The Moonlight Blossom Inn was quieter than usual. A storm had rolled in from the west, the wind rattling the wooden beams while rain drummed against the shutters. Inside, the fire crackled, casting flickering shadows across the rough-hewn walls.
At the corner table, away from prying ears, Borgrim, Baeric, Thordrek, Varnic, Durnhal, and the Twins—Rurik and Grumli—hunched over a map, their faces set in grim determination. Their mugs of ale sat untouched, forgotten in the weight of their discussion.
Baeric's calloused finger traced the map, tapping hard against the eastern waters. "The Azerite ain't here," he muttered, his voice carrying over the storm. "Sol-Mayora. That's where it's been all along."
Borgrim exhaled through his nose, arms crossed over his barrel chest. "And how, pray tell, do we get there? We dwarves ain't built for the sea, lad. We belong beneath the mountains, not tossed about like driftwood."
Thordrek grunted, shifting in his chair. "Borgrim's right. This is madness. We'd need a ship, and not just any ship—a captain foolish enough to take us there."
"Foolish, or desperate," Baeric countered. "Gold can buy desperation."
Durnhal leaned back, stroking his thick, silver-streaked beard. "Gold can buy a lot of things. But it won't stop the Ashbloods from flaying us alive the moment we step on their shores." His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp. "We'd be marching into our graves."
"Then we don't land in the Wastes," Baeric said firmly.
Varnic, who had been silent until now, frowned. "Then where? You think you'll just sail past the Ashblood's bloody coastline and waltz into Sol-Mayora unseen?"
Baeric leaned forward, his expression unwavering. "We don't go straight to the Wastes. We land further south—past the ruined isles. There are smugglers' routes in the cliffs, forgotten paths used by those who don't wish to be seen."
Rurik let out a dry chuckle. "Smugglers, eh? Might as well walk into a dragon's maw and hope it ain't hungry."
Grumli, his twin, grunted. "Smugglers I can handle. The sea? That's another matter. I ain't setting foot on a gods-damned boat unless we've got no other choice."
Baeric spread his hands. "Then it's settled. We find a ship, and we make our way south. Once we reach Sol-Mayora, we figure the rest out."
"Aye, and where do ye plan on finding such a fool?" Thordrek shot back. "No sane man would take us to Sol-Mayora, and the mad ones don't live long."
Durnhal tapped the table with his thick fingers. "We check the docks. There's always some bastard willing to risk his skin for the right price."
"Or we go straight to the smugglers," Varnic suggested, though his tone was reluctant. "They know the hidden routes better than any map."
Rurik scoffed. "Smugglers? You want to deal with cutthroats and pirates?"
"Better than the Ashbloods," Baeric muttered.
The argument was starting to circle back when the heavy wooden door at the back of the inn slammed open.
The dwarves all turned just as Gorim stepped out, drying his thick hands on his tunic. The old dwarf's face was lined with age and wisdom, but his sharp eyes still held the fire of a battle-hardened warrior.
He looked over the gathered company, raised a bushy eyebrow, and snorted. "Ye lot sound like bickering hens. Stop wastin' yer breath."
"Gorim," Borgrim greeted, standing. "We're figuring how to—"
"Bah! Don't waste time finding some scallywag captain," Gorim interrupted, waving a hand. "Talk to my friends instead."
Baeric leaned forward. "What friends?"
Gorim grinned, the expression laced with mischief. "Human friends. Khaltar and his lot. They're already went to Sol-Mayora, and they ain't strangers to danger."
The dwarves stared. For a long moment, none of them spoke. Then, all at once: "WHAT?!"
Borgrim slammed a hand on the table and barked out a laugh. "Uncle, ye're a bloody genius!" Without hesitation, he strode over and wrapped Gorim in a bone-crushing hug.
Gorim grumbled but patted Borgrim's back. "Aye, aye, just don't squeeze the life outta me, lad."
Baeric exhaled, shaking his head. "Well, that settles that."
Thordrek chuckled, rubbing his beard. "Guess we're setting sail sooner than we thought."
Grumli groaned. "Still don't like boats."
"Too late, brother," Rurik smirked.
Gorim and Borgrim stomped down the wooden stairs of the Moonlight Blossom Inn, the storm outside still rattling the beams. The second floor was dimly lit, the hallway lined with doors leading to travelers' rooms. Most of the guests were either asleep or drowning themselves in ale downstairs, but the two dwarves had no time for courtesy.
Reaching one of the doors, Gorim banged his fist against it—hard. "Oi! Wake up, ye lazy bastards!"
A muffled groan came from inside before the door cracked open, revealing Yaraq—his dark eyes heavy with sleep, his black hair a tangled mess. He squinted at the two dwarves and scowled. "By the gods, Gorim—what time is it?" he muttered, rubbing his face.
Borgrim grinned. "Time to talk, lad. Open up."
Yaraq sighed but stepped aside, swinging the door fully open. Inside, the small room was lit by a lone candle, flickering against the damp walls. Khaltar, still fully dressed, sat on the bed, one leg lazily propped up, sharpening a dagger with a whetstone. His dark, weathered features barely shifted as he looked up at the two dwarves.
"Well, well," Khaltar muttered, pausing his work. "Either you've got drinks, or you've got trouble."
"A bit of both, maybe," Gorim said, stepping inside.
Borgrim followed, shutting the door behind him. The air smelled of damp wool and stale smoke, the storm outside making the walls creak.
Khaltar set the dagger down and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Alright, old dwarf. Let's hear it."
Gorim crossed his arms, his sharp gaze locking onto Khaltar. "We need a ship."
Khaltar raised an eyebrow, glancing at Borgrim before looking back at the old dwarf. "You hate ships."
"Aye," Gorim admitted. "But we need one anyway. We're sailing to Sol-Mayora."
Yaraq, who was still half-asleep, let out a groan and rubbed his temples. "You're mad."
Borgrim smirked. "We need a captain—one with more guts than sense. And we need fighters, because we ain't just going there to sightsee. We need friends who know how to kill orcs."
For a long moment, Khaltar just stared at them, unreadable. Then, slowly, he smirked. "Then you've come to the right people."
Borgrim and Gorim exchanged a glance. Khaltar leaned back on the bed, stretching his arms behind his head. "We—Silver Axe—once sailed to Sol-Mayora. We fought the Orcs ourselves."
Yaraq, now fully awake, suddenly burst out laughing. "Aye, and we almost died!" he said between wheezes. "By the gods, Borgrim, you should've seen it—thousands of the bastards, bigger than any orc you've ever faced, covered in war paint and screaming like demons!"
Khaltar chuckled, shaking his head. "It was hell. But we lived."
Borgrim's grin widened. "Then ye know what we're up against."
Khaltar nodded. "Better than most." He gave Gorim a long look. "You really want to do this?"
Gorim's expression never wavered. "Aye."
Khaltar exhaled, then smirked again. "Then it looks like we're going back to hell."
Yaraq leaned back against the doorframe, arms crossed. His sharp eyes flicked between the two dwarves before he finally asked, "Alright, so where's the closest dock?"
Borgrim scratched his beard, thinking for a moment before answering. "That'd be Blacktide Port in the town of Drakescar. It's the biggest dock and it's where most long-haul ships stock up before heading across the sea."
Yaraq nodded, considering. "And how long from here?"
Borgrim sighed. "From Marsh Town? On foot? Too bloody long." He looked to Gorim, who grunted and answered, "Five days by road if the weather holds. Three if we hire fast horses."
Khaltar clicked his tongue. "That's still a stretch."
Yaraq ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Then we need to load up on supplies before we set out. Weapons, rations, maybe even some bribes for guards again."
Borgrim nodded. "Aye, and don't forget the barrels of ale. We're dwarves, not savages."
Yaraq smirked. "Right, because drunk dwarves on a ship always end well."
Borgrim grinned. "It does if ye can hold yer ale."
Khaltar stood up, stretching his arms. "Fine. We'll gather what we need in the morning and head out at first light."
Gorim grunted. "No delays. If we're going to Sol-Mayora, we best move fast."
When the morning sun barely peeked over the misty rooftops of Marsh Town, the dwarves were already at work, their boots thudding against the damp cobblestone streets. Outside the Moonlight Blossom Inn, the preparations were in full swing—crates, sacks, and barrels being loaded onto a sturdy oak-wood cart, reinforced with iron-rimmed wheels for the rough roads ahead.
Borgrim, standing with arms crossed, barked orders as his kin moved about. Baeric and Thordrek were stacking up barrels of dried meat, salted fish, and hardtack—provisions enough for a long journey. Varnic was securing a crate of blackpowder and spare weapons, while Durnhal double-checked the tightly wrapped bundles of armor repairs and extra chainmail links.
The Twins, Rurik and Grumli, were handling the more delicate cargo—flasks of dwarven ale from the Marsh Town brewery, alongside medicinal herbs and bandages, tucked safely under thick woolen cloths. Gorim, ever the practical one, was ensuring that extra blankets, flint, oil, and torches were packed as well.
Then came the horses—strong, well-fed Rhazak breed stallions from the Marsh Town stables. Nine in total, each fitted with leather saddles and reinforced stirrups.
Borgrim handed a heavy leather pouch to the stable master—a burly man with a thick gray beard. The stable master weighed the bag in his palm, and his eyes widened as he peeked inside. "This is... 182,500 Dun, sir."
Borgrim smirked. "Aye, and I expect the best beasts ye got. No nags or half-starved runners."
The stable master nodded quickly, eager to please a dwarf so absurdly wealthy. Just as the dwarves were securing the last of their supplies, the sound of boots on stone signaled the arrival of Khaltar and his crew.
The moment they saw the loaded cart, the warhorses, and the sheer amount of supplies, their jaws collectively dropped.
"By the gods," Yaraq whispered. "You dwarves aren't just rich—you're mad."
"You paid almost hundred ninety thousand Dun in one sitting?!" Khaltar blurted, staring at Borgrim.
Borgrim grinned and shrugged. "Aye. What's the point of gold if ye don't spend it?"
Hadeefa shook his head, still in disbelief. "You could've bought an entire damn village for that."
Rurik chuckled. "A village won't get us to Sol-Mayora."
Zahra, still watching the exchange, finally smirked. "I suppose traveling with dwarves has its benefits."
Borgrim clapped his hands. "Enough gawkin'. We're ridin' out. Pair up, pick yer horses."