Ulmir had not been to the Crown of the World since his exile, but he felt the same awe that he always did when he looked upon its peaks. The great mountains rose above the frozen tundra, as brilliant as any jewel in the twilight. Dusk cast a strange glow upon them, painting their snows in violet and gold hues, royal hues if ever there were any. Ulmir could not help but smile.

"'Tis home," Ulmir mused to his companion, taking a deep breath of the cold air. "Not in all of Charon shall you find a range of mountains so tall or proud."

The prince and the battle-scholar stood in the snow as more flakes of winter's gift drifted down towards the earth. Ulmir brushed his hand through his beard, then nodded and flipped his hood down off his head. Onward he gestured, waving toward the nearest mountain.

"That one is called Bjorgol, or the Bear's Grave. In the Rune Wars, this mountain held an escape tunnel that led out the Bleakfort, a route to safety in the event of invasion. Though the Bleakfort never fell, it saw use when Mad King Darius sent assassins after the ruling family of the dwarves. Prince Bjormir - Bear-Lord in the dwarven tongue - fought alongside the royal guard and fended off the sun elves in the tunnel while his kin and the dark elven ambassadors fled for safety. The tunnel became his grave."

Ulmir bowed his head in reverence for his fallen kin. He did not mention to Widmund that he shared the fallen dwarf lord's blood in his veins. It was not something Widmund needed to know.

"When the palace was retaken and order was restored, the tunnels were fashioned into Bjormir's tomb. The dark elves and the dwarves alike worked together to build his tomb in honor of the sacrifice he made. And so it was made, and so it was sealed, and 'ere long has it been since any have stepped within its hallowed halls.

"But I have learned there is a secret hidden within the tomb," mused Ulmir, glancing over to Widmund at his side. "In Sol City I found an ancient scroll that suggests the enchanted amulet Bjormir wore might have been an heirloom gifted to him by the dark elves, and that it might contain a means of finding the Sol Stone itself. And if that is true..."

Ulmir took a deep breath, then stared ahead at the mountain. If that is true, he thought to himself, then the dwarven realm's ascendancy could well be at hand.

The dwarf did not say so much. He glanced over at Widmund and looked him straight in the eyes. "We have to find the amulet before it falls into the hands of those of foul intent. Let us see what secrets lie within this tomb together, and be ready for whatever challenges lie within. I pray the honored dead will not take offense at our passage into their realm."

His speech finished, Ulmir began marching forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots as he girded himself for the trials to come.

Widmund listens attentively to Ulmir's recount. The stories of the dwarves of Frost Gale are largely unknown to him, and he is always glad to be educated in history, especially historical conflicts. Bjormir... he'd heard the name before, but he couldn't recall where nor when. Ah, Ulmir is resuming the march; Widmund had been distracted for a moment.

"A noble cause, Ulmir. I have heard the stories of the Sol Stone; a few reports can be found in my company's library, detailing mentions of it throughout history. I suppose one of them must have found something if so many people are now joining the hunt."

Widmund's plates rattle as he joins Ulmir in the ascent. His heavyset footfalls leave deeper, larger imprints in the snow. His spear is highly useful in this endeavour, as he can utilize it both for balance and to determine which patches of snow are seemlessly deep. Still, he is obviously not used to travelling in environments like this, and he nearly slips several times. This is not aided by his vision-hampering helmet.

"Woah! Oh... no, no, I'm quite alright," he says as he nearly slips again. But he stops, something having just occurred to him. "I must ask: an ancient, unexplored tomb seems an excellent place for a relic to remain safe and unknown; if it is indeed in danger of being stolen, then where do you intend to hide it that would offer superior protection?" His voice is not at all suspicious, merely quizzical. He climbs a particularly daunting rock as he awaits a response.

The Crown of the World. Millenia had past since he had last traversed this ancient range; enough time for a slight difference in sight as stone erodes and collapses. The peaks were no less formidable, Charon's jagged diadem. Bellighul's black robes made him easy to spot amongst the wailing gust, upturned snow obscuring his vision and battering his physique. He had grown stronger since he left the sands of his homeland, yet to traverse this range without a guide was foolhardy at best of times and during the onset of a storm; fatal. 

"Damned be Solaria." The Dark Veiled cursed, as his hand drawn map bellowed backwards behind him in the wind. "May the Moon guide me..." He uttered in praise as he trekked some paces back down a slight slope to fetch his map, rustling quickly away. Snow climbing high as the knee and he pushed himself to a large protrusion of stone, like a great spike in the whitened land. His gloved hand balancing his frame against the rock as he reached into a crevice to fetch the vellum chart. 

As he pulled it forth, he heard two voices but fifteen feet down, as he was on a shallow mound. His skull like mask would peer over the rock, shadowy wisps leaping from his free hand; a rotating sphere of dark magic forming in his palm as he prepared a Chromatic Blast for any danger below. 

Honored Dead. Tombs. Relics.

Lunala had indeed guided him, or so he thought.  

His charismatic baritone voice seemed to echo from above, as he emerged from his cover of the protrusion and entered sight, hands high as if to signal no ill will. 

"Hark dear fellows!" He projected from beyond his iron mask. "I am Bellighul of Zeinav, I have crossed the inner sea and beyond the Pale City in search of the one called Verolith, a Dark Elf scholar who ventured into these spires of stone. However, I fear it has been weeks since she was last sighted...I may suffer a similar doom if I wander aimlessly as I have." He points upward, to Bjorgol. "I have encircled this one thrice in a ten day. May you permit me to join you, on whatever you seek? I am both Mage and a mild academic of Dark Elf history, culture and building methods, I may be of some assistance." 

"Safe and unknown - until someone else seeks it," mused Ulmir as he marched on forward, shaking his head. "The Sol Stone is a powerful relic. if I was able to learn of this amulet, then another could as well, and they will not respect the dead as they ought to be. Better that Bjormir's jewel rests in the hands of his people. Better that dwarven weapons guard it until the Sol Stone is found."

Ulmir might have said something more, or perhaps Widmund would have instead, but something moved up above, rose to its full height. For a moment, Ulmir thought it might have been some manner of ghast or specter, and he felt himself tense... but then it spoke with a voice that cut crisply over the gentle winds of the Frost Gale, the voice of a leader.

The thickly-clad man was seeking a missing scholar, it seemed. His garb was dark, making him stand out in the snow, and he seemed a stranger to the land. But he did say he hailed from Zeinav Desert, which made sense to Ulmir. Still, there was something strange about him, something Ulmir could not quite place. Still, he had no reason to mistrust him.

"...May you permit me to join you, on whatever you seek?" the stranger asked. "I am both Mage and a mild academic of Dark Elf history, culture and building methods, I may be of some assistance."

Ulmir took a moment to weigh those words. It was, perhaps, a fortuitous thing they'd met. Ulmir knew plenty of dwarf-craft and the halls of his kin, but the elves had a hand in the construction of Bjormir's tomb. Such an offer could be invaluable.

"Mmm. Very well, Bellighul of Zeinav," answered the dwarf, stepping up the steeply-packed snow to get to where the dark-clad mage stood, extending his hand out to the man. "I am Ulmir, son of Thalmir, at your service. My friend and I seek the tomb hidden in the mountain Bjorgol. If you have the knowledge and skills you say, then I daresay our meeting was predestined, and I would be ill-advised to deny your aid. T'would be even more ill still to leave a good man to face the perils of the Frost Gale alone."

Ulmir gestured for Widmund to come up as well, holding his hand out to help the heavily-armored scholar up if he needed the help. The terrain was rough, but it would only grow rougher as the trio got closer to the tomb, and Ulmir knew pride could not be afforded for anyone. The rocks would become harder to traverse given the deceptive nature of the snow. Each of them would probably fall a few times more before the trek was finished.

"We are not far from our destination," Ulmir noted. That was the good news about their journey. "After perhaps another hour's walk, we shall be out of the snow and before the doors of Bjormir's tomb. There we shall seek the prince's amulet. We would do well to respect the dead, both for their dignity and so we do not incur Ginma's wrath. The tomb is surely marked with runes honoring the Earthen-King."

Widmund heard the stranger's voice from above, but was unable to see the speaker, nor look upwards at all in any meaningful way due to the restrictions of his helm. In fact, he hardly heard any of what the odd man was saying, as he was too busy pacing about and trying to find and angle from which they could be seen. In this way, he wandered aimlessly until he saw Ulmir's extended hand before him, a surprising sight. Nonetheless, he remains polite and modest.

"Oh, it's quite alright, I can help myself up."

Indeed, it might be for the better. Widmund is a towering man in general and, with his armour and spear, likely weighs a few hundred pounds. For him to reach Ulmir and Bellighul's elevation is a great ordeal that lasts several minutes, but he does, eventually, stand before the new companion. He can now get a proper look at the stranger, whose clothes are quite ill-suited to this environment. Their iron, skull-shaped mask is certainly their strangest feature, however; it might've startled Widmund had it not taken him so much squinting to even make it out through his helm.

"Ah, so you are... joining us?" Widmund does not want to admit that he hadn't caught the stranger's name. His hesitation, though, is not hidden. "Well, I suppose extra assistance could be valuable, and we would be remiss to forsake a fellow traveller to the snow... I am Widmund of the Omnes Doctrina, 45th Scholar of Battle. It is a pleasure to meet you, er... friend!"

Widmund can gather that the stranger is a mage, as there would be none other so bold as to travel in this area without weaponry, escorts or at least proper apparel. In addition, the clothes he does wear are notedly Zeinavian in make, meaning they'd travelled even farther than Ulmir and Widmund had. Otherwise, Widmund isn't quite sure what to make of them. Unless it's built for combat, he can't imagine many reasons to wear a mask outside of obscuring one's face, and he can't imagine many reasons to obscure one's face unless it belongs to someone infamous. Caution may be prudent around this one.

After pleasantries were exchanged, along with simple introductions they began to make haste. The wind began to hammer them in sheer cold, the distance cry of some manner of beast carried with it, though far from any danger. Bellighul took up the rear of the single file line that the trio marched. The others were more athletic, more physically capable. The others' surely of noble lineage or at least exuding the appearance in some manner. Whilst the Ebon Enigma was well spoken and a gifted courtesan, he had little love for inherited titles and those who bore them. Yet, their kindness was appreciated in the upmost. His quest for the scholar, was purposefully vague, for he sought more information on the Dark Arts and how to wield them. Such honest truth may have left him stranded in the North or in a fight to the death at the worst. 

After a grueling climb, they came upon an arch, carved into the summit. 

There they met with ancient stonecutting of impeccable quality. Framed in the Dwarven geometric fashion, the entrance was two tall doors forged from precious Orichalcum; a metal of golden quality with the undertone of copper. A rich golden-red. "Mountain Brass." Bellighul pointing. "A Dark Elf variety, though the Dwarves are first thought to have crafted it and its sister metals. You know this well, I imagine Ulmir. It is marvelous." The great scenic engravings and runes were obviously of Dwarven hand, hard lines but with unparalleled craftsmanship and detail. 

The Tomb Lord, shoulders and cowl covered in purest snow, moved closer, placing his gloved hand on the arch and the stone carved from it. "Ah, the Dark Elves left their maker's mark as well...here. The weather has done much to fade them, but the filagree is jagged and knife-like, but still in beautiful swooping lines." In his excitement, he nearly missed the shallow, snow filled boot tracks that lead to his position to a sliver of darkness the was the gap between the doors. A smear of blood about waist height defiled the Orichalum. Turning his mortuary mask to gaze at his comrades, though not necessarily quietly, he spoke, pointing downwards and leading towards the metallic entrance. 

"Prepare yourselves, we are not alone...may Lunala guide our hands to victory; if need arises. At your signal, we find what lurks in this place of reverence." Taking a few paces backwards, Bellighul eyeing the door with great focus. Necromantic energy swirling from his body; night black wisps dancing like flames. He was not a frontline soldier, but in his arsenal of spells he could summon something that surely was...but better to wait, for judgement of his peers would surely be upon him. 

The sight of blood staining the doors of the tomb left Ulric incensed, though only his eyes showed his anger. The stone-faced dwarf saw more than just that marring the entrance, however. There was scrape marks on the edges of the door, clearly caused by the use of some sort of crowbar or other tool, and sturdy though Mountain Brass was it had been knocked hard near the hinges and scarred from the impacts. Ulric took a deep breath, then hefted his battle hammer up, staring at the cracked open door.

"Ancestors, grant us strength," he rumbled before opening the door and stepping inside.

Those who had already passed through had lit a couple of the torches on the wall already, and had taken one of the torches with them. The torchlight flickered and danced in a wan fashion as the adventurous group began to step forward. They had to step over small piles of rubble as they went. Ulmir had suspicions about what those were, but said nothing on the matter for the moment, keeping his silence until the trio reached a point where the hallway intersected with another...

"The path splits up ahead," Ulmir noted. "Left and right. There's an old dwarven script upon the wall here, but I can scarcely read it... Time has left its mark upon the words."

Ulmir frowned as he regarded the worn stone plaque. He could only make out a few of the old runes. They marked the site as protected by Ginma and sacred to the dwarves of the Bleakfort, but most of the other runes were lost. However, Ulmir did spot a couple runes worth noting: runes of warning.

"Whichever way we go, there shall be traps ahead," Ulmir told his companions, turning to face them. "This place was never meant to be disturbed. I suspect we shall find the tombs of his bodyguards as well, as is tradition among my folk. I would suggest we not disturb them if we can avoid it.

"There shall be golems, too," Ulmir noted, setting his hammer on his shoulder. "The stones we saw near the entrance likely came from them, and the blood was probably from the plunderers' battle with them. Whatever desecration these fools have committed, they've activated the guardians of this place, and they shall be hostile to all who walk within this tomb now. We may well have to destroy them."

The dwarf frowned, then took a deep breath and asked a simple question.

"Left or right?"

The plates of Widmund's armour grind and clank as he treads cautiously down the hall. Now, left or right: such a simple question, yet simple questions are often the most difficult and, consequently, most vexing. As well, Widmund is already winded from the ascent. He could do with some tea, to be certain.

"Hmm... I see no obvious indication. Perhaps a short rest and a thorough search could-"

He stops. What was that sound? He starts looking around, frantically (of course, due to the design of his helmet, looking around frantically involves a lot of comical footwork). He cannot ascertain its source. Perhaps it was just his imagination, or the wind blowing outside.

"Sorry," he says embarrassedly "I could've sworn I'd-"

"Komdu aftur...
(Come back...)"

It isn't quite a whisper, and it doesn't come from far away, yet it's very faint, like a distant memory. It spoke in Dwarvish, and it seemed to come from behind them, closer to the entrance, despite there being nobody there.

"Wha- there it was again! You two heard it as well, right?"

He cups a hand to his ear, fruitless as that would be, attempting to listen closer for more noises. But there are no other such sounds after that.

"...I rescind my suggestion that we rest. Hmm... though there's little indication of which path to take, if I had to choose one, would it not be prudent to choose the right path?" He's clearly told this pun many times before, but unease shakes the already-poor delivery.

The trio pushed further, beyond the Orichalum doors to behold a number of torches that cast a soft orange glow in the high stone vaults, though not illuminating them completely as patches of darkness spread about inside. As they traveled deeper, shadows always loomed in the distance of their sight. The fires warming their chilled bodies in the dank cold air. Before them was a fork and Ulmir and Wildmund's words lingered in his mind. 

Left or right?

The wrong path may be certain death, the correct one; easily as deadly. Perhaps they merged together somewhere down? Although unlikely. Approaching the precipice of both walkways, he eyed for any indication of clue, though found none. No blood, no soot from burning torches or other signs of occupancy. Any script he could comprehend was time worn. A decision must be made. 

Bellighul's voice boomed. "To the right, then. We shall have an answer if it is the correct one in due course."

Wedging the end of his torch into a crevice to free his hands he gazed at his compatriots and hung his head. "On my honor, I will not harm you, do not fear no matter what my sorcery may bring." With these words his arms extended high and outwards, his fingers curled talon-like as they began to emit a purple hue against the darkness. His exotic voice now rolling a short phrase, in a language not Zeinavian but something...far older. Menacing. Inhuman. Thus, from the stone floor a strange circle formed, a vile script rotating around it magically. From it's center, a ghastly hand bearing long claws broke upwards, not from the ground, but from somewhere else. Tearing from the circle now, torso deep, a Ghoul whose lashing tongue flailed outwards from a gnarled toothed maw. Hissing and looking about as it rose to a simian-like posture to assume it's place at it's dark master's side as Bellighul summoned his Undead Servant. 

"This one shall scout some distance ahead, by Lunala he will aid us with traps." He paid no heed to their reaction and lifted his torch from the crevice and made his way to the right. His Ghoul approximately fifteen feet ahead, a quick gait which was ape-like as knuckled movement drove it forward. 

Before long, they came upon a series of horizontal grooves on the floor, spaced evenly apart by roughly 5 feet. As the Ghoul moved forward, a loose stone tile adjusted beneath it and a large scythe blade swooped with great speed trailing the groove. No less, it triggered a dance of blades as more followed the lines on the floor for some distance in alternating directions. The Ghoul's head nearly taken off as a rusted blade slid inches before its face. 

"Perhaps, this was not the right path." Eyeing Wildmund at his poorly timed and poorer done pun. 

Ulmir heard the same words that Widmund did, and wondered just what terrible deeds the raiders had committed. He silently swore to bring the wrath of his buried kin down upon them... but all that he could do at that moment was move forward.

The group started moving right as Widmund suggested. Ulmir snorted once at the pun despite how awful it was; it did, at least, lighten the mood a little. But that brief humor died when Bellighul began conjuring an undead minion to serve him. Ulmir's brow furrowed with conflicted thoughts as he eyed the man and watched the ghoul crawl out from some otherworldly realm, bound to serve its master.

Ulmir did not know very much about old languages, but he remembered that ghul as a suffix in some of the desert tongues was their word for ghul. Suddenly, Ulmir began to wonder what manner of being the dark mage was.

There was no law against necromancy... at least, no law against a benign use of it. Command of the dark magics was, in fact, a hallmark of the dark elven reign in the Frost Gale. Ulmir's loyalty was to his people, and the dark elves had long been allies of his folk. They had weathered the Rune Wars together. They would certainly weather many more. Ulmir gathered his thoughts.

"So long as you leave the honored dead within this tomb untouched," mused the dwarf in a firm tone, "I cannot fault you for using your magics when in this place of danger, master mage. You have given us no cause not to trust you, and have only shown respect. You deserve as much in turn."

There was no further dwelling on the matter in Ulmir's mind. His decision was made in accordance with his honor. Ulmir took a torch off the wall, and the group proceeded down the dark hall.

Bellighul's ghoul was marching in front, with Ulmir behind the creature and the others behind him. The band did not make it very far before the ghoul nearly lost its head to a swinging blade trap. The dwarf stiffened, watching the flurry of deadly motion before him fade into motionlessness as the blades returned to their original hiding places, and pondered the situation.

"Perhaps," mused the necromancer, "this was not the right path."

"Take heart, Bellighul, and be not so swift to judge the terrain before us." Ulmir stepped on up behind the ghoul and to its right, eyeing the floor and the walls ahead carefully. He swept the torch to and fro behind him, casting the flickering light in different places, then nodded to himself. Gingerly, he held the torch out to Bellighul.

"Hold this, please," said the dwarf.

Slowly, Ulmir turned back toward the hall before him and knelt down to the ground. He made a small rune in the dust upon the floor - the same rune he'd made when fighting Widmund in their duel, but smaller and more precise - and spoke the words of power, the words that named the spell:

"Ul-Skaros."¹

The dirt and dust upon the floor began to rise, moved not by wind but by some other force. Ulmir stood, and he raised his hand, and up with his hand came the dirt. Carefully, gently he reached his arm forward, and the dust collected into piles along the floor and began to tumble in the torchlight, slipping over the creases in the stone brick floor... and then tumbling down into hidden gaps. That was where the pressure plates were.

Ulmir calmly stepped forward past where the ghoul had been, removing a piece of chalk from his belt pouch. He marked one of the pressure plates carefully, then stepped over it and went to the next, and the next. He was maneuvering past the trap-filled hall with ease, seemingly finding each little hidden pressure plate on the floor with the dancing dust rolling before him.

The dwarf made it to the other side of the trapped hallway unharmed, then looked back to his allies.

"Follow the path," he called to the others. "And avoid the marked traps."

Ulmir just hoped he'd found all the traps.

---

Abilities used: Dancing Sands

Widmund looks curiously at the conjured ghoul. Peculiar though the art of necromancy may be, Widmund has never fully understood the stigma toward it. After all, if his body could continue to serve the Omnes Doctrina after his soul had departed, then he would should allow it to do so, should he not? Though the anathema itself should not be discredited; those that learn the blasphemous incantations needed to practice it do so knowing that they defy social morality, and so are more likely to be of an unpleasant sort. At least the stranger did not hide his powers, as that which is hidden is often the most insidious!

"Worry not, friend. I'm certain your undead companion is as trustworthy as-"

He's interrupted as the trap is triggered. It is fortunate that the ghoul is unharmed, though Widmund admits to himself that he would've cared little if it had perished due to its lifeless nature. Its expendability is an asset... such a line of thinking leaves a sour taste with Widmund. Ah, but then it is Ulmir's turn to cast a spell after speaking wisdom to Bellighul. So that's his name! Fortunately, Ulmir's magic is far less ethically dubious, presuming that the earth is not unwilling in his use of its dust and dirt. And lo, a safe path is revealed!

"Ah! An ingenious use of magic, Ulmir. Was that not the same cantrip you used during our duel?"

The dusty indents in the floor do allow Widmund to cross the hall without triggering a trap, though he must tilt his body forward at an uncomfortable angle in order to watch his steps. In fact, upon reaching the opposing side, his helmet clangs against a wall that he was unable to foresee. The noise echoes down the corridors.

"Oh!" he remarks as he stumbles back in surprise. "Apologies, I should've been more careful... oh."

Looking forward, he realizes that it hadn't been a wall at all - not in the technical sense, at least - but rather a door, made of orichalcum, like the first. This door has inscriptions upon it; being carved into such resilient metal, these words have stood the test of time.

"Þú sem gengur inn á gröf Bjormir og annarra, óteljandi, drepnir,
þú ferð í dauðann þinn!
Rúnir umkringja þig!
Þú ert orðinn brjálaður;
þú hefur misst vitið;
hugsanir þínar eru ruglaðar.
Það er hættulegt að vekja hina látnu.

(You that trespasses upon the tomb of Bjormir and others, countless, slain,
you go to your doom!
Baleful runes surround you!
You have gone mad;
you have lost your mind;
your thoughts are confused.
It is dangerous to wake the dead.)"

"Hmm... I'm afraid my Dwarvish is a bit rusty. That is, I know exceedingly little of it."

Bellighul held two torches which great interest as the Dwarven Prince summoned the aid of sand to reveal hidden pressure plates. Marvelous, he thought. His connection to the sands of his homeland made such magic, runic magic to be precise, commendable and intriguing. 

Thus he sallied forth, eyeing the chalk rings and avoiding them carefully, boots pressing lightly into the sands around them. His Ghoul followed suit though he placed great focus on directing the rather foolish creature. To watch his Undead Servant, although practically immortal, be shredded with but a single pass would be an annoyance. Further, a hinderance to the party. The Ebon Enigma then stood next to Wildmund, tracing his eyes across the Dwarvish texts on the Orichalum doorway. He too, flabbergasted at such writings. He spoke several languages; almost all not used amongst mortals. Outstretching his arm, his fingers lightly guiding across the markings by soft torchlight. Knowing Ulmir would have a better sense of such inscriptions he would listen to the Dwarf carefully. 

______________________
________

Sometime after the moment at the door, they pressed onward within it's passageway. His ghoul knuckle-dragging it's way into the darkness once more, just ahead of Ulmir as before. Their torches illuminating a high ceiling, high enough for darkness to loom beyond the light. Further afront, a small set of steps lead upwards as the room expanded perhaps twenty meters in width. The Tomb Lord attempted to investigate the nearest corner and further afar. He perceived numerous carvings upon what seemed to be ten grey marble tombs to a side. "These are not Dwarven markings, they speak of those who died in the construction of a great tomb, Bjormir's, in Elvish; Dark Elvish precisely. Yet, some names are obviously Dwarven, I count three on this side: Balan, Thondur and Duvir." Each tomb marked a large pillar five feet towards the center of the room, the pillars shadow casting on each intricate stepped sarcophagus. 

Not but a few seconds more and the sounds of gears turning echoed from the darkness further down the room. A complex system of whirling and grinding. Followed soon by a set of loud thump. thump. thump. 

Bellighul wasted no time and coming out from beyond the tombs and pillars and neared closer to his allies. Raising his torch higher and outwards, in attempts to perceive the source of such sounds. His Ghoul moved in front of the trio, its tongue lashing like a fell whip a meter before it. His void like eyes peering deep only to behold the slow mechanized pacing of some large automaton. It's color resembled Mountain Brass and a strange bright blue energy poured out from a series of plates that made up it's torso. Eyes of similar energy peering back as two large arms swung rhythmically in a mockery of life. At the end of each arm, were blood covered axe-heads. It stood nearly ten feet height and seemed to rock the stone floor in it's pace as it drew nearer and nearer. 

"I doubt this will be as trivial as that hallway of scythes comrades..." 

Without notice, the Lord of Ghouls motioned his free hand in a pattern, drawing some sigil in the air. Ripping out from his onyx robes and to his side, a ghastly faded green spectre was summoned, it's visage a similar death mask and it's arms clung rattling chains. His Guardian Spirit, once a former Sorcerer King, twisted and contorted in permanent shape as a shadowy wisp rose into its form. 

Ulmir eyed the runes upon the wall for some time, weighing the words in his head. The dialect was an older form of dwarven, but he recognized it still. Slowly, carefully he read the passage in its entirety, then glanced to his fellows.

"It is a final warning," Ulmir rumbled, stroking his beard as his circlet gleamed in the torchlight. "It implores the reader to turn back by speaking of their madness in disturbing the dead. But I believe it is a clue, too; for it speaks of baleful runes and waking the dead...

"It could merely mean that the tomb is trapped... but given the hands of the dark elves, given what is written here, I wonder if necromancy might play a part in this tomb's defenses as well." Ulmir paused, letting those words hang. He shook his head, then looked to the others. "We shall not know until the time comes. Consider this our final warning. Whatever lies ahead will try to slay us."

---

The golem stood before the group, inching closer at a methodical pace, its axes raised up in threat. Bloody axes...

"We are not the first to pass through this room recently!" Ulmir realized aloud, hefting his hammer up. "Fight it for now, but look for a way out! If they were able to maneuver past this guardian, then perhaps we can as well!"

Ulmir stomped his foot upon the floor, lifting stone tiles with his magic as he prepared a simple, aggressive spell.¹ Then Ulmir thrust his hand out, sending a burst of sharp pebbles in a fierce blast against the golem... and only managed to dent its armor.

The golem heaved on forward, axe hands raised with violent intent, and stomped past the ghoul, instead making its way toward the dwarf that had just attacked it. It moved so quickly that Ulmir was caught off-guard, and the golem struck down at the floor, splitting the stone with a sharp CRACK! as its blade dug deep into the earth.

Ulmir avoided the blow, and prepared to raise his hammer up to attack, but then the golem snapped its weapon up and knocked the dwarf in the stomach with its arm, sending him flying back against one of the pillars. The back of his skull struck the stone, and the dwarf's vision went splotchy and half-black for a moment as he slid down to the floor face-first, groaning. The back of his skull felt... funny. He was dizzy.

Ulmir was conscious enough to tell he wasn't cut in half. The dwarf counted it as a blessing, then stumbled up to his feet, trying to gather his senses as the golem turned on the rest of the party.

---

Abilities used: 1. Pebble Shot.

Oh dear. That might require some healing... magical healing can reverse concussions, can't it? For Ulmir's sake, Widmund hopes it can. But that's an issue for a later time. Presently, there is a golem made of solid brass marching towards Widmund and Bellighul. Widmund pulls his spear forth into an upper guard (a necessity due to his enemy's looming height).

"Stay back, Bellighul, but not behind me! I wish not for you to be in its path, should I fall."

Surprisingly, the manuals say little about doing combat with enemies made completely of metal. What would a thrust with a spear even accomplish? Steel may very well penetrate brass, but does this entity even harbour vitals to be pierced? He'll need to think on his feet, as the golem does not wait for him.

The golem steps forward and performs a scything, sweeping slash. Attempting to deflect an attack with such momentum would be folly; all Widmund can do is quickly step backwards to avoid the strike. Again it swipes, this time with the other arm, but it is avoided in the same way. It is clearly an unintelligent being, but not in the way of a fool or even an animal. Such things possess an instinct of self-preservation, whereas this does not. Its attacks are reckless, heedless of danger, and performed with only the most rudimentary modicum of technique. For a moment, Widmund is tempted to say, "No, you should be attacking like this! It would surely kill me!"

The golem pulls both its arms back, readying both to chop Wimund's neck like dual guillotines. But it also creates an opening. Time to test some theories! "Hah!" Widmund stabs forward with superior reach toward the golem's head, piercing its metal face with the most abhorrent of grinding sounds. But, just as Widmund had suspected, the automaton does not even flinch as it continues its assault. The wound - if it can even be called such - is meaningless to the enemy that feels no pain. Worse yet, his spear has become stuck! The golem is unable to reach Widmund with its flailing as the lodged spear keeps it at a distance, but each movement yanks Widmund violently about. Widmund is forced to kneel as the golem takes a step forward. He slides along the stone tiles, and, the hickory haft of his spear appears ready to snap. He calls for assistance in a strained voice.

"Bellighul! Any... ideas?!"

Wildmund called out to the Tomb King in distress and he would answer. 

Sending forth his Ghoul to rush the spear, straining from the Golem's power, it's gnarled hands clutched the center of the polearm and forced it down as to avoid snapping in two. 

A Chromatic Blast formed in his free hand as he rushed the machination, a orb of dark energy swirling in a grim light. Yet, his Spirit Guardian bolstered his spell, strengthening it two fold as he loosed the ray of darkness. His hand almost hovering over the Golem's lower arm. With incredible speed the ray snapped from his palm, he braced his rear foot and leg to account for the blow back. The beam struck and overcame the pure brass, hurling the arm upwards and to the side as fragments of sprayed though it retained by some measure of Dwarven metallurgical mastery. 

For his intervention, the Golem returned in kind with a powerful backswing that ripped into his Spirit Guardian; severing the chained wraith in half and forcing the Lord of Ghouls backwards in a short tumble. Had it not been for his phantom; he would have perished in a single blow. Though, he rose to his feet, dust covered and bruised, he was not broken. 

Thus, he prepared his most powerful spell to return his automaton's wrath in kind.

Contorted fingers became eagle like claws in form as they stretched out from his center. His arms seemed to have a heavy resistance as he spread them outward; fighting against what was hallow and natural. An eerie glow of a writhing purple energy produced on his hands and in a strange geometric ring on the stone floor. A baleful rotation of squares, circles and runes of pure Dark energy. Strange mutters escaped in resonance of his iron mask, calling upon dark powers to avail him. Bellighul, in all his necromantic might, unleashed within the tomb a horror that matched the Brass Golem in might. 

Like the Ghoul before it, a skeletal hand breeched the rotation's center yet much larger. Using the arm as a brace something hoisted itself up quickly and construct of the damned rose to a great height from the summoning circle. An unearthly howl bellowed from a monstrous head of bone and rot. Seemingly composed of dozens of remains, in a patchwork of zombified corpses; blighted and powered by raw Dark mana, his Undead Hulk. A rusted but oversized great axe drug behind one of his powerful limbs before the Summon sent forth a powerful two handed swing aimed at the damaged arm of the Golem.

A grinding screech echoed in the torch light and darkness as the great axe severed the Golem's arm at the elbow joint. Causing the brass cloven arm to imbed the axe head hand below in a thunderous bang. Only to find the vile automaton's final bladed hand in it's shoulder. A spray of jet black ichor geysering into the air. 

The titans interlocked into a grapple of sorts whilst Bellighul called out. "To the other door! Further still lays our prize and we may only find death here!"