Roumors Spread around Urguan

[Riot 743]

Dorin Starbreaker had donned his Pridebearer armor that morning and taken his place within the Legion Hall, as he had done many times before. Earlier in the week he had worked long hours helping raise the fortifications, hauling stone and iron alongside the others. In the strain and dust of that labor, his medicine had begun to run low—but there had been work to finish, and dwarves were not known for stopping early.

 

When the summons for the Iron Assembly was called, Dorin made his way there with the rest, though the ache in his lungs had already begun to stir.

 

At first it was only a dull burn, the sort he had learned to ignore.

 

Standing before the gathered dwarves, listening as the King addressed the people and the elder clan leaders spoke in turn, Dorin reached into his pocket for the familiar bottle. His fingers closed around it, and he drew it out.

 

Empty.

 

He turned it in his hand once, staring at it in silence before closing his fist around the glass. The noise of the assembly continued, voices rising and falling, but already the edges of his vision had begun to soften.

 

He tried to focus.

Tried to listen.

 

The burning in his chest worsened.

A cough came, small at first, forced down behind clenched teeth. Then another, harder, shaking his shoulders.

 

A Doomforged nearby—Brianna—leaned toward him, her voice low with concern, asking if the medicine was still holding.

 

Dorin answered only by opening his hand and showing her the vial.

 

Empty.

 

The coughing worsened, stealing the air from his lungs. He staggered, one hand bracing against the wall as the chamber seemed to sway around him. Sound dulled, voices stretching into a distant murmur. Darkness crept at the edges of his sight.

 

Then the cough seized him fully.

 

He doubled forward, and blood came with it—dark and heavy, spilling from his lips onto the stone as his body heaved, the strength leaving his limbs all at once.

 

His footing slipped.

 

Before he could strike the ground, Brianna caught him, bearing his weight as his strength failed and the world finally went black.

Spoiler

Dorin was more weight than man when they dragged him up the road—boots scraping stone, armor dulled by dust and dried blood. By the time they reached Grelu’s home, Dorin’s breath was thin and wrong, like a bellows with a hole burned through it.

 

Grelu didn’t waste words.

 

He hauled Dorin inside and sat him down on the carpet, positioning him across from himself like one sets a wounded thing before a hearth. Dorin’s head lolled; his lips were stained dark, his chest barely rising.

Grelu sat down, steady as carved granite, lit his pipe, and began to chant.

 

The sound wasn’t loud—just a low cadence, repetitive and deliberate, as if each syllable was being set into the world like a rune pressed into hot metal. Dorin’s eyelids fluttered. His fingers twitched. The first signs of waking came…

 

…yet Dorin did not wake in Grelu’s house.

 

He woke in shallow water.

 

Cold lapped around his boots, rippling outward in rings that went too far, too clean, too endless. The air felt thick—like the world was holding its breath. Dorin staggered, instinct screaming at him to reach for his bow—

 

Nothing. Yet his arm had returned to him, not the golem arm he had grown used to.

 

No weapon. No familiar weight. Just empty hands and the sound of water.

 

Ahead of him, Grelu moved through the shallows as though he belonged there, leading Dorin onward. They walked—step after step—passing what felt like invisible walls, places where the world should have stopped but didn’t, places where the water and the air bent wrong around them. Dorin followed because there was nothing else to do, and because Grelu was the only certainty in an unreal place.

 

He walked for what felt like days. till his muscles ached and the water felt like restraints.

 

Then they came upon a whirlpool.

 

It churned in silence at first, a hungry spiral pulling at the water like it wanted to drink the whole world down. Dorin tensed, shoulders rising, hands curling into fists as he searched again for the bow that wasn’t there.

 

The whirlpool rose.

Not exploding—rising, deliberate, as if something was standing up from within it. Water drew into shape. A face formed in the moving dark—

 

 

His Mother.

 

 

 

The one he had lost long ago.

 

It hit him like a hammer to the ribs. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t a Pridebearer, wasn’t Legion, wasn’t the dwarf who had learned to swallow grief and keep walking. He was simply a son staring at the impossible.

They spoke.

 

Not like a casual conversation—like a weighing.

 

It spoke of his soul, and how pure it was. Dorin, raw and trembling beneath the weight of that face, answered the only way he could: he spoke of the dwarven curse, of how he had used it to make himself better— because that is what his mother would have wanted of him. Because dwarves endure. Because he tried.

 

The spirit seemed to like that answer.

 

Then it asked him—plainly—if he believed in the power of spirits.

 

Dorin’s throat tightened. But he did not lie.

 

“It would be foolish not to.”

 

The thing wearing his mother’s face didn’t smile.

 

It dashed at him.

 

The water surged up and over him like a cloak thrown across the head. In an instant Dorin was drowning—lungs burning, chest crushing, the same helpless panic as the sickness but sharpened into something absolute. He fought for air and found none. He opened his mouth and swallowed cold.

 

And then—

Dorin snapped awake.

Not gently.

 

He came back choking, dragging air into his lungs like he’d been buried alive. His hands clutched at his chest as he fought for breath, eyes wild and wet.

 

And the burning—

The burning was gone.

 

He stopped mid-gasp, stunned by the absence of pain, by the simple miracle of air moving cleanly in and out. He turned his head and saw Grelu there in the real world, smoking as if none of this had cost him anything at all.

 

Grelu exhaled slowly, watching Dorin with the calm of someone who’d done this before.

 

“You’re fine now,” he told him, matter-of-fact.

 

Then, as if it were an afterthought—and as if Dorin hadn’t just walked through death and memory to get here—Grelu added that he might have a use for Dorin in the future.

 

And Dorin, still shaking, still tasting water that wasn’t there, could only stare… breathing freely… and realizing he owed something he didn’t yet understand.

 

[DancingZebra267 1626]

Rhorgvar heard the news and felt a quiet sadness settle over him, for he had quite liked the young Starbreaker, and wished for the deed's swift recovery, only to pause, his eyes widening slightly before he glanced down at his hands. "Oive trained wit' dis dwarf... hope 'is illness esnae contagious..." he muttered under his breath, the concern lingering.

[Riot 743]

2 hours ago, Riot said:

 

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Dorin was more weight than man when they dragged him up the road—boots scraping stone, armor dulled by dust and dried blood. By the time they reached Grelu’s home, Dorin’s breath was thin and wrong, like a bellows with a hole burned through it.

 

Grelu didn’t waste words.

 

He hauled Dorin inside and sat him down on the carpet, positioning him across from himself like one sets a wounded thing before a hearth. Dorin’s head lolled; his lips were stained dark, his chest barely rising.

Grelu sat down, steady as carved granite, lit his pipe, and began to chant.

 

The sound wasn’t loud—just a low cadence, repetitive and deliberate, as if each syllable was being set into the world like a rune pressed into hot metal. Dorin’s eyelids fluttered. His fingers twitched. The first signs of waking came…

 

…yet Dorin did not wake in Grelu’s house.

 

He woke in shallow water.

 

Cold lapped around his boots, rippling outward in rings that went too far, too clean, too endless. The air felt thick—like the world was holding its breath. Dorin staggered, instinct screaming at him to reach for his bow—

 

Nothing. Yet his arm had returned to him, not the golem arm he had grown used to.

 

No weapon. No familiar weight. Just empty hands and the sound of water.

 

Ahead of him, Grelu moved through the shallows as though he belonged there, leading Dorin onward. They walked—step after step—passing what felt like invisible walls, places where the world should have stopped but didn’t, places where the water and the air bent wrong around them. Dorin followed because there was nothing else to do, and because Grelu was the only certainty in an unreal place.

 

He walked for what felt like days. till his muscles ached and the water felt like restraints.

 

Then they came upon a whirlpool.

 

It churned in silence at first, a hungry spiral pulling at the water like it wanted to drink the whole world down. Dorin tensed, shoulders rising, hands curling into fists as he searched again for the bow that wasn’t there.

 

The whirlpool rose.

Not exploding—rising, deliberate, as if something was standing up from within it. Water drew into shape. A face formed in the moving dark—

 

 

His Mother.

 

 

 

The one he had lost long ago.

 

It hit him like a hammer to the ribs. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t a Pridebearer, wasn’t Legion, wasn’t the dwarf who had learned to swallow grief and keep walking. He was simply a son staring at the impossible.

They spoke.

 

Not like a casual conversation—like a weighing.

 

It spoke of his soul, and how pure it was. Dorin, raw and trembling beneath the weight of that face, answered the only way he could: he spoke of the dwarven curse, of how he had used it to make himself better— because that is what his mother would have wanted of him. Because dwarves endure. Because he tried.

 

The spirit seemed to like that answer.

 

Then it asked him—plainly—if he believed in the power of spirits.

 

Dorin’s throat tightened. But he did not lie.

 

“It would be foolish not to.”

 

The thing wearing his mother’s face didn’t smile.

 

It dashed at him.

 

The water surged up and over him like a cloak thrown across the head. In an instant Dorin was drowning—lungs burning, chest crushing, the same helpless panic as the sickness but sharpened into something absolute. He fought for air and found none. He opened his mouth and swallowed cold.

 

And then—

Dorin snapped awake.

Not gently.

 

He came back choking, dragging air into his lungs like he’d been buried alive. His hands clutched at his chest as he fought for breath, eyes wild and wet.

 

And the burning—

The burning was gone.

 

He stopped mid-gasp, stunned by the absence of pain, by the simple miracle of air moving cleanly in and out. He turned his head and saw Grelu there in the real world, smoking as if none of this had cost him anything at all.

 

Grelu exhaled slowly, watching Dorin with the calm of someone who’d done this before.

 

“You’re fine now,” he told him, matter-of-fact.

 

Then, as if it were an afterthought—and as if Dorin hadn’t just walked through death and memory to get here—Grelu added that he might have a use for Dorin in the future.

 

And Dorin, still shaking, still tasting water that wasn’t there, could only stare… breathing freely… and realizing he owed something he didn’t yet understand.

 

NEW UPDATE

[IvIorwenna 148]

As the news of the young Starbreaker's condition reached Brenna's ears, she muttered a prayer to the Brathmordakin for his swift recovery. She only hoped that the curative that she gave to her comrade and countrydwed served well to alleviate his pain, if not its root cause.