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Sister Ameliè was the character I looked up to. Whenever I saw her, I thought: I want to be like her.

She was an inspiration. The vast levels of creativity that came from you was outstanding. Im sad to hear and see that shes gone. She was one of the best.

I will miss her.

-Grenth/Korinthus.

Like a blank book perhaps? Then as you said, functions as a bulletin board in your inventory, that can be written in 'chapters' of sorts. Then, you can rename the 'bulletin board' book in your inventory to organize notes. I'd be a huge fan of this.

Maribeh 24th, IY 7789

Today I spoke at length with Jamileh and Rynn. We draw closer with each conversation. It is good, no, it is necessary, to have companions who can share in the great weight of thought and the warmth of shared inquiry. I'm grateful that I have some still. We spoke of history, of empires long ground to sand, and of the Colossi whose names scrape against the memory of the stars. Time passed unnoticed. That's the blessing of such company: to lose oneself in the vastness of wonder and let it eclipse the echoes of grief.

I confess, it is a balm. A small one. But a balm nonetheless. Much needed.

Because when night comes, I do not rest. Not truly.

The jungle of Bet Neppahi clings to me still, its colors too vivid, its air too thick with heat and blood. I see its canopies in my sleep, swaying like the hands of a grieving god, each leaf whispering names of those we lost. Burning, heat, hatred. Sometimes I wake drenched in sweat, convinced I hear the cries of my kin, echoing through that overgrown graveyard.

And then Ulfgrim comes.

In the deepest reaches of sleep, I see him. Not as he was, but changed, always changed, wreathed in shadow, his eyes like burning coals beneath a helm of black iron. He reaches for me, murmuring in Ancient Dwarven, "You left us. Why?" His hands are cold and strong, pulling me downward, into the roots, into the rot.

Izzakhar preserve me. I do not always remember waking.

---

I attended the gathering at the Union of Kardesler. Many representatives stood present, and truth be told, I had no idea what it was to be about initially. I didn't even know where the Union meetings were held. The politics of this land still elude me, but when Princess Faziima rose to speak, there was no mistaking her clarity. She spoke not of power nor possession, but of honor. Of veterans. Of those who bled and broke themselves for the sake of peace and for the Well.

We were each invited to speak our name to the stones so they might remember. So the Princess may know those who bled for victory.

And I spoke mine: Korinthus Dûngir; of the Last legion of Dwarves; the Rathgan.

The moment caught me. It was supposed to be ceremonial, symbolic, and yet I mourned. Perhaps too long. Perhaps not long enough. I thought of the oaths we took in the Halls of the Rathgan, how those of Got Valdhazr once walked this place, full of ambition, hope, and belief that the Well would aid them, and how few of us remain to see those oaths fulfilled.

Yet, why did she ask me about Vorazol? The previous Hakem, 'Do I light candles for him.' Why would I? The man spoke little to me, and we dwarves despised him. Ulfgrim swore that he was responsible for the death of the Flamebringer. No, there are no tears shed for that man. Yet, tonight, even still, I will light a candle in honour of a priest of the Wheel.

We dwarves owe much to the Princesses, Faziima, who freed Durgin from exile and made it possible for a scholar like me to stand among such figures. But as I reached for the medal they gave us, all I could think of were the hands that can no longer reach. The ones buried beneath jungle roots or sealed in collapsed vaults or taken before their time by Orc'ah, who fell victim to vampiric spore plagues, who were hauled away by hungry vines.

So many names mar the stone of those lost.

They should have been there. Standing beside me. Laughing. Complaining. Living.

We Rathgan are so few now. But we endure. That is our way. The Dwarven way.

---

Later came the procession of the Four Wheels Rounding. I was bone tired, but Jedediah, that Speaker of Warad, has a gift for words that carries even the weary. Even me. He spoke of journeys in the old way, in wheels and stages. The first step: intention. The second: marvel. The third: shelter and responsibility. The fourth: action without certainty.

It stirred something in me.

Because we must take that next step, even when the ground beneath is uncertain and the past still clings to our boots like mud. We walk not because the road is easy, but because the alternative is to sink.

And I will not sink.

Not yet.

Wisdom, light my way.

Maribeh 22nd, IY 7789

And I kept your song in the hollows of the earth, where silence is long and memory deeper still.

Whilst my mind is not fully healed, and I still occasionally cast my gaze downward. I can say with full honesty, that today was a good day. I kept my head up, I smiled, and I was able to cast away some of the gloom that has been following me ever since the War ended. Sure, I may be alone at night, and the Hall of the Rathgan is quiet. But, when I step outside, I take a breath of the Ash filled air, and remember something.

I'm alive.

I sit on the bench in the Plaza and just watch people go to and fro. Wondering, and fantasizing about their daily tasks. Getting bundles of freshly baked bread, or going to the Souk to check on new wares. Maybe even getting some supplies to build. There have been a lot of builders and artisans walking around as of late. The Stonefolk outside the Hall have been speaking more frequently of visiting the inside of the Well. Perhaps the new district is being worked on.

---

In other good news, I was able to hang out with friends. It's been hard to find people who understand the depths of my pain, my loss, my sorrow. But Rynn and Jamileh get it. They've lost people too, they've wept, and they've seen the horrors of Bet Neppahi. They understand that I lost there too, all of the Rathgan of Tammuz were taken. 'In which lovers shed their tears.' How frighteningly apt.

Even Vellyn and Evarielle are witty and funny to be around at times.

Managed to find a Royal Favour flower that Ulfgrim would always give me too...

[Korinthus Dûngir's Painting Check Skills are Above Average.]



- Tea and Royal Favour flower still life.

I've requisitioned them for a dinner date, not that kind of date, but one where friends sit and chat. It's been ages since Jamileh's seen the Hall. Likely back in the days of the Duunthall, which should be interesting to hear about. I don't think Rynn's ever seen it either. I do worry, though, that conversations will drift towards that of the Rathgan. Even I know how quiet the Halls have gotten. Still, I must make preparations. We will drink tea, enjoy some Flamebringer meatloaf and salad. Separate, of course, and enjoy each other's company, make jokes, talk of history, and maybe our dreams.

Laughter will soon again fill the Halls of the Last Dwarves; the Rathgan.

For now, my own cup of soothing tea awaits me, resting beside this very journal as I pen thoughts to paper. Tonight, it is my guardian against the horrible nightmares that would await me otherwise. Until then, I keep living.

Wisdom, light my way.

Maribeh 20th, IY 77899

And there came a day when you could no longer sing, for your voices were buried beneath the fall of stone, and only echoes answered you.

As of late, I have had little passion for writing. I've been walking the Well, wallowing in self-pity and sadness. All I can think about is how few Dwarves remain, or how many of my brothers died in war. I feel alone, lonely, and empty. Like a black hole is inside me, trying to swallow up all the happiness people try to bring to me. But, for now, in this moment, I feel inspired to write once more. Is it fleeting? Yes, probably, but for now, my quill moves easily across paper.

For so long, I tell people I am good. That nothing is wrong. I am fine. Most short-lived races merely use these questions as a greeting. Some form of pleasantry. To ask how one is doing. Do they really care, do they want to hear the truth? Or is it just some form of greeting?

So, slowly, I've been testing the waters. Sharing my plights with others. I think people begin to view one as a title. Hakem. Speaker. Rathgan. Veteran. Survivor. The more titles that are added to it, people forget that I am just 'Korin' underneath it all. I've done some things that will hopefully help.

I found counsel with Zol Nur this morning. Speaking to him of our shared plights. He has experienced loss, too, and knows that we must keep living for the dead. To carry their memories for no one else will. That we must push on, otherwise the dead died for nothing. I don't want to go on dreary and mope around the Well. My brothers are dead. My love is dead. Even still, I have duties that must be done, and I am still alive.

For too long have I been looking down at my feet, taking step after step. Not really looking where I was going as my mind looked to the past. I realize now I must lift my head, to gaze up at the stars. To see distant friends lights reflected back at me. To find joy and laughter in the present.

I've since thought of this future and hired people to help me. Help me find the Heir of Got Valdhazr. Coin comes and goes, and the Dwarves of Kulkund have too long coveted dinar when there are people who need it. It's among the acts that saw the High and Deep kin at arms against one another. Maybe a fresh set of eyes will bring success where I have failed countless times over and over.

Who knows, if they bring me nothing? Then I will have the same amount of info I started with, but if they bring me something, anything. Then I would spend all the gold I need to fulfill the promise I made to Ulfgrim. It will be worth it.

"If we have a dark mind, clouded by sorrow then even the light others shed, is dimmer for it." - Zol Nur, Starlight.

[Korinthus Dûngir's Painting Check Skills are Above Average.]



- Mount Kulkund during the colder months, painting from memory.

How long have I been clouded by sorrow? The war took everything from me, but it doesn't mean that I can't get pieces back. I live. I remember. I move forward.

Wisdom, light my way.

Maribeh 16th, IY 7789

The Letting was today.

I gave of myself in the rites, blood acting as payment to the Eighth. I embraced a Makhyoon of Urazzir, Sha-Namtu, as the barbs and brands upon his chains seared into me, their necrotic heat biting deep. I held fast, a strange, yet needed hug, longer than comfort permitted, until I cried aloud and broke the grip. There was pain. And yet, there was also a strange solace in nearness to one who bears suffering with such unflinching purpose.

How long has it been since I've been hugged?

It is not the first time I have offered devotion unto Urazzir, to Umbur. Once, I did so beside Ahrimanes. He who taught me much of Umbur and his endless weight. Sadly, he perished in the War. I think of him at times. I think of what he endured and what he left behind.

I allowed myself to bear a curse for Umbur. Under His gaze, I was changed, not spiritually, but physically. My dwarven form was stripped from me, and I stood as a human. Frail. Thin-blooded. Long-legged. Lacking the stone-deep strength I have always known. It is difficult to explain what it feels like to be made smaller inside your own skin. Thankfully, it will only be for one day.

I remained in the square for most of the day, my presence a small measure of faith. I do not believe myself marked for judgment, not yet, nor do I carry deeds of such horror that I must plead Umbur turn his face from me. Still, it felt holy to give something. Perhaps, in such payment, it's my hope that Umbur will be appeased for longer before He does look to me.

---

Finn showed me an anvil. At a glance, it seemed plain. But inscribed beneath it were words etched for time: "For Ulfgrim, and the Duunthall, for their aid in the Quest." I knew then whose hands had once struck upon it. That Ulfgrim had once crafted upon its face, and that he had done so with joy, with intention, with fire yet alive in him. Before the Duunthall were lost that is. In the time before I met him.

Though I loved him, it is difficult not to remember him first in shadow. That was how I came to know him. Yet even then, I could see some glint of the who he had been. I suppose it is the blessing of those who walk with darkness also to discern the light when it hides.

I must know what he made upon that anvil. Do those creations still dwell in the world? Did they endure as he did not? Were they of service, of beauty, of purpose? My hands passed over the metal, and all I could think upon was what memory remains in cold steel. He teaches me still, even in his absence.

[A teardrop falls upon the page.]

It reminds one to hold dear what is here now. The living are not eternal. They are with us one day and gone the next. It is well to learn their stories while they may still be spoken. Take the meeting. Share the drink. Ask the question. Delay is a thief.

Also, I witnessed Avelino being carried away bodily by a murder of crows. I have elected to trust that this is not an ill omen. - He's back now. - Oh, he's gone again. - Back.

Either way, Crows are strange, but I keep pressing on. It's what the dead would have wanted. Even curses pass.

Wisdom, light my way.

Maribeh 14th, IY 7789

And I heard you still, though you called no name, for you are carved into me.

It has been some time since I last committed my thoughts to parchment. The nightmares persist, that much hasn't changed. Flickers of memory, unwelcome and grainy, creep into my sleep like darkness as light fades. The tea dulls the edges, yes, and helps me wake less shaken, but even so, the weight remains.

Still, I press on. What else is there to do?

I keep myself busy in what ways I can. Conversation with familiar voices steadies me. The boardwork offers structure, if not fulfillment. I've taken to gently urging the Speakers to host gatherings, debates, or studies, anything to keep them from falling into stillness. And of course, there is Efoodle. Finally managed to get my name on the board.

[Korinthus Dûngir's Painting Check Skills are Above Average.]



- The combined favorite colors of Jam, Rynn, and me; a forest.

---

Aurelio approached me recently, his mind turning toward the Graveyard to the South. Those of my Dwarven Kin. He seeks to purchase land there, an investment perhaps, or a vision of verdancy carved by his hand. What it means, however, is that the stones, the memorials to those long passed, may need to be moved.

I cannot argue against the logic. I have often wondered what the Duunthall were thinking, scattering graves across the open field like seeds cast from a careless hand. Still, it weighs on me. I know a place where the stones could be relocated, somewhere quiet, somewhere safe.

They would not be disturbed. But instead, they would be forgotten. Out of sight, out of mind. Time erases us all, not with flame or fury, but through slow erosion. A name unread. A story unspoken. And then nothing.

We fade away.

---

I try, truly, to greet every new face that passes through the Well. But fewer come now, and fewer still stay. Especially kin. The world, once bright with purpose and threat of Orc'ah, has grown quieter.

Which is good of course.

But, in that quietude, I find myself adrift. The war is over, at least for now, and with its ending came not peace, but vacancy. Empty leads, silent Halls, a lingering sense that I should be doing more, though the roads before me are worn thin.

Rathsvit, ever the spark in a coal-dark place, has found himself clashing with road bandits again. I worry. I always worry. Mainly for his safety, but for those he fights. Road Bandits. If only they could be made to understand that gold, if that is truly what they crave, can be earned honestly, through boardwork, through effort, through community. I know it is not so simple. The roots of desperation are deep. But I wish they would turn from this path and find the forgiveness of the Hearthmaidens. There is still time, still warmth waiting to be kindled. If only they would seek it.

Naive. Foolish. I know the thoughts are, yet still they exist.

Still, I count my blessings. I am grateful for those who greet me in passing, for those who come to me seeking advice or reflection, for the gentle affirmation that I am still seen. Still heard. There is kindness in the Well, even in its stillness. And that matters more than I can say. To be remembered, not just as a voice in the Halls of the Rathgan, but as Korinthus.

As me.

Wisdom, light my way.

Maribeh 10th, IY 7789

And when you fell, you did not cry out for rescue, but bound your wounds in silence. You carved your grief into ledgers, and sang only to the stone.

Time continues its unrelenting passage, faster than I expected. Vahds Day Tournament was postponed twice and now I must miss it entirely.

Duty calls me elsewhere, to pilgrimage, to the unseen turns of the Wheel. I do not begrudge it, but still, I feel its absence. I had hoped to witness the joy, the challenge, the celebration. I had hoped to even host a small mini-game of my own; Greased Sacred Loaf runs. But some things must be let go.

---

I continue to offer what comfort I can to those around me, my kin, my companions, my fellow Rathgan. A warm hand hold amongst veterans. Those who've seen the horrors of war and know. War is not beautiful.

The faithful look to me, and I strive not to fail them. I hold fast to the Wheel, to the rhythm of duty, knowledge, and care. But in the quiet hours of night...

The dreams nightmares return. Always the same. Always worse.

It begins with the wind. Dry and cold, howling through a dead ziggurat. Bet Nappahi, but wrong. The stars above burn with colors they should not, like they remember something I do not. Sand and Ash swirls in the streets, whispering voices in a tongue older than stone.

Assuru?

I hear names carried in the wind. Names I do not speak aloud anymore. Names of my Rathgan.

Then I see them.

Rathgan warriors, those who stood with me, those who fell. Their eyes are hollow, their armor scorched, wounds on their skin broken and bleeding. They do not move like the living. They walk like echoes, drifting toward me without sound, without purpose. Yet their faces...

I know every one of them. I knew their laughter. I knew their prayers.

But the worst is always him.

He does not drift. He walks. Heavy, deliberate footsteps. His armor shines, still pristine, as if untouched by fire. His eyes are not hollow. They are angry. He does not speak, but the accusation burns in the space between us. His axe, that red axe, rises slowly in his hands, the same way he used to when he would protect me. But there is no protector in it now. No joy. Just silence and sorrow and inevitability.

And I stand there, frozen. I never run. I never cry out. I just watch, like I deserve it.

Sometimes I wake before the axe falls. Sometimes I do not.

Even in waking, my breath catches when I see his face behind my eyes. Sometimes I can still smell the soot in my beard. See the fires of burning trees. Feel the blood of those I failed to heal. I hear him cry out, his final breath.

---

The tea Garen brews helped once. It still helps, a little. But the shakes are returning. My hands feel like cracked stone. I am fraying.

Soon, I must clean away Ulfgrim's old box. Face what I have buried. Make peace with what he left behind.

He would not want me to break under this weight and move on.

But I wonder... would he forgive me, if I did?

Wisdom, light my way.

[Ulfgrim]

Maribeh 7th, IY 7789

I do not forgive you, for I have never judged you. You are mine as the chisel is to the block: truth shaped into form.

And the World to him, who breaks not, though broken be his home.

I try to find my own path. Through the wisdom of others, I have been instructed, or at least suggested, that I should take time for myself. To know when to say 'no' to things, and when to say 'yes'. There may be some who judge my actions, or what they perceive as inaction just because I am quiet.

There are times you give so much of yourself, your time, your strength, your heart. That there's nothing left in you but Ash. You tell yourself it's duty. And it is. But duty without rest? Without nourishment? It hollows you out. You can't carry others if your legs give way. So now I remind myself: take enough to keep walking. Take, not because I deserve more, but because I can't give anything if I've bled myself dry.

How much more do I have to give? How much more of me is left?

---

Today, I aided Kazadun, the handsome dwarf that he is, in etching stone. I could see the weight upon his shoulders, and thought to aid, and though I tried not to linger on their muscles. I'll write no more on that.

A solemn task, one of duty that held some distraction, looking at the man. But, he and I were able to carve memorials for those that passed on in previous battles. To clean and update the memorials of the Maq'bara, as I did the Dwarven graves. Death upon death, but now they will be carved into stone instead of wood. The stone remembers.

---

[Korinthus Dûngir's Painting Check Skills are Above Average.]



- The Barren Nusrum under the Sable Cloak.

I walked the Nusrum with eleven others. Their names I carve in my mind. Those who walk with the Rathgan are known and not forgotten. Those who stand at our side now, at our time of need, will know the Halls that we reclaim, in time. A promise is a promise. I promised you, Ulfgrim, that I would find a way to reclaim Got Valdhazr.

The search continues. Nusrum held no clues as to the heirs' whereabouts. Slowly, the doubts begin to take root in my mind. "Is he gone? Will I ever find him?" But, I have to hold onto faith, to belief, that he is out there somewhere. During the walk, I spoke of Grenth Flamebringer. The Duunthall's Priest. I told of his life, his time without his Spark. The thing that makes a Speaker who they are. His triumphs, his failures, his success, his victory, and his end.

To speak His name; Agaslakku.

Would Ma and Pa recognize me now?

I've changed. I've taken on more than I ever dreamed. I carry the name of Hakem. I carry the title of Rathgan. I speak as Speaker of Izzakhar. I speak for people. I guide. I wield blessings and speak truths too ancient for any song. And yet, sometimes I feel I've stepped too far from where I began.

We were traditionalists. Pa was a High Inquisitor after all. We honored the old ways. And I've broken from some of that. I've made choices they might never have understood. I wear robes instead of mail, I speak in kindness and pleasantries, and sometimes I cry at things that aren't supposed to move dwarves.

But still. I hope.

I hope they'd see something familiar in me. Their beardling perhaps? The steadiness of Pa's hand when he held the quill and blade. The kindness of Ma's eyes when she tended the hearth. I hope they'd see I haven't turned from them. Only grown in ways they never had a chance to.

And maybe, just maybe, they'd be proud.

Wisdom, light my way.

Maribeh 5th, IY 7789

I'm tired.

---

So very tired.

I feel exhausted. Beaten down by words and comments said by people. How often it feels that negativity is focused on. All my life I've walked amongst darkness. The caves of my home kept me safe where the light would have me revealed to the Orc'ah. Yet, even in the darkness, I was taught the light of wisdom and knowledge. That when it shines so bright in us, it helps to see clearly amongst the darkness.

War. War was easier than this. The enemy was so clearly laid out before me. It was us versus them. The Heron versus Iakmes. Now, everything is so muddled. I want to fulfil the oathes I swore to. The promises I made to the man I love. To duties I carved to stone. But, when I look to such, the people call out verbally that I am a poor Hakem.

That I am silent when I should speak. How does one speak for the entire Wheel when each Spoke itself is so different. Izzakhar values truth, and Galmok twists it. The Hearthmaiden holds mercy in Her heart, but the Hidden River waters the garden in blood. It's so exhausting. All I want is for everyone to be happy, to solve their problems, to lift the Speakers of the Wheel up.

Yet, sometimes I feel powerless to aid them. Who am I to call forth a team to raid this House of Bahru? How can I retrieve the bodies that were stolen from the Maqam? How can I find out who destroyed the shrines of the faithful? How should the Gods feel about a man such as Yaawar? Should faith be above law? Below it? What does that say about a Hakem if they place law above the Gods? How do I appease one God, but ignore the other? Are there enough shrines? Did I bring enough faithful to the Wheel? Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? Too little? How do I answer these questions?

I don't do any of this for myself. I do it all for them. It's what I've always done. During the War, I always helped my Rathgan. The quiet words aren't enough. Encouraging a Speaker to speak isn't enough. Voices over the bellows say, it isn't enough. Questions of what I even do, apparently not enough. I'm unseen. Unknown.

I just hope there are those out there who see me. Who know what I do. Who know that I try. I may be quiet, but I'm there. Standing next to them. As a shrine to Kardun is blessed. A walk for Warad. Listening to the words of a man speak on the Shepherds. Supporting the Agasians with their speeches and works. I'm there. Just...

Unseen.

Titles carry such a heavy weight to them.

I'm tired.

Gratitude. That's all I wish for. Greatfulness.

I want to find a home for my people, and I just want to help. That's all.

---

"Endure." - Haknar Grametranken.

"A good Hakem." - Vellyn Lhyrian, Evarielle Nerdolwe, Faith Kruehtzer.

Sometimes, enduring is all we can do.

Your tears were not gifts, but wages, paid in silence, paid in stone, paid to grief for service done.

And the World to him, who mourns without begging for balm.

Wisdom, light my way.

[control]

Maribeh 2nd, IY 7789

The Disc churns ever onwards.

"Dreams and nightmares alike are bound together." - Teran al-Raeid.

I witnessed Hanson return, alive, speaking, proclaiming the innocence of Yaawar. For some reason. Yet others saw him dead, struck down by Yaawars hand. The contradiction is profound. Truth here is veiled, as though I peer through water and flame at once.

I remain wary of Yaawar, a follower of the Wroth. In truth, I have no idea what the man is willin' to do. Dangerous, even if not guilty of the crime in question. His presence stirs something deeper than mere concern. Worry.

My station as Hakem, of the Wheel, places many eyes upon me. They expect action, guidance, and control. In the Accord, one may command through rank. Sergeants, Lieutenants, Soldiers. But in the faith? No Speaker stands above another. Each is a Spoke upon the Wheel, each a distinct voice, a grain of sand upon the dune. To command such a thing is like trying to bridle a sandstorm. The sand always slips through the fingers.

Still, I try.

---

The Frostport Fillet was an... event. Overseen by Vaskr and Ignazio. A spectacle of bare-chested combatants wrestling upon the cold ground for nothing but pride. Amusing, if not enlightening. Among them, a new face; Mal-kathor. A curious fellow. He gave me a pat on the head and called me "Wise Dwarf." A foolish gesture. But I admit... it warmed me.

I'll admit I watched longer than I intended. The display held something. Something difficult to name. I pried my eyes away...

More curiously, a strange substance was used in the fighting, referred to only as 'Dirt'. I know little of drugs, but their effects were evident: pain dulled, thirst heightened. What one sacrifices to escape the bounds of the flesh, I wonder.

---

Anyways, Vahd's Triumph Tournament has been postponed. A necessary decision, given the confusion and grief surrounding Hanson's presumed death. Even celebration must yield to mourning. I am now eager for when this tournament is to take place. I've got everything in place and ready to go.

Now, I turn to my Kin. The Rathgan must grow. I seek dwarves of purpose and clarity, those who might walk with us. Toward memory, toward truth, toward home. I await Tova's word, her decision on if she will walk with us.

And in your hands I placed flame, not of fire, but of craft. A forge light born of thought and care, that shapes not only stone, but soul.

So much to do. So much to do...

Wisdom, light my way.

Maribeh 1st, IY 7789

And I sang to you such songs as are only heard in the highest of Heavens, and nowhere in the Hells.

It has been some time since I took a moment to pause and reflect on my tasks. A great many works have come my way. Vahd's Triumph is tomorrow, a holy day of the Second. Potential new recruits for the Rathgan. Those filled with purpose and want, a place to be safe, loved, and warm in the cold nights. There are those who seek to tear down my reputation as a Dwarf, as a child of Kulkund. I pay them little mind, in fact, perhaps it is time to write a story of my own Kin's folly.

'A pride that does not bend, will break.'

[Korinthus Dûngir's Painting Check Skills are Above Average.]



- State of Things.

I'll work on that. Seems a fitting lesson for a story. People like stories. It makes the truth easier to bear.

I took the time and effort to redo the entire graveyard to the South. The one dedicated to fallen kin and those who follow the Second Spoke. I am not sure what exactly it is, but the Agasians. Those that follow the Murderer have a way of seeping into my life. I cannot help but seek change, to shift from our old ways. I will bend.

'We remember those who carved the roads before us, and prepare for those who walk them after.'

For you, Ulfgrim. I must keep going. Another search for the heir soon, I try to remain hopeful, positive that something, some new clue, will be found. But, I am also understanding that perhaps nothing at all will be found. I won't let the others know of my doubts though. What would be the next step? One of us take over the Holds? Are there any others left hiding in caves and holes to preside over? How many more of us are left? I'll keep going, for we are the Last, and I'll keep going even if I am the Last.

There are days, though, that I do wonder. "What would Pa think of me now?" Would he be proud to see me pushing forward, or would he be upset that I stray far away from our ways? After the wonder fades, the worry sets in. Truth. In truth, I know what my Pa would say to me. Regardless, I'll bear the weight of the stones crushing down upon me. I'll do what needs to be done so that our people, my people, can have a home again.

I promised.

I promised you.

Wisdom, light my way.

[justice]

Dearest Makhyoon Yaawar,

I have received your letter with the due gravity and reflection that it is deserved.

I do agree that placing Kardun upon the Stele at this hour would be a reward for the acts of Her Speakers. Their actions were not only contrary to divine harmony, but a violation of sacred order and trust. Such conduct must not be sanctified through honor, otherwise we risk eroding the meaning of justice itself.

It was my wish, admittedly, to see nature heal in these times, especially after the Ash claimed Bet Nappahi. I had hoped Kardun's wild mercy might restore what was lost. But nature, when unchecked by wisdom, may overgrow into chaos, and now the roots of that chaos run deep.

I have spoken with the Legate of Gold, Vellyn, regarding the elevation of the Hearthmaiden to the Stele. I know not if this has been done yet. The city is in need of healing now, not only in body but in spirit, and the tears of the Mother may yet forgive us. Yet while the people cry out for vengeance, to speak only of mercy would be to turn a deaf ear to the broken.

Thus, I propose this;

I will do my utmost to meet with the Legates and reconvene, though in these times, even I struggle to reach them amidst the noise of electoral tides. I will likely bellow for this change. Until such a gathering is made possible, and until justice has been done and seen to be done, I will bellow to place Umbur upon the Stele.

Let Wroth's gaze fall heavy, and let none doubt that the crime of Besimet Boon will not go unanswered. I am no Speaker of the Eighth, but I hope no further lives are lost. Vengeance has a hunger that knows no end, and I pray we do not forget the line between justice and ruin.

When the masses are appeased, you work alongside the Law, when the blade has fallen and the record has been closed, and when Umbur averts his gaze, I will look again to the Hearthmaiden. I will look to the Mother for mercy and forgiveness over Ephia's Well in our time of healing.

Wisdom, light your way,

Priest of the Rathgan, Speaker of Izzakhar, Hakem.

- Korinthus Dûngir.

[Durgin Doomed-Oath]

Tammuz 28th, IY 7789

I walked not to my home, but to my cousins' home.

Got Valdhazr.

A few joined with us; the Rathgan, and those of whom I would be glad to call friends. As we walked I told them the story of Durgin Doomed-Oath. At least, as best as I could recall, time twists things. It is a shame that the historians of the Duunthall, the Flamebringer. Did not etch history to stone. Some of the papers are burned and covered in blood.

A sad thing for the Stone remembers.

When we arrived after the tale, the search began for any clues about the Prince, the last heir. Sadly, nothing of note was found. Sure, the Orc'ah had moved away from the Hold. I had seen the hordes onrush around Got Valdhazr before, but now? It was eerily quiet, save for the whispers of my dead kin inside the Hold. Though, the spirits from behind the gates did speak.

'Bring Death to the Murderer.'

It seems that hatred for the Second Spoke is still well-kept amongst the dead.

The spirits of the dead are still restless inside. Maybe that's my goal? To give them the rest they've been robbed of. So that they might meet their doom with the joy that those of Got Valdhazr longed for so long ago?

[Korinthus Dûngir's Painting Check Skills are Above Average.]



- An unknowing rendition of Got Valdhazr's Halls.

There are those close to me who say they have a way to open the doors, but is that what we want to do? It was a promise I made to those who came before me. To Ulfgrim, to the Duunthall. I must ensure it's safe to do so, and a kingdom with a king is hardly that. I need to find the Prince. Thus, my search, and the Rathgans, continues.

When the stars align, the Gates of Got Valdhazr will open once more. The lost songs sung in Got Valdhazr will not be the last. It will hear song again.

I did flee the Raging Sky, so much did I fear the Heavens; the wrath of those who were wroth, who would forbid my dreams of a world where beauty is king.

Wisdom, light my way.

[together]

Tammuz 27th, IY 7789

Today was a hectic day. After spending a few days walking the sands in pursuit of knowledge. A small pilgrimage, I return to aid friends in a task. One to push back the Darkness that dangers those I care for.

I aided in fighting against the Dark itself. A being of pure umbral energy amidst the Firmament. It was all encompassing, everywhere. I understand the saying

"It is not the darkness we fear, but what lurks inside it."

Something I've been studying ever since my time in the Sandstone as a Black Tassel student.

After we brought the light we held inside of us to the Dark, a shadow of an Elf appeared, speaking of Vellyns past. It is not my story to tell, so I will not write of its entirety, but to summarize, it speaks of a home once had, a garden of a sort, and now regrown far out in the stars.

I've seen how darkness can claim things. I've not just seen, but known how it can take things, but with an overwhelming amount of light together, we can bring things back. The forest grew again, from black nothingness to its full greenery. It reminded me of Bet Nappahi, of the lush and full jungles. It also reminded me of home, of Kulkund, the many large and towering trees that dot the mountain. Far enough from the Ash that it remains. For now.

Let your name be remembered by me, and by whoever finds this tome when I am no longer here;

Zirael. Warden of the Verdant Forests among the Firmament.

[Korinthus Dûngir's Painting Check Skills are Above Average.]



- The Bramble's Patch.

---

Then, from task to task, one after the other. I gathered the faithful o f the Wheel to meet at the Synod. To speak on matters of faith that had been brought to me by others.

We spoke of the Purple league, of the drug situation around the Well, and information regarding the search of the three missing bodies. Then, came the main reason I called the Synod. The vote for which Spoke to place upon the Stele in these times.

It was a close call between the Hearthmaiden and the Hidden River. Three votes for Kardun, two for Baalera, and one for Umbur.

However, things can never be as simple as I'd like them to be. Upon taking the voices of the Synod to the Legate of Gold, Vellyn. She declines our notion. She declines it because the last time that Kardun was upon the Stele, Inanna was murdered, assassinated. I understand her pain, I do. I sympathize with it, however, the divine order and votes of the Speakers of the Well decided the Kardun would be on the Stele. Nature to heal whilst we heal alongside it, the great loss that Bet Nappahi sustained as the Ash swallowed it. The Disc needs green life to grow once more while we build.

But, no. Vellyn declines such. I've given her one day to reconsider. I hope she does see wisdom. One Speaker does not represent the entirety of the Gods. Otherwise, there would only be one Speaker for each Spoke, and that is not the case. We are but mortals speaking with a small fragment of the gods. Gifted with their blessings to enact their will.

Kardun will be placed upon the Stele.

Though I prefer to walk the gentle path, in doing so, even if it is the slower one. I pray my kindness pays off.

---

Another of kin to join us, the Last, the Rathgan.

Rathsvit Khuzdul. 

He may not be the smartest dwarf I've met, but his heart is twice the size and he is patient. He waited for me to bring him into the fold, and was understanding of how busy I have been as of late. I appreciate such. I've seen how he fights too, it reminds me of Ulfgrim.

Speaking of. I had thought I had cried all the tears I could for him. I lay awake at night staring, just staring at the statue made of him. Sometimes I half-dream he might burst forth in a beam of light from said statue, but I know the truth. 'A time where lovers shed their tears'. I eagerly await the end of Tammuz. I'm tired of crying, but tonight?

I think I'll shed some more.

Wisdom, light my way.