A congregation of dwarves stood in silent mourning, staring at a collapsed tunnel. Thors did not interrupt the moment—it was too soon. He was familiar with those first minutes of pain that came with terrible news. A chilling gut punch that numbs the whole body, trapping it in a waking nightmare. It was too soon for tears, too soon for anger. First, one had to believe.

But Thors was already past this step. He had learned of his father’s death at the same time as he learned that the dwarf was a murderer. He didn’t have to hear it from someone else, he had felt the killing blow himself. He was past anger, only a coldness remaining. So, as the other dwarves numbly stared at the collapsed mine, the adventurer planned.

First, the fact that the mine was collapsed.

Right before the creature had appeared, the mountain had rumbled. Thors had almost forgotten it, his mind a mess from all the memories absorbed, but he had come to check the tunnel before making an announcement, and found the entrance blocked off by loose stone. A significant portion of the tunnel had collapsed, and it was impossible to say how deep it went.

Had the creature done it? Had activating the ring awakened something in the deeps? There had been no rumble in his father’s memories, so it had to have come after that. But whatever the case, it would make completing his first quest a lot more troublesome.

Reach the first floor of the fallen kingdom, huh? Thors didn’t think the area his father had reached counted for that yet, so it had to be somewhere deeper. But how deep, and will the passage be as easy as father had it?

To his adventurer mind, the memory of his father delving deeper and deeper into a ruin was strange. It had been a quick, unopposed passage, with nothing slowing the path. No monsters, no traps. He didn’t trust it would be the same for him, especially with whatever caused that rumble on the loose.

However, it was the second quest that felt far more troublesome. Establishing a demesne, whatever that meant, and gathering a hundred permanent residents. For that, a mining expedition wouldn’t be enough, he would need to establish a permanent residence here, and convince people to commit to this.

Thors turned from the mine and regarded his crowd. It was almost time. He had only given a short explanation before, but soon more would be necessary. Those dwarves who had not lost anyone were already quietly talking amongst themselves, throwing wary glances toward the mine. Some of the younger ones were looking to Thors for guidance, naturally gravitating towards a perceived leader.

The other group were the mourners—those who felt the losses deepest. Widows, children and friends, comforting each other as tears started to fall. Emotions were rising. The right moment was coming. Thors hadn’t done it personally before, but he had seen it. The right words after a lost battle could turn the momentum of the situation completely.

There should have been stormclouds in the sky, or ominous crows in the distance, but instead a bright sun shone down on a picturesque landscape, and a calm wind swept the valley. It felt wrong that it was only a bit past midday, but everything had happened fast. It was the wrong painting, but it would have to do.

Thors calmly drew a dagger off his belt and sliced it across his palm. He let some of the blood stick to the dagger, then knelt down and stabbed it into the ground, right in front of the mine’s entrance.

His voice was sharp, and banished the silence like the crack of a whip. “I declare a grudge.”

Thors turned around, and let a pause hang in the air. Every dwarf was now looking at him, desperate for answers. He lifted his right hand into the air, and the rosecrest ring glittered in the sunlight.

“Before his death, my father used this ring to send me a message. He warned of treachery in the deeps, of wicked traps that struck him and his comrades. Beyond this tunnel lies no ruin—there lies a dungeon! With his last breath, my father cursed the dungeon and its makers!”

It was... a bit of an embellishment. Thors didn’t like covering for his murderer father, but it was necessary if he wanted any credibility as a leader. He couldn’t afford these people slipping away, and judging by the fire he was starting to see in some of their eyes, he was succeeding.

“I name this dungeon Merrick’s Grudge, and vow to conquer it!” He shouted, real anger in his voice. “Until my last breath, I will upkeep this grudge. I will delve this dungeon, until I slay the evil lurking in its depths! I will find the bodies of the fallen, and bring them to their rightful resting places!”

He stepped away, leaving the dagger stuck into the ground, marked with blood. He eyed the other dwarves. “My name is Thors, and I have a grudge. Who is with me?”

Grudges were serious business among dwarves. If one was invoked, it was a matter of honour to carry it out until the end. Thors wasn’t just doing it out of cold practicality either. His father had done a horrible deed, and Thors felt those affected at least some form of closure. It was rare for those who fell in a dungeon to ever have their remains retrieved, and Thors hoped to at least accomplish that.

There was a moment of silence after Thors’ speech, and for a moment, he feared no one would join him. Then a stout dwarven woman with a face like thunder stepped forward and threw down her knife. “My name’s Margrit, and I have a grudge.”

Thors recognized her as the expedition’s provisioner, who was in charge of managing supplies. A strong, judging gaze focused on him. “My Lars went down there, and now you say he is dead.” Her breath caught for a moment and a tear formed in her eye, but she brushed it away. “I don’t want to believe it. But if you’ll search for him, I’ll stay.”

A good dwarf to have on my side. Thors felt a pang of sorrow at her disbelief—he couldn’t share that he had personally seen Lars impaled and drained of blood. But he kept his gaze firm and nodded at her. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Margrit stepped back, and then more came at once. First the mourners, then some of the youths who felt they were caught up in a story. Some planted their daggers into the ground and stepped back. Others stopped to say a few words to Thors.

“My name is Kjarr, and I have a grudge.”

“My name is Fried, and I have a grudge.”

“You will do it, won’t you?”

Thors stood resolute, nodding and offering words of assurance. It felt like a powerful moment that would go on forever. But the adventurer knew it wouldn’t last. All too soon, no more daggers were added, and the crowd once more stood silent, expectant. Thors looked down and counted. 14 daggers, a bit under half of the crowd.

It was better than Thors had expected.

Slowly, he dragged his gaze to the other half of the crowd, who stood back, faces wrought with slight guilt. It was natural—many of the dwarves who had come here had come alone and were only in it for the money. This was not their grudge, even if they felt awkward for not being invested in the moment.

But Thors still needed these dwarves. Standing amongst them were the most experienced miners remaining, who would be vital going forward. Emotion would not work here, a different touch was necessary.

The adventurer let his silent gaze speak volumes, until finally one of the dwarves stepped forward, a miner called Sten. He was someone Thors had come to think of as somewhat of a friend, but he wasn’t surprised the dwarf was now standing opposed to him.

“Look Thors, I understand, I really do. Good dwarves have died, good dwarves... It’s just—I came here to mine. I’m a miner.” Sten pointed towards the tunnel entrance. “Good miners went in there and died. I didn’t sign up for a dungeon.”

Finished, he looked back and the dwarves standing behind muttered words of agreeance. Sten had become their group’s spokesperson. That suited Thors fine.

Today, he knew Sten much better than he had yesterday. He could remember how his father had labored to recruit these dwarves, each and every one of them. Sten was talking very practically, but all dwarves dreamed.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Thors raised a hand, and the dissenters quieted. “First—I don’t intend for more good miners to die here. Fighting monsters and disabling traps is a job for adventurers, and I intend to hire adventurers to do it. However—” he gestured at the blocked-off entrance. “—I still need miners too. No dungeon has ever been cleared without a good team of miners to back up the adventurers.”

His talk about using adventurers actually calmed his own side, those who had thrown their knives down, moreso than the others. Many a face was relieved, even if they were putting up a tough front. Sten though, still remained unconvinced.

“But still... how long is this going to take? Our contracts are almost up, the initial deal was just to reach the ruins and secure a passage.” The dwarf shrugged. “I don’t work a charity.”

Thors took a moment to regard Sten’s face—still youthful, but also marred by a decade of work in the capital’s gold mines. He nodded, then abruptly turned toward the mine.

“Have you ever mined in a dungeon?” Thors asked wistfully. He expected no answer, his mind was in the past, in those first few dungeons he had stepped into. “When people think of a dungeon’s treasures, they think of treasure chests full of gleaming diamonds, enchanted weapons looted from fierce enemies and forgotten libraries full of ancient spells, but do you know where the real money of a dungeon is? Do you know what’s left after a horde of adventurers has rampaged through, ripping away everything of value?”

Thors turned around and smiled. His audience was spellbound. He tapped the ground with his foot. “Why, everything they couldn’t rip away, of course.” The adventurer chuckled grimly, and began gesturing with his hands, imagining a dungeon’s hallway around him. “Traps, enchanted walls, sometimes even the floor tiles! Do you know what kinds of enchantments it takes to keep a trap operational for thousands of years? How much magicore is powering them? Sure, it takes a good miner to pry them off, but we are dwarves!”

He walked forward, right to Sten’s face and regarded the dwarf. “Are you really that enthusiastic about returning to the capital’s coal mines, or venturing out on a new expedition, hoping for a big haul? This is your big haul!”

He addressed those last words to everyone, and ran his eyes through the crowd, eventually returning to those who had thrown down their daggers. “Don’t get me wrong, I won’t ever forget my grudge, but personally...” He rubbed his fingers together. “I think the best grudge is one that pays.”

That almost brought some smiles to the crowd, and Thors felt he was close. Just one last push...

“None of us have any ancestral mine to return to. None of us are from a great clan. But did you know? The charter my father received wasn’t just for explorative mining.” He paused and let the words sink in. Thors nodded. “That’s right—the royal charter is for founding a permanent mine.”

How his father had managed to acquire that, he had no idea. It was one of the holes in the memories, so he doubted the answer was pleasant.

“Many a town has risen to great heights thanks to a dungeon. The storm king’s capital is built on top of their famous dungeon, and they are still delving it for more, hundreds of years later. It won’t be easy—dungeons and danger go hand in hand. But Sten—” Thors finally finished his monologue, returning to the dwarf from whom he had started. The miner backed up from his gaze. “—do you really not have the courage?”

Silence. Sten took a deep breath, and suddenly noticed that every dwarf in the gathering was looking at him. He sputtered, then finally managed to squeeze out the words. “You know, actually, Thors... I’ll stay. You’re right”

Then a roar of talk erupted, tens of voices asking Thors questions, dark mood turning to excitement. The mourners merely stood by, grim, but they too stood with a new firmness in their backs. This wasn’t only an end, but the beginning of something new. Thors smiled, walking back to the daggers thrust into the ground, picking his back up.

Thrusting the daggers into the ground was a symbolic gesture, yes, but there was no sense in wasting a good dagger. It only needed to be for a moment. However, just as he was standing back up, something drew his eye.

The spot on the ground that had been wet with his blood had dried. He couldn’t even see any smudges. However, sprouts of red grass were poking out from under the gravel. Almost as crimson as blood.

Thors blinked. The wound he had given himself had started to congeal, but a few drops of blood still fell as he squeezed on it for a bit. He focused on the droplets and called to that new sense in his mind. Blooming Blood.

Mid-flight, the drops of blood transformed into flower petals, twirled in the air for a moment, then splatted down to the ground—normal blood once more. Thors stared. Blooming blood, huh.

Bloom was an ominous word for dwarves. The Earthmother’s great curse upon their species was a constant threat, expanding relentlessly in the lands to the south, a vicious jungle of bloodthirsty trees that refused to die. But the Bloom was far away, and Thors hoped his ability had nothing to do with it. But still—

Something in the patch of red grass called to him. As if there was some sort of potential there. But there just wasn’t enough of... something yet. Thors prodded at the ability with his mind and was once more reminded of the counter attached to it.

Blooming Blood [0/100]

What did it want? Thors looked back to his, yes, his dwarves, and began walking back to their midst. Whatever the blood wanted, it would have to wait. Truthfully, he was really really glad none of the miners had asked too many questions yet. There were many holes in the memories Thors had received from his father, but of one thing there was little doubt.

They had funds for one and a half more months of mining.

—

That evening, when Thors returned to his tent, he first received a pen and paper from the chest he kept all his valuables in. The paper was ordinary, but the pen far from. He got in a comfortable position to write, put the tip of his pen on the paper, then spun the knob at the implement’s end. It flashed with a green arcane light.

A thousand miles away, in the port city of Kouvool, a matching pen also flashed with a green arcane light.

Thors waited, and it took an entire five minutes before the light flashed again, this time twice, indicating the other pair was ready to receive. Thors began writing.

This is Thors. Orchid War.

He spun the knob, waited for the flash, then let go of the pen. It stood suspended on its own, floating in the air, then began writing on the paper in a familiar handwriting.

This is Mag. Easy Sailor.

Thors smiled. The code they used wouldn’t fool experienced spies much, but it was still somewhat reassuring. The real thing he was observing was the handwriting, and the impatient rhythm he could sense in how the pen scribbled out the words.

One of the most important skills of an adventurer was gathering a trusted network of allies to rely on, and though Thor’s contacts were not many, he felt he had chosen who to trust very well indeed. The conversation carried out in that same manner, swapping between the two.

Do you have a contact around Paslamm? I need to get a message to the adventurer’s guild.

Boots was doing jobs in the area two weeks ago.

Tell him I need a team for delving a dungeon. High-silver ranks minimum, gold preferred. I’ll arrive in Paslamm in two weeks.

I’ll handle it. Anything else?

Need research done into old artefacts with a rose-crest on them, and magic that can stop time.

...What have you gotten yourself into?

Trouble. Can you do it?

How old would these artefacts be, approximately?

Very old. I think very very very very very old.

As unhelpful as ever, but I will see what I can find.

Thanks. You’re a great help.

I will add it to your tab.

Shouldn’t what I gave you cover expenses for quite a while?

There was no reply, and the connection broke. Thors sighed, and let go of the pen and paper, spinning onto his back. He stared at the tent’s roof, imagining the sunset behind it. “Same cheapskate as always—huh...”

At least with Boots in the area, he should be able to gather a competent enough adventurer team. The halfling was a true professional, and Thors had teamed up with him many times. But then again, gathering a team of adventurers was the easiest of his jobs.

Yes, there was a chance they wouldn't find anything worth good money on their first delves in, but that was a lesser concern. Even if they did manage a big haul and find a buyer, that would only solve the immediate issue of pay and food shipments.

The quest had wanted 100 permanent residents, and that meant they would have to stay the winter here. It was already late summer, and colder weather would be coming soon. Quite frankly, his expedition did not have the capabilities to stay the winter here. They had no farmers, no proper builders, not even any winter clothes. Only what was needed for a 3-month long summer expedition.

If he abandoned the place, intending to return next summer, he might also have his charter contested, and a bigger clan might snatch the place away. He had just given his dwarves a speech about how much money could be made here. If they returned to the capital—word would spread.

This was the frontier, but there still were a few dwarven settlements nearby—Thors had even visited some of them. Most were small mines established by successful expeditions, but a few of them had grown to respectable sizes already. There had apparently even been talks of annexing this region of the frontier to the southern dominion.

The easiest, really only way Thors could see his mine making it through winter would be asking one of those settlements for help. And he would need to do it soon.

But he didn’t like the idea—not at all.

He was a strong fighter, but politically frail, his power base only beginning to form. His negotiation position would be terrible, and he was not willing to hand over control of the dungeon to someone else. It needed to be his. However—Thors groaned.

There was a way.

There was one possibility.

One traditional way of allying with a clan, that might enable him to keep the reins of power. He had visited that particular clan three times, and on the last, there had been—talks. Almost demands. To be honest, he had run away. An image of a fiery dwarf woman came to his mind, and he was not opposed, so to say, it was just—

“Agh—I’m too young to get married!”