mug topped with a florid GG - Graendel's markers' mark. Once, this dwarf was a warrior, a smith of exemplary craft, and a cunning metallurgist.

Now, Graendel looks for company with whom he can reminisce about when he was relevant and finds instead brash half-orcs who ridicule his failing memory. The lonely old dwarf drags his feet through a dying town towards a consignment of metal that, once forged, will never be sold.

Graendel Granitefist and Icewind Dale! They once rang out with legend, yet now they seem pathetic and insignificant - stories fading not to black but instead to grey; tales ending not with applause but to Okto's mocking snicker.

The dwarf's failing eyes scan the snow beneath his drooping head, but your younger sight sees ahead to the forge. Two snowshoes peek out of the snow like big round eyes next to an ice-frosted sign "Graendel's Fine Dwarven Craft". Behind the snowshoes, a dwarf bundled in dark-bloodied furs lies against the forge's door.

Vicious slashes have opened her face, blinded an eye, and left her ear in ragged tatters. Her face is pale cyanic blue. Embossed on her frost-smeared leather spaulders are foaming mugs - the symbol of the Battlehammers.

Not seeing the grisly sight of his clansfellow ahead, Graendel continues to shuffle forwards as he fumbles for his key and mumbles to himself about modern clothes having too many pockets.

Although the snow has tried to cover the evidence, Anders' talent is superior.

What to others looks like a gruesome scene is read by the ranger as easily as a child's book.

The tracks were made by the exhausted dwarf dragging herself there - sometime within the last hour - whilst you were all in the tavern. In the ranger's experience, the wounds match those of a frenzied yeti attack, but he'd judge them to be many hours old. The dwarf is unconscious and will die soon without medical attention and warmth. Even then, it'll be a while until she's fit enough to walk.

The facts fit together. A yeti attack on the ice, some distance away. The dwarf drags herself to Targos, perhaps looking for aid, before her injuries and exhaustion drag her into insensibility.

And not all of the blood on her furs is her own.