The whole march feels like a dream.

I remember steel. Fire. Blood. The rest slips through my fingers like smoke.

The lads tell me I fought well enough. Healed where I needed. Read some old dwarven carvings. Took my share of the blows. If they say so, I’ll not argue. Truth be told, I barely remember lifting my hammer.

Bits come back.

A stone hall. Old dwarven words worn smooth by time. A portal sealed behind a riddle about a crown. That much I remember clear enough. Dwarven work always leaves its mark. Whatever lies beyond that gate was built by hands that knew stone proper. I’d wager my beard on it.

The rest is scattered.

I remember Monique standing calm while death itself rolled out from her fingertips. Folk talk about swords and armor, but I’ve learned there’s little more frightening than a wizard who knows exactly when to loose her magic.

I remember Jaxson filling the tunnels with enough fire to wake the mountain itself. Reckless? Maybe. Effective? Aye. Though I’d wager he came closer to meeting Clangeddin than he’ll admit.

Then there’s Stitch. Leave that cat alone for one evening and he somehow turns a beast that spits lightning into a fish. I don’t pretend to understand it. I doubt he does either. Sometimes luck follows him so close it may as well be another shadow.

The drow are broken now. Their banners burned, their warriors dead or scattered. Good. Less filth standing between us and the road ahead.

My thoughts feel clearer this morning than they did below. Whatever fog settled over my head has lifted, though I don’t much care to know why. Undermountain wears on a body—and perhaps a mind.

The next level waits.

A maze, they say.

Stone doesn’t frighten a dwarf.

But madness…

Madness has a way of creeping in through the cracks.

-Korin Deepstone, Dwarf of Clangeddin