Times are always hard in Deep Mote. Held snugly in the arms of the high mountains, and delving deep beneath their bulk, the wealth of the earth flows forth from here like water... But you cannot eat gold, or iron, or even mythril.

Trade with the above ground cities has made Deep Mote more than prosperous, bringing trains of grain an cattle, and moutains of gold, in trade for dwarven steel, mythril, and ore... But the narrow mountain passes are difficult to traverse in the best of weather, and when winter comes, trade slows to a trickle, and it falls to the mushroom farms to keep the clans fed.

This is hardly a stumbling point, however. Dwarven heritage all but thrives on such hardships, and you can scarce recall a day when your meals had not been rationed.

News of the Noraten coup is troubling, but hardly surprising... The rife intrigue between clans both 'allied' and 'opposed' hardly ever allows for a dull moment, and with the circle of power in Mythril Keep being as small as it was, it was only a matter of time before one moved to annihilate or assimilate the rest... Were it not for your defeat and exile, you might well have done the same one day...

But treachery... Treachery demands vengeance... Justice for the blood of your fallen clansmen, your shattered halls, and the honor of your ancestors...

The rumor comes from a source of dubious reliability, but makes your blood boil, none the less...

You make your morning patrol along the high wall, the air biting with the first breath of the coming winter, arguing quietly as to what action to take, the hot stone fuming and thirsting for blood, the cold stone the steady voice of reason, when a message runner approaches along the parapet, and hands you a sealed envelope.

"Orders from the Ironjaw." he states, before turning on his heel and departing.