Hobnailed boots sent echoes chasing through halls he had not tread since he was a beardling. The King's Hall had been busier then; merchants and bannermen from the Kingdoms of man stood with ambassadors from Dwarf Holds near and far. Now it stood empty and only the statues of long-dead dwarves, whose backs sprouted pillars that disappeared into the gloom above, bore witness to his passing.

For days there had been rumours in the tap rooms and brew houses of Barak Varr. Weary guards from trade caravans spoke in hushed tones of packs of beastmen and rogue wizards plaguing the roads that led from the great sea hold. Worse still were the losses at sea; ships sunk, captured, or dragged to the depths by ancient monsters. The Stormantle Clan, his clan, knew this better than most. Their flagship, the great dreadnought Stormbarge, had just returned from a lengthy voyage hunting undead raiders from the south. As son and heir to the Clan, he had commanded it. It had been a long and arduous task, not without grave loss. And now, an unexpected summons had brought him face to face with his Hold's bitter rival.

The Stormantle Clan did not have an easy relationship with Lord Varr and the ruling clan. When the previous Lord Varr had died, he had done so at sea in his flagship with all hands, including his heirs, advisors and the core of his Hold. This had left the Hold of Stormantle and the now-ruling clan as those two most powerful and best placed to take over the rule of the hold. His father, Adurin Stormantle, had been at sea attempting to catch the notorious Umgi pirate Heinrich Blackwater. Although he had cornered and defeated Blackwater at the battle of Stonecove Bay, he had returned to find a new Lord Varr in power, and his Clan dwndling in power as lucrative trade agreements were denied to him, instead passed to other, lesser Clans.

This was not without consequence. The hostility had initially verged on the brink of open warefare between the two Clans. Only the intervention and sagely wisdom of the Stormantle's most venerable Runesmith, Hrafn Lightforge, prevented civil war in Barak Varr. His father had become an increasingly bitter dwarf becoming introvert and leaving much of the Clan's dealings to him.

Ahead, three figures stood on the raised dias at the centre of the hall. At the centre, Lord Varr himself, dressed in his formal tunic and breeches. A heavy leather belt was fastened around his waist with an ornate brass buckle. To his left, the High Priestess of Valaya clad in ceremonial cream robes, and to his right, the Runelord of Barak Varr.

"Hail, Stormantle," boomed Lord Varr. He can't even remember my name, Tharadrin thought.
"Blessings on your Hold, Lord Varr," Tharadrin said without feeling. He stopped short of the first step of the dias. To step onto the dias would assume familiarity with the King, and be a grave insult.
"How fair or foul are your seas, son of Stormantle?" It was the formal greeting common to Barak Varr's Clans, spoken in a voice that carried far across the hall. Such was the way of greetings here; conducted at a volume for all to hear until the real business was reached. Those listening would learn much of the relationship between King and petitioner from those first minutes of formality. Except there was no audience, Tharadrin reminded himself. Soon enough, Lord Varr lowered his voice to a deep growl.
"King Thorgrim has sent word from Karaz-a-Karak."
"The High-King?" Tharadrin couldn't stop himself before he spoke. For a fleeting moment, Lord Varr's eyes narrowed.
"He speaks of the plight of the Elgi and Umgi." The ageing Dwarf snorted. "He shows his weakness and affection for the lesser races." His voice was full of scorn. "The manlings suffer increased raids from the marauders in the North. Grudgebearer talks of greenskin raids anbd the ratmen like we are unaware."
"Our trade routes remain open because of our coastal patrols," Tharadrin ventured, "we are as engaged in this war as any of the Holds."
Lord Varr paused for a moment at the interruption.
"Yet there is more. He feels Barak Varr does not play a full role in combating the rising darkness. He says we are complacent in our trade. He says we have grown soft." Lord Varr had grown red faced and practically spat the words.
"It has been some time since we marched for war..." Tharadrin began.
"Watch your tongue! Such insolence will not be tolerated!" It was the Runelord who stepped forward, roaring the words as a challenge. Tharadrin merely turned his head to regard him. The silence drew on for moments. When Tharadrin turned back to the King, he did not like the look that had stole over his face.
"A Dwarf Throng never goes to war lightly." Lord Varr's voice was like honey. "But if Stormantle believes there is more we can do, then Stormantle can shoulder thje burden of doing so."
Tharadrin was aghast, and his next words no more than a whisper. "No..."
"It is decided," Lord Varr announced, rasing his voice so that it echoed from every pillar. "The Stormantle Clan will march forth, and carry with it the will and endeavour of Barak Varr in this undertaking."
Tharadrin drew himself to his full height, his beard bristling with indignation.
He turned to walk away and paused. "As it should always have been," He said, just loud enough to be heard. He could imagine the outraged expression of the King following him out of the Hall.

At the doors his Thane fell into step beside him.
"What word?"
Tharadrin turned down a hall that would lead him to the underground docks, and the waiting Stormbarge.
"The Stormantles go to war."