"Uh, Simon?"
Turning his head, the Dwarf quizzically looked at Lewis, who was still staring at the mural. "Yes?"
"What... is that?"
Seeing where Lewis was pointing, Simon followed the path, until he saw the picture of Metallache. "Oh, that. That's just some follktale every Dwarven child is told, about a supposed Dragon of Steel that will come and devour us at the end of time. It is said that it could only be sealed by the founding patriarchs of the seven Clans at the beginning, 4500 years ago, after which they 'founded' the so-called 'Clans'. What a load of Baulshit I say..."
Dismissing the mural offhandedly, Simon urged Lewis to continue following him to the location of the nearest tavern. They could only plan what to do next once a new day was reached.
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"Hear, hear! Chief Magnus has decided that the funeral date for Durmast the Jolly will be on the third day of Mygrosa. The funeral procession shall start at the royal Hall and end at the hallowed grounds of our forefathers, the Cliff of Ferfylym. Those who want to send their final farewells may do so as the procession comes their way..."
As the herald's voice faded away, the tavern immediately erupted in a cacophony of noise.
"So, we've finally decided to hold the funeral for that old arse, huh..."
"Yeah, he'd be sorely missed. Who, even in the city, could match his humour? Especially when he was caught selling nudes of the women who went to the bathhouse down the street!"
"Ahahahah! Yeah, those were the good times. But the one who'll miss him the most is his brother..."
Listening to the snippets of conversation flowing through, Lewis got a clearer picture of how beloved that old coot was. Man do I miss him...
But he was more concerned for his fellow Dwarven brethren beside him. Simon sat, catatonic, not responding to any of the conversation flowing through the tavern, mind elsewhere. "Uh, Simon, you okay...?"
"Huh, what? Oh, I'm alright, I'm alright..." Snapping from his stupor, he waved his hands, indicating everything was alright, and that there was no need to panic. "Ah, just going through some old memories I had with uncle Durmast..."
"You got that right! Sir Durmast was one of the best and greatest we had, though what happened to him in Mithrador was truly a tragedy, a tragedy indeed..." Shaking his head, a drunkard from Clan Landacker pushed his ruddy nose into their conversation, tipsy from the incessant amount of booze he had drunk. His wheat-emblazoned brooch glinted in the warm light as he told them why everyone was so distraught at Durmast's passing.
Though what he said next made Lewis sit tall
"As far as I know, the only living relative of Durmast is the current chieftain, Magnus Steelrun. How dare you call him your uncle-"
"Alright Lewis! Time for us to go! We need to leave early so that we won't miss our appointment with the person involved to solve our issue with the steel supply! C'mon, let's go to sleep..."
Half-dragging the still confused Lewis, Simon dragged the semi-unwilling man towards their room, all the while the drunk Dwarf stared, mouth agape.
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As Lewis slept soundly, snores coming loud and clear, a single being stood on the balcony, his gaze penetrating far, all the way towards the large building that stood at the end of the market:
The Royal Hall of Clan Steelrun
Clutching a pendant tightly deep in his hands, he took a deep breath before turning back, lying down on his bed.
Soon...
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Walking down the large hallway, Lewis meekly walked down the long corridor, his shoulders tucked in as he passed by the myriad guards that stood silently still, their vigil never leaving the cowering Human...
Always staring, always glaring
"Uhh...Simon, are you sure we're in the right place? I mean, c'mon, I can believe you having connections here, but the Royal Palace!? I'd rather believe you have a harem of little Goblins than this bullshit!
I mean, how on earth do you have a connection to the king of Clan Steelrun-"
"Silence! From here on, you shall be meeting with Father Magnus Steelrun, Chief of Clan Steelrun! Any act of insubordination shall be seen as treason of the highest count, and execution shall be the lowest form of punishment! Now kneel before his mightiness!"
A herald came and declared himself before them. Nodding in agreement, both Lewis and Simon entered the dimly lit throne room, where small braziers were seen lit every meter or so. Reaching 3 m before the throne, the duo kneeled. After what seemed like hours, the figure sitting stirred, before commanding them.
"Rise..."
Glancing up, Lewis's breath was taken away:
A tall, 1.8 m Dwarven man sat lazily on his chair, his red hair draped lazily over his shoulders, tied with many knots. His equally red beard danced in the air as he breathed in and out, accentuating his power (and manliness- you've gotta admit, a mighty beard makes a mighty man...). Wearing his full regalia, his gaze turned towards Simon, where he lay, visibly sweating profusely at that.
"Well, seems that my prodigious son has returned..."
Lewis snapped back, his eyes burning straight through his Dwarven companions' back.
You're fucking royalty!