Squeak… creak… squeak…
Outside the window, the rotting blades of a giant windmill slowly turned in the thin night fog, each tug causing the mill's structure to groan.
In the attic, the light wasn't much better than outside. Only a few strands of faint starlight filtered through the grime-filled small window and the gaps in the broken wooden boards, barely outlining two short and stubby figures.
Tolin and Gleam, two young dwarves whose beards hadn't yet tangled into knots, were at this moment crammed unceremoniously into a corner, sitting on some burlap sack pulled from who knows where, their four eyes wide open, staring intently at the Compass in Tolin's hand.
Inside the guiding Compass, the rune-engraved needle spun around incessantly like a headless fly.
"Hey, Tolin," Gleam's voice sounded in the dim light, puzzled, "you're the young master of the Deep Furnace Clan, why are you carrying such a shoddy tool?"
