“Wake up Rune Rat, it’s our turn.” Dagna’s words alone might not have done much to rouse Alaric from his dreamless slumber, but the shaft of her mace proved a mightily effective poking device.

Alaric jolted awake, clutching the thin blanket within his bedroll. Kneeling over him the greying Dwarf woman hooked the mace back onto her belt.

“Easy there kiddo, it’s just me,” She chuckled as Alaric fumbled with his covers bleary-eyed. “Here, come get some coffee with me. It'll make the watch pass quicker.” She retreated back to the magic circle where a tiny pot bubbled upon it. The rich scent of its dark and heady contents did wonders to make their camp just a little more inviting.

The wizard adept scrambled out of his bedroll. Dagna sat crouched criss-crossed, tending to the beverage. As he groggily joined her she poured the strong and bitter brew into two small tin cups.

Alaric inhaled deeply, taking in the rich scents of the delicacy. Coffee was a staple back in Oxenforde - the beverage’s stimulating properties were considered a necessity by students and professors alike. The city went to no small effort importing it at great expense. But sourcing it as an individual? Another matter entirely. The beans only grew in the jungles of Carmine and on the southern coasts of Imbara. How a dwarf from the cold and rocky mountains of Aurich managed to get her hands on some was a pleasant surprise. He held his little cup up to her in thanks.

The two of them sat huddled around the little magic circle for warmth and sipped their drinks in silence, always keeping a frequent eye on the rest of the chamber for any signs of disturbance. The swamp outside might have been warm and humid, but within the bounds of the sanctuary's wards the air carried a crisp chill. The sanctuary was as silent as a tomb, not even a mouse or bat could be detected and quiet ruled over the space. Even so, Alaric couldn’t help but notice a growing frown make its way over Dagna’s face as they continued sipping.

Eventually he could bear it no longer. “What is it?” he asked. “You seem upset about something. If..if it’s because of the See Invisibility spell I bungled yesterday, I really am sorry - I…”

“It’s not that child.” The she-dwarf stopped him mid panic-spiral. “It’s not you at all.” Her gaze softened for a moment while she looked at him and took another drink. “I know I can be hard on ya, little one.” (The irony of a woman a full foot and a half shorter than him call Alaric ‘little’ was not lost on him, but she did have 70 years of experience over him...so he said nothing) She continued - “It’s this place. Too many things don’t add up. Those damn scouts were either completely incompetent, or something has happened here. Look around.”

Alaric complied with her command and did a full circle turn from his seat, looking at every possible nook and cranny in the sanctuary’s great hall. Other than the occasional piece of rubble or cracked column, there was nothing to draw any attention. No causes for alarm. “I don’t see anything,” he told her.

“That’s exactly my point,” Dagna’s frown deepened. “There is nothing here. Look again.” She gestured widely. “Where are the cobwebs? Where are the animal dens or droppings? This place is a pre-cataclysm structure. In almost two-thousand years, there hasn’t been a soul to maintain the place. It shouldn’t look like this. It’s unnatural.” As she spoke Dagna clutched the largest of the tokens hanging from her necklace - a stone pendant with etchings of the Dwarrow Earth-Mother.

Alaric had never pretended to understand the workings of Clerics and the ways of religion. By all accounts, the gods of man (if they had in fact ever existed) had died or disappeared over a series of great wars - centuries even before the Great Cataclysm and the City of Acheron’s destruction. There was no material evidence, research, or peer-proven study that could show the prayers of man could be heard by any god or had any effect whatsoever. Sure, there were still churches. Saints too even. But as a Wizard, he was a hard skeptic. He, along with most wizards of Oxenforde took the position that Clerics of Man were just spellcasters who knew how to tap into the great threads with a different method.

Even so, Dwarves were another matter entirely. While the faiths and pantheons of man had largely dissolved over the eons into myth and legend, the Dwarven vigor for the divine had never wavered through the ages - intensifying even. Alaric knew better than to scoff at any of the Dwarrow gods. He had spent hours pouring over testimonials and sworn affidavits in the Oxenforde archives. Despite all the efforts of the great archmages to disprove their existence, the resounding, albeit grudgingly accepted theory was that the Dwarrow did in fact, exist. How that could be, he had never understood. And no archmage he had ever asked had been willing to expand on the subject.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

The rest of the literature as to *why* and *how* was where it got messy. Were these Dwarven 'divine beings' manifestations of the soul? An avatar of a group conscious? Spellcasters who had tapped into a greater stream of Arcanum and become something else? Inconclusive. Wizards hated inconclusive. No matter the cause, Dwarves were unique among all races in that not a one of their kind studied or practiced magic. There was no such thing as a Dwarven wizard. And yet? Dwarven priests and clerics could reportedly perform feats and miracles rivaling all but the mightiest works of the great Arcane Empires of old. It was a sore subject amongst most wizards who dedicated their lives to comprehending the effects of Arcanum energies and thus rarely discussed. Study and empirical measurements yielded absolutely nothing of value. Instinctively, Dwarven clerics tended to put wizards on edge.

Just as Dagna was doing to Alaric now with her comments on the “natural”. He could not help but shudder while trying to comprehend some greater power or natural order. Magic was magic, and everything had rules and reasons, causes and effects.

Alaric looked around the sanctuary chamber again. Where Dagna saw disorder and cause for concern, he saw only the effects of carefully designed wards and charms working exactly as intended. The lack of intrusion by the elements and beasts of nature was a testament to the skill of the mages long ago that had created this place.

“I see nothing,” Alaric repeated. “Just magic doing it’s job.”

“Ah! But that’s exactly the problem,” Dagna interjected. “What magic?” she pressed. “There is no wizard alive that could conjure a ward to last two-thousand years in perfect condition. Not even those imperial scum could accomplish the impossible.” Suddenly Dagna’s tone turned bitter. “Things break down. Magic fades. But this place?” she waved her hand in an arc. “This place is practically pristine. Instead of a ruin, we find a place that could have been abandoned last year. THINK. Why? What’s fueling it?”

As if to add emphasis to the Dwarf’s questions, the magic circle Alaric had drawn some hours ago began to gently flicker. The charm would have a few hours of meager life left before it broke down entirely. Alaric met Dagna’s eyes, unable to provide an answer. Now that she had pointed the matter out, it became all the more clear that she was at least partially right. Magic did have limitations. While the energies of Arcanum might be infinite the process for channeling them effectively certainly were not. The Sanctuary's condition was an anomaly.

They sat in relative silence for the next few hours, swapping idle chit-chat while Alaric meditated on Dagna’s insights whilst they sipped the last dregs of their coffee.

“What did you mean by imperial scum?” the young wizard adept asked. He had been replaying her words over and over in his mind, but that sentence stood out amongst the others.

Dagna scowled. “I meant nothing of it Rune-Rat, no need to dwell on it.”

“No no,” Alaric said, refusing to let her dismiss the subject. “I want to know. Honestly.”

She pursed her lips and was quiet a moment. “I doubt you’d like the answer, young-in. Besides, you and master Sorel are mine clients. ‘Tis not proper. Forget it. I mispoke.”

Alaric glanced back at the rest of their party. Pup-tents and bedrolls were quiet and undisturbed. Only a few light snores from Grayson sounded. Professor Sorel’s tent was quiet. Everyone was fast asleep. He leaned forward, whispering to Dagna - “I want to know. I won’t tell the professor,” he held up his hand solemnly. “Promise.”

Dagna sighed, but acquiesced. “I meant no disrespect boy, but some of us don’t view your precious lost empire with the same rose-tinted glasses.”

“But-”

She held up a hand before Alaric could interject. “I understand they meant a lot to you folk, especially you wizards in particular. But to us?” Her shoulders drooped as she breathed deeply. “We have long memories, boy. And we aren’t prone to forget such things.”

Alaric blinked slowly, not fully comprehending. “I don’t understand.”

“Hmph! Clearly.”

“No, I mean,” he continued. “Acheron was a great empire! Surely…”

“Aye!” Dagna held up a finger to silence him. “No one denies that. A great empire indeed, with that great blasted floating city of theirs.”

“But then, what’s the problem?” he questioned sharply, voice rising. He had not expected this shift in the conversation to effect him so. Wizards such as he seldom held anything sacrosanct. But the preeminence of Great Acheron of Old might as well have been a tenet of faith for them. Hearing it talked of disparagingly might as well have been sacrilege.

Dagna grimaced, looking around for signs of others rousing. Finding none, she continued. “All I mean young sir,” she looked attentively at Alaric. “Was that there be a difference between ‘Great’ and ‘Good’. And those two rarely overlap. Anyways, I think it’s time for the next watch.” Dagna got up and collected their cups and pot, giving them a quick scrub with a pumice stone before stowing them away.

“Wait I’m s-sorry, I didn’t mean,” Alaric protested. He was still terrifically confused. But clearly he had stumbled into a touchy subject.

“You meant no harm,” Dagna shushed him. “And there be no harm done. It’s all ancient history.” She clapped him lightly on the shoulder - the blow from her stout figure nearly knocking him prone. “You’ve got a couple more hours to rest. Why don’t you close your eyes for a hot minute and I’ll wake the next watch.”

Mind racing, Alaric crawled back into his bedroll. Sleep did not come as easily to him. Whether that was due to the coffee, or the subject of conversation he was not sure. Whatever the reason Dagna was evidently not so affected. For mere minutes later her thunderous snores shook the air at a remarkably consistent rythym. Some while later a fitful sleep did overtake him once more with sporadic dreams of floating cities - falling to the earth.