Ulmir slowly managed to steady himself, but his hearing was still fading in and out, and his vision was splotched and blurry. He wanted to join the fight again; it was clear his allies needed help. Widmund's spear was close to breaking, and...

And then Ulmir's memory skipped forward, leaving a gap in his thought. He was back on the floor, pushing himself up as his vision came into focus and the sound of metal scraping down into metal pierced his senses.

The dwarf scrambled up to his feet, this time with more vigor and balance than before. He was getting a better idea of just what had transpired in his unconsciousness when he heard the necromancer shout:

"To the other door! Further still lays our prize and we may only find death here!"

The dwarf didn't need to be told twice. Glancing behind him, he spotted through the darkness a side passage he hadn't seen before. Doing his best not to question how the brass golem had gotten tangled up with a giant undead monstrosity, the dwarf rushed forward, gesturing to his allies as he went.

"This way!" Ulmir shouted back to them. "The door must be over here!"

Ulmir hurdled ahead, ignoring the ache on his body and the numbed burning sensation on the back of his head. He rushed past a pair of large, dwarven statues behind the pillars and into the passage between them. There the path took a sharp bend, and he had to slow down so as not to crash into the wall. Steps leading downward spread out before him, and down below was another brass door with engravings above it.

Unfortunately, Ulmir had no time to study them; the sounds of battle drew closer, and the undead hulk was slammed against a wall, causing the ceiling to shake. The golem's axe came down with a crunch. It was obvious that the tomb's guardian was winning the battle.

"Watch your step, now! Stairs!" The dwarf waved his allies toward the door as soon as he saw them again, then leapt down over the steps. It was a good six foot drop, and his knees definitely didn't appreciate that, but he landed on his feet in front of the door and reached for the handle. He turned it.

The door did not open. The brass door was locked.

Ulmir thought quickly. He muttered a quick apology to his ancestors, then hefted his hammer up and slammed it several times in rapid succession against the door, snapping the lock. Still caught in his panic, the dwarf shoved the door open and held it so his allies could slip through.

"HURRY!" Ulmir shouted, watching as the golem's shadow passed around the corner of the passage. It wouldn't be able to fit through the doorway, so if they could all just make it through in time and then run far enough, they'd be clear. The dwarf just hoped his allies were fast enough.

Freed from both the golem's clutches and attention, Widmund practically flew after Ulmir. While he appears slow at first, it's only because he lacks momentum; upon reaching his top speed, he's like a charging bull clad in steel. But high momentum is also his downfall - literally. He barely manages to maneuver around the corner, and clangs like a dozen shields as he charges down the stairs, skipping several steps at a time. Not a moment after Ulmir has opened the brass doors, Widmund crashes into the floor and passes through them, into the room and whatever unknown dangers it contains. The noise is comparable to the sound that would be made if someone dropped an entire kitchen.

Sparks fly off of Widmund's armour as he slides across the floor, until eventually grinding to a stop. He then lays still for several seconds; it wouldn't be imprudent to wonder if he's dead. But he does slowly rise to his feet, the usual strain of standing in armour made even worse by the addition of nauseating dizziness. The entire front-facing half of his armour is dented and comically flat. Yet, his first words upon standing are those of sympathy.

"Ulmir, my friend! Are you well? You suffered quite a bash! Um, b-best not to indulge in excessive physical exertion for a while, I believe!"

Taking little heed for his Summon, he left the monstrosity to the Golem. Following suit, he watched his compatriots make course for the side passage and he in tail. The room shaking as the Hulk was battered again, dust and debris falling as the pillars rocked. Turning the hall of the dead into a battlefield. His movement hurt his hip and shoulder, perhaps more damaged than he like to admit. His body still frail and in a weak state. Though, this would pass in time as he progressed towards becoming what he once was. His shemagh flowing behind him now, the skeletal mask clutching by a system of clasps.

Turning backwards, he loosed another Chromatic Blast, this time hurling a beam of wild flames at the back of the Golem. The fiery blast illuminating the dark in a bright orange glow. The heat would merely warp the armor, yet Bellighul found solace. He was vengeful and proud, leaving without attacking a final time would have wounded his ego. 

In pursuit, he heard the racket of metal on stone as Wildmund descended chaotically down the stairs and the thundering blows of Ulmir. The Tomb King navigated the stairs swiftly but was focused more on firm footing, less he tumbles and damage himself further. 

Yet, a shadow drew close behind him.

Thump. Thump. Thump. 

Black ichor dripped from an axe head that swung behind him from the middle of the stairway. Cleaving into the wall and shaking its structure. His party in front of him, the Hulk's dark blood flung down and spraying the back of Bellighul from the momentum. 

"If this Automaton possesses any emotion, I sincerely regret that last spell brothers. I'd give my weight in gold for a Blink spell!" He belted at the two. 

As the hammered battered door neared, watching the Dwarven Prince brace it open, he dove from an angle and into an uncoordinated tumble. The door slamming shut behind him, laying prone, Bellighul raised himself and dusted his robes off obsessively. Knocking loose more dust, rumble and a bit of ichor onto the floor. He took in the room, walking around in a large circle after he retrieved the torch from the floor nearby. 

"By Lunala...what is this place?"

Ulmir slammed the door shut, barricaded it, and then stepped away, doubling over as he caught his breath. The exertion and his headwound had done much to wear his energy thin, but the prince was able to steady his breathing, gather his thoughts, and slowly bring himself back up to his full height.

"I am fine, my friend," Ulmir told Widmund as calmly as he could. "It takes more than a blow to the back of the head to take a dwarf down."

With that assurance given, Ulmir regarded the room around him.

The room should have been pitch black or only dimly lit, but the black stone walls were polished to a mirror sheen, looking more like glass than stone. The torchlight emanating from Bellighul reflected off those walls and lit the whole space, revealing a large, circular, domed room, all made from the same black stone. If that were not fascinating enough, the walls were covered with dwarven runes, and in between the words were tall, life-sized artistic engravings displaying scenes of battles, of trade, of love and war, with one dwarven figure making a constant refrain...

"Bjormir," murmured the young dwarf, staring at the walls in quiet fascination. He took a deep breath, then turned toward Bellighul and began to speak again, his voice deep and reverent.

"This is Bjormir's Hall of Remembrance. When a dwarf of high stature is entombed, his life's deeds are etched upon the walls. For most, their tomb speaks solely of their accomplishments, their triumphs, their virtues. But Bjormir was different."

Falling silent, Ulmir traced his fingers across some of the runic text in the room, and he stopped before a depiction of a dwarf fallen in defeat before an elf with a helmet shaped like a sun. Behind the dwarf stood a dark elf with a khopesh, a moon over his head as he stood protectively over the warrior.

"Bjormir never shied from telling history as it truly happened," Ulmir murmured, staring across at the engraving on the wall. "He did not forget those who helped him, nor did he forget his own failings or misdeeds. This hall shows these things as well. I suspected it would. Such were his last wishes to his brother before he stood fast in the tunnels and met his demise."

Ulmir turned away from the scene on the walls, glancing back toward the necromancer and the scholar of war. He heaved out a sigh.

"If we had the time, I would stay here and study the passages written upon these walls, that any deeds which have been forgotten by time be returned to the annals of history. But I suspect we have little time left to us. I only hope we can return once the tomb raiders have been defeated."

Ulmir turned to leave, heading for the door on the far opposite side of the room. But there was something Ulmir hadn't noticed, something that could, perhaps, draw the attention of another of his companions: not all the runes on the walls of the domed hall were dwarven runes.

Spells. There were spells written in the dark elven tongue upon the wall opposite of the one Ulmir had stood before. There was magical knowledge to be garnered in the room, rituals and magics that had been used to aid long-dead Bjormir in his quests in the past. And some of it was indeed dark magic.

Seeing that Ulmir is - hopefully - well, and that he is pushing onwards, Widmund bends down with great effort and picks up his spear... or what's left of it. It seems that, in the panic, the head of the spear broke off. It's likely still lodged in the golem's brass visage. No matter! Humanity has been using sticks as weapons since they lived in caves; the stave can still act as an effective blunt instrument, or so Widmund thinks as he follows Ulmir.

The inscriptions upon the black walls do catch Widmund's eyes. He, of course, can't read Dwarvish, but are all of these Dwarvish? Some of them look strange... arcane, almost. But it would be imprudent to become distracted at this time, especially when there may yet be traps ahead, or around. So he looks front and centre again, only to see something quite distracting.

It begins as a strange, luminescent fog creeping across the floor, appearing from nowhere at all, followed by the sounds of clanking swords, faint, as if echoing from far away. Widmund holds his stave, preparing for whatever danger this presents. Rising from the mist are vague figures. Some are stout and wide, like Ulmir, while others are thin and tall, like Bellighul. Some of them stand their ground, appearing to be armed with weapons and shields, facing the door from which the party came. Others are fleeing in the opposite direction, towards the door that Ulmir now stands by. Though unnatural, the entities don't appear harmful. In fact, they don't seem to notice the living at all. A quiet shout in Dwarvish can be heard from among the figures, but it's difficult to determine its exact source.

"Flee! Flee! They'll be upon us!"

The spectres continue their facsimile of existence for a while longer. Two of them recoil and emit spectral groans of pain before sinking into the fog. The vision fades, along with the mist.

"...Just to confirm that I have not gone mad, everyone else saw that, yes?"

"This is the old tongue of Dark Elves. Verolith, the lost scholar, would have surely aided us in these passages. I can make but some of these lines out...however, these lines are clear to me." Bellighul's baritone voice boomed as his own image reflected on the polished black wall, illuminated by his torch. He stood back to get a better view and begun to chant in this language with a rhythmic fashion. 

"Iru Gahmerdhon cardrhun, 
Ohn molamer'ag sudas,
Barokad..., 
Yagladshath!
Yagladshath!
Ahyadadar julminith."

(This King's tomb,
The warriors within, 
I command...
Make yourself seen!
Make yourself seen!
A calling comes; defend yourselves.)

The three adventurer's thus witness a grand spectral emerge from the fog and only to return to it after a few moments. Bellighul was astounded, taking his mask off in a series of clasps and tucking in into the belt of his robe. His ashen hair flowing downwards but dancing in the mystical energy of the ghostly theatre. As it passed, he responded to Wildmund, his ruby red eyes gleaming in the dark and shadows cast by the torch still burning. "I can profess those were not illusions but actual wraiths." He began an informative monologue, bloodless lips spoken with authority and reverence. "The Dark Elf scribes used a lost spell, gone for centuries...'The Spectral Host'. The archives in the Pale City speak of this in old tomes; a Dark Elf Prince using the spell in a skirmish during the Elven War. This was modified to portray perhaps a battle scene or memory...but my lack of knowledge of this tongue resulted in but a fraction of what was intended to happen. Fascinating. A powerful Necromancy is here. Powerful...stronger than I have seen since Ahriman lived." 

He was consumed with the pursuit of knowledge, to possess such a spell in his repriuore in the future would make him remarkable to all those who sought mastery of the Dark domain of magic. "I must return here one day, by Lunala's breath."
______________________
_____________

The door slowly opened, revealing a large room of Dwarven craftsmanship yet unseen by Bellighul's eyes. The same polished stone stood proudly, numerous inscriptions of runes floated downward across their shimmering faces. At the center, was a tomb that seemed like a small ziggurat, extending dozens of stairs upwards. Yet, the stairs were lined with golden, silver and platinum inlays of geometric mosaics. Mountain Brass made the bulk of it, square yet ornate pillars rising high along the pedestals and surrounding them. This was a tomb of such splendor, that the Necromancer stepped back in marvel and was left without words for a moment.  

"Comrades, we have company...desecraters." His eyes followed the path leading towards the tomb, noting an abhorrent sight. Blood trickled down the lower steps, unhallowing such a structure, a body laying across numerous steps was the source of the sanguine. She was wearing purple robes, much like the Tomb King's in fashion, but her face bare and nearly knee length silver locks fell about the steps like a waterfall. A wound on her neck against near purple skin was her fate offered. 

At the base, a number of red clad cultists stood in a group, perhaps eying the sight with glee. In one's hand, a strange amulet swung like a pendulum. 

Bellighul gripped the shoulder of Ulmir tightly, giving in to his rage at not only sacrilege and a heartless murder, but the death of a friend"....and Verolith lives no more...by the Night Bringer, they shall know pain untold."

Thus, without hesitation, the Sorcerer bolted forward without regard for a final confrontation. Without fear and powered by his faith in vengeance. White hair flowing backwards towards his companions and a strong beam of dark energy loosed from a Chromatic Blast at one of the cultists on the flanks. 

"A glimpse into the past of distant kin," murmured Ulmir, watching the same spectral figures as Widmund. He watched, too, as the necromancer performed a spell written upon the wall... or part of one, it seemed. The magic made him shiver for a reason he could not say. His nerves were often so wracked in the presence of dark magic.

"Perhaps it is more than merely magic at work here," the dwarf mused quietly. "Perhaps we walk the same path as the ancestors now. Perhaps they watch our deeds."

Whatever the others thought of the prospect, it was a comforting thought to Ulmir. He made his way forward.

---

The sight of such an act of depravity and desecration incensed the young dwarf. A fury burned in his chest as he watched the amulet dangle like a pendulum, and he roared out in rage.

"Defilers! Despoilers! Dealers in death!" With every word, the dwarf's eyes flared with anger, and the floor around him rumbled. "For your misdeeds, I judge you damned, and mete upon you the justice of the dwarven realm!"

Though it was Ulmir's voice that echoed through the room, there was a spectral quality to it that did not belong to him, as if the ghosts of the past were shouting through the young prince.

Ulmir rushed forward and followed up Bellighul's blast of energy with stomp. A hail of stony shards¹ made from the floor launched forward, each no larger than than a pebble, but sharp and vicious nevertheless. One of the cultists in front was felled immediately by the blast, but his allies behind him suffered mostly scrapes and bruises. They were finally answering in kind, however, loosing violet orbs of dark magic at the heroes and rushing at them with their daggers.

Two dark orbs smashed against Ulmir's chest as he charged, making him stumble, but he recovered and kept pressing on. One of the cultists draw forth his bloody dagger and moved in to attack, but the dwarf cracked his skull open with his hammer, leaving the man swirling toward the floor, definitely dead.

Unfortunately, the dwarf in his zeal had overextended himself. He was surrounded.

clank Clank CLANK CLANK

The clank of armour grows closer until Widmund charges the butt of his once-spear into the back of one of the cultists. It isn't a lethal blow, but a crack eloquently tells the tale of a shattered vertebrae. The cultist collapses onto his stomach.

"Hrrah!" shouts Widmund as he swings the staff at a cultist to his right. They raise a dagger to block the attack, but there's no hope for it against a weapon of such momentum. The strike blows through their defense and knocks them to the ground.

"Steady on, Ulmir, but mind your head! Don't move around too much! Hooraaaaahh!"

Widmund holds his quarterstaff laterally and charges past Ulmir at a group of four cultists. One is bowled over, whilst the other three back away to avoid the charging metal man. With now six cultists' attentions now drawn away from Ulmir, he stands at a much greater position than before.

As Widmund tries to run the three down, one of them speaks an arcane incantation and raises a tattooed hand into the air. Immediately before Widmund, a wall of stone^[1] rises from the tiles. Unable to stop himself, Widmund crashes into it and clatters to the floor.

After some struggle, Widmund rises to his knees, only for one of the cultists to wheel around the wall's corner and make a stab at his scalp. But his helm holds true, bending the knife's blade whilst protecting his skull.^[2] He grabs the cultist's wrist, stands to his feet, sends them reeling with a headbutt and then cracks open their skull with a swing from day. But then, the stone wall slides back into the floor under the same influence that erected it. It reveals the last two cultists, but they no longer wield daggers. Instead, one's arms have turned to unyielding stone^[3] whilst the others' nails have grown into wicked claws of darkness^[4]. Widmund holds his staff at a middle guard. This will be strange truel...

"En garde!"

---

1. Stone Wall (Cultist)
2. Helm Strike Prevention
3. Stone Hands (Cultist)
4. Death Swipe (Cultist)

Bellighul rushed forth without warrant, his mind taken by a fury of loss and pain. Verolith was a friend and a fellow scholar, he sought justice no matter the cost. The Necromancer moved as fast as his feet could carry him, his robes bellowing back as he hurled a blast of dark energy to no avail. For, a masterfully timed Stone Wall erected by one of the cultists blockaded his attack. Wildmund and Ulmir advanced ahead of him, they were fighters and worthy foes for such fanatics. But the Lord of Ghouls, even in a bruised and already frail state, would again summon his most powerful spell as he maintained an advantageous distance. 

He glanced over to the stone and precious metal steps once more, his former friend lying in her own blood. 

"May Lunala lift you up and guide you to everlasting peace." He spoke aloud to the perished Dark Elf. "May Lunala rend your souls and shatter your bones in everlasting darkness." He cursed his foes from deep within his chest. 

As before, Bellighul whispered foul dealings and chants in a language long dead. His arms raised upwards like a ghoulish bird of prey as his fingers twisted into the formation of talons. Behind the Cultisits, a strange sigil emerged on the floor produced from a dark energy. Circles and squares interweaved and rotated in an arcane performance upon the floor as a large skeletal hand erupted out. 

Suddenly the Undead Hulk roared into existence.

Further, Bellighul summoned forth his Ghoul from the abyss, its flailing tongue lashing out as it's knuckles moved it forward in front of him. Protecting his master. While the great necromantic abomination dragged a large rusty great axe in tow, sparks glowing in the gloom. Zombified faces howled into the tomb as it raised its enormous weapon. 

"Cleave." The Ebon Enigma muttered. 

Wildmund engaged in a stellar display of pole combat but dealing with two deadly close ranged magic and Ulmir battled with spell and brutal hammering. Yet, in the midst of the altercation, the Undead Hulk roared once more in a massive swing. The cultist wielding the Stone Arms spell, barely to turn around and witness such a grotesque creature, was severed in half. 

A final swing came down again, the last Cultist barreled out of the way and laying prone before rising quickly. He ignored the Armor Clad fighter momentarily only to be felled but a powerful horizontal swing of that monster's axe. 

"It is done comrades." Bellighul spoke loudly. "Let us tend to wounds if need be...but our prize is in hand." The amulet, sprayed in a streak of Cultist blood, lay on the floor next to Ulmir. 

The Lord of Ghouls payed little heed to the amulet and instead rushed to the body of his fallen fellow Mage. He lifted her head slowly in his arms, his alabaster hair nearly touching her face as a gloved hand slid her eyes closed for the final time. "You shall not be forgotten, in the presence of a king you fell...the same tomb your people aided in erecting. You did not die in vain...for those who murdered you are now corpses far lower in height than you." 

Ulmir dipped his head in respect to the dead elf. His body felt heavy after all the fighting, and whatever strength had been guiding him before faded. The prince's headwound - which Widmund had been so diligent to remind him of - caught up with him as he fell to a knee, using his hammer like a cane to hold himself up.

Bellighul was right. The fight was over. It was time to rest.

The dwarf breathed in and out, taking a breather there on the floor. Slowly, he recovered enough to stand again, fleeting though his strength felt, and took just a few steps across the floor to where Bjormir's tomb sat... and where the cultist who had stolen the buried dwarf lord's ancient amulet lay in a bloody heap.

Carefully, Ulmir reached on down, taking the amulet from the fallen human's grasp. He turned the amulet over in his hand and marveled at the sight. It was made from mountain brass, but in its center was a strange and misty red gem that was carved in the shape of an eye, a golden light sparkling where its pupil would be. The dwarf took a deep breath, then turned back to his companions.

"We have found it," the dwarf whispered breathlessly. "'Tis the Jewel of Bjormir." Then, with reverence, the dwarf turned back to look at Bellighul morosely. "I only wish your friend had lived to see this victory. We should honor her with-"

Ulmir was interrupted by the sound of coughing. One of the cultists elsewhere on the floor was alive! He whispered something, and Ulmir stepped closer, trying to hear what it was he was saying. A confession, perhaps? Some offer for his life? He could only catch the last couple words, words whispered so quietly that only the dwarf could hear them...

"...Ahyadadar julminith..."

Ulmir's eyes widened with shock. He recognized those words! He turned to his compatriots, shouting all at once, "The army! He's summoned a spectral army!"

But the dwarf's cry was too late. Suddenly, a wave of sickly, pale miasma spread out in a horrid wave from the cultist's corpse as his life fled his body. It lasted only a second or two, and when it faded, Ulmir could see again. The room was still. Had it resulted in nothing at all?

From behind the heroes came loud, heavy thumps upon the floor of the tomb, sounding from somewhere far away. Ulmir understood immediately what had happened. The buried dwarves they had passed before, the ones in the room with the golem, were coming in pursuit of the heroes! Ulmir began to prepare himself to face the new thr-

Bjormir's sarcophagus burst open. A skeletal dwarven figure clad in full mail, his beard tattered from battle, stepped out from the tomb. A blue light surrounded the figure, and a spirit surrounded the corpse, much like the one that had ran past the heroes before. Then the ghostly dwarf opened his eyes, revealing furious scarlet lights within, full of maddened rage that turned his whole spectral body violet.

"SUN-ELVEN TRAITORS!" shouted the dwarf, striding toward Ulmir. His brilliant axe glowed with runes of war as he marched at his descendant, his teeth gritted in overpowering defiance. "THE DWARVES OF THE FROST GALE SHALL NEVER BOW TO TYRANTS! ANCESTORS, LEND ME YOUR STRENGTH!"

Ulmir could not move underneath the imperious gaze of his forefather. He was paralyzed as the ghostly dwarf raised his axe to smite one of his last few descendants down.

But the armoured Widmund has no reservations about taking a swing! He sweeps his staff over Ulmir's head and into the axe-haft with a resounding clack, forcing the prince to step back. Pursuant, he jabs with angled thrust at the head, but the attack is deflected with scrapes and grinds.

Bjormir's ancient weapon is not unlike a poleaxe, yet he swings it in one hand with both strength and skill, shield in the other hand. Widmund steps back, out of its cleaving arc. But Bjormir's battle-talent has not withered from being entombed; he transitions smoothly from his attack into a menacing from day stance. Widmund now stands in a field guard, studying his opponent.

"Bellighul! You must ward against the other undead, or we'll be overwhelmed!" calls the scholar. He lowers his voice and tone as he addresses the once-prince. "I know not what battle you envision through your maddened eyes, Bjormir, but you shall lay no hands on those that yet draw breath. Return to your grave! Hraah!"

He makes a one-handed thrust at Bjormir, his height granting him superior reach, but the spectre parries the attack.^[1] This much, Widmund expected, but he did not expect him to twist the staff and lock it under his shoulder. The axe falls like terrible dusk, cleaving what remains of Widmund's spear in two. Splinters, slivers and shards fly like startled crows.

With only a half-haft at his disposal, Widmund can do little but back away as the mad dwarven prince swings recklessly. It is unfortunate that the difference in height places Bjormir in the perfect position to make attacks at Widmund's unarmored legs. But the dead are not the only threat in this tomb; Widmund's foot sinks with the tile below it. Another pressure plate! Bolts fly from holes in the nearby wall, and both combatants are caught in their path, forcing them to cease the fight for but a moment. Bolts clang off of Widmund's cuirass^[2] and off of Bjormir's shield^[1]. It seems the cultists did not deactivate all of the traps. Could others lie in wait to be sprung? More importantly, could they be used to the party's benefit?

---

1. Kite Shield Strike Prevention (2/3, Bjormir)
2. Widmund's Cuirass Strike Prevention

The head of his fallen friend still lay in his lap; silver hair draping down across one of his legs and a crimson streak on his black robes. He believed it was all over, the deadly dealings done, yet seemingly a whisper he heard a strange muttering from one of the cultists. He knew this language and what this incantation performed. This tomb, once sacred mere hours ago, was bedeviled by black magic. He heard a strangle rumble in the distance far above him.


"The army! He's summoned a spectral army!" Belted the Dwarven Prince.

No. A simple response, but deeply felt as Bellighul rose to his feet, careful of the corpse of the Dark Elf as he moved her to the side. Laying her upon a beautiful geometric mosaic. He descended down the steps in a rush, his Ghoul rushing in front of him towards the front door. He was unaware of what was to transpire here in this tomb. Yet as Bjormir, newly risen and maddened with rage, screamed powerful sentences and engaged with Widmund, Bellighul rushed in the opposite direction. Not of fear, but of coordination. He must hold the line, so to speak, as his comrades dealt with the mighty spectre.

Neither act being an easy task. 

As the Tomb King raced across the stone floor, his Undead Hulk lurched as it moved as quickly as it could. Its rusted ax scraping across the ground. Yet, by the trigger mechanism in the pressure plate Widmund activated, a rain of bolts flew at starling speed. Luckily, the giant frame of the Hulk acted as a shield for Bellighul's frail body. It's right side riddled with bolts but it did not howl in pain, but in a eldritch rage. Its large hand reached out at one of the deceased Cultists, a strange purple energy whirled from it's palm and a series of accursed twisting energies was unleashed. A innate Raise Dead spell was loosed. 

The corpse, cracking bones and shattered skull in all, rose from death and walked slowly towards the passage way.

Bellighul, now entering the room of polished black stone, knew he must recite the final portion of the spell to cease the forbidden necromancy, tho, he was not skilled in this language.

"Verolith, your arcane wisdom would be of great use of now." he spoke aloud. 

His hands raced the inscriptions with haste. He began, as a small horde of ghastly wraiths descended into the room with him. He knew he was no match at this time for such summons. Thus, he must hurry as his life and those of his comrade's were in grave danger. The runes were time worn. 

"Elu'th Sarokhael
Senth'el Knyth... "

(End your bloodlust, 
Loyalty in death...)

The Undead Hulk swung a wild attack, smashing into the two of the spectral dwarves into a fog of green fog. However, the assault was upon it, entering melee the Hulk was overwhelmed and slashed multiple times by those once glorious and shining axes. It did not fall, as it was like towering iron, but the bolts and axes had done a number. Others still, rushed around it and made thier way towards Bellighul as he spoke the fell speech. Weapons raised as the Ghoul attempted to intercept and blockade its master from death.

Would the Necromancer have time to stop the wraiths or would these adventurers fall before he uttered the final sentences of this grim calling? 

Paralyzed with fear and shame, Ulmir could only stand and watch helplessly as his compatriots struggled to keep the undead menace at bay. Their shouts and magical incantations were muted to his ears, his vision still caught by the cold, hateful gaze of his ancestor. The young dwarf's hammer shook in his hand, and his skin became cold and clammy. He could scarcely breathe.

But then Ulmir seaw Widmund's spear-shaft cut in half, saw the possessed form of Bjormir marching toward the man, and energy surged back into his limbs like lightning. Stricken still no longer, Ulmir gasped for air, then shook his head and raised his hammer. His allies were in danger.

Stumbling down the steps before Bjormir's sarcophagus, Ulmir found solid ground and willed magic to pool about him. Then he raised his foot and stomped with a thunderous clap, splitting the floor of the tomb and shooting shards of rock¹ toward Bjormir's² exposed back!

"Heed the words of Ulmir, son of Thalmir!" the young dwarf shouted in defiance, his hairs standing on end as he gathered power into his hands again. "Return to your silent rest, and trouble the living no longer!"

Bjormir, however, would not be cowed. As Widmund was weaponless, the undead lord turned his attention toward the stone-slinging dwarf. His young descendant sent off another volley of stones, but the ancient warrior simply blocked the spell with his shield.³

But Ulmir was not planning to fight his forefather alone. He swung his hammer about in a circle by his side as if he meant to hurl it at his foe... and then instead threw it well over Bjormir's head. The weapon landed on the floor not far from Widmund.

"I think, Widmund, it is time for another lesson!" the earth mage shouted as he barely rolled away from a fearsome axe blow. He took cover behind one of the tomb's pillars and called out, "Teach us the proper way to use a hammer!"

---

Abilities used: 1. Pebble Shot; 2. Bjormir's Curaiss (0/1); Bjormir's Kite Shield (1/3)

Widmund hesitates for perhaps too long, staring at the hammer on the stone floor. He's studied techniques with hammers, to be sure, but barely as more than a hobby. He is a firm believer in the wisdom of Waralv Battlemaster, who once said that the more fearsome warrior is whose battles with a weapon are a thousand-fold than who has experienced battle with a thousand-fold weapons. This mantra has benefitted him... for the most part. Not today, it seems.

"Ah, er, yes, the hammer."

He glances to the decimation at the exit. No, he can dawdle no longer.

He runs for the hammer; Bjormir is still faced toward Ulmir, and appears ready to cleave the interposing pillar in half. Widmund clanks and jingles forth. He does not feel the familiarity with this hammer that he does with a spear, or even a staff. To him, it is not more than an instrument of deliberate, blunt trauma. But it will need to do.

At the close of his charge, he stands behind the old, dead king. He swings the hammer from day, an attack that would land square at the top of the dwarf's helm if not for that same dwarf's peerless talent with an axe. He turns, knocking the hammer aside with a keening swing, and following with a flawless, sundering strike that burrows a trench into Widmund's cuirass, through the mail beneath - such beautiful craftsmanship, so brutally mangled. It would have bisected the scholar's sternum as readily, were it not for the padding beneath^[1], so often taken for granted.

"Rugh..." Widmund groans. He knows not yet how dire a strike it was. He awaits the pain that always seems to dither before settling in after a grievous wound. But it does not come, as, for the moment, he's alive.

The axe is now lodged in Widmund's chest plate, the final, petty revenge of its artistry. To whom is this advantageous? Widmund is immobilized, but Bjormir cannot utilize his weapon.

Widmund seizes the opportunity by clanging Ulmir's hammer against Bjormir's helm, which dents and folds^[2]. Sparks fly, as if he were hammering an anvil, and fly again from another strike that tears the helm in half and rips the mail beneath^[3]. A third strike would surely shatter the dwarf's skull, returning him to the peace of the grave. But it isn't to be, not yet.

As Widmund wearily raises the hammer for the third time, the king tosses his shield aside, as it's already too dented and punctured far too many times to serve its purpose. As the hammer comes down, Bjormir grabs the haft, halting the swing in an instant with a resilience only possessed by that already dead.

With Widmund now unable to defend himself, the dwarf kicks him in the knee, lending him to buckle and drop Ulmir's hammer onto the floor. He would've followed it, too, but Bjormir grabs his axe with both hands and raises it toward the ceiling - and Widmund, with it! It's an incredible sight to see the titanic knight raised aloft. But what comes next is even less credible.

The dwarven king swings his axe with such incredible force that Widmund is dislodged and thrown through the air, landing somewhere barely under ten yards away. It is not the first time that the noises of his armour have resounded through the tomb, but it is now quite different, uglier, like the wailing of a dying duck when compared to a vitalful one.

Widmund is no stranger to the feeling of defeat. He has tasted it many times in the past, and he has learned from it. Always, it has been a learning experience, making him stronger, wiser. It has, however, been some time when he has felt shame of this colour. For, today, he lets not only himself down, but others that counted on his knowledge.

"Hrgkk... I commend you, Bjormir... Victory is yours..." he rasps, rising slowly, weakly. Bjormir looms toward him, his spectral visage an ominous vision of the greatness that Widmund shall never see. "You have bested me... Touché... I... I don't suppose I could ask for mercy. No, I suppose not... Do as you." He now kneels before the victor, awaiting his fate.

---

1. Padding Strike Prevention
2. Helm Strike Prevention (Bjormir)
3. Hood Strike Prevention (Bjormir)

"Khair Kaldath, 
Fein'lagth 
Menlu tosir anath"


(to the oblivion,
I beckon you.
To graves, return)
 
Bellighul motioned his hands across the black marble, the runes glittering like starlight beneath. Foul magic at play as his words echoed within the confines of the chamber. His Undead Hulk swung it's axe once again, in pure defiance, as it attempted to blockade the wraiths from assailing him. It turned sharply, the weapon like a great wave as it purged two more into that same spectral mist. His ghoul, on the other hand, was immediately overtaken by weapons from beyond. It's tongue lashed and claws atttempted to rend, yet its was struck down as quick as a breath. 

The Tomb King himself, hastened. He muttered the incantation once more, the runes shown a brillant gold.

The specters were upon him, launching himself backwards, his robes tore under a large battle axe but the flesh, still intact. is baritone voice recited the chant once again, the chamber now radiating with strange scripts that seemed to hover from their etchings. His attempts at the old dialect proved true, after a few attempts.

Just then, as the undead warriors fell upon him, they began to fade, the darkness of the chamber masking horrible visages as a green smoke loomed. 

"To the shadows of time, bury yourselves Dwarven heralds."

The powerful summoning spell seemed to have effected Bjormir himself, yet it did not cast him back to eternal slumber. He was weakened, but Bellighul's apparant lack of expertise in ancient Dark Elvish did not vanquish him. Leaving his comrade Widmund to to battle the old king and be bested. 

The Lord of Ghouls rushed towards the door, only in time to see Bjormir heave his axe upwards at the kneeling warrior. 

He was far out of reach to aid him, his summon lumbering further still behind.

"Ulmir!" Bellighul called. "Now! Strike now!"