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Khasar's mind is briefly filled with a sensation of eagerness, and the fleshy strip slithers forward, starting to gently wrap itself about his forearm.

As it does so, Khasar receives two distinct impressions...one of feeling greater strength and vigor filling him, somewhat akin to that of one of his rages...the other, a brief impression of a massive bear-like paw extending from the end of his arm, ending in sharp, sickle-like claws.

Again, the mental impressions...eagerness, questioning, impatience.

The sense of eagerness grows, and the tendril starts wrapping itself further up Khasar's arm and starts gently probing at his shoulderblade.

The image of the sickle-clawed paw flashes through Khasar's mind again, and a sense of readiness and tension starts to press itself upon his mind.

A sudden burst of pain rips through Khasar, as the ends of the tendon burrow into the back of his hand and the blade of his shoulder. Khasar's arm visibly bulges, and the pulsing of the fleshy strand increases. A feeling of contentment washes over Khasar, and that underlying feeling of readiness still remains, low and in the background.


The hallway outside the room lies empty. In the uncanny manner of the dwarves, and despite the lack of any nearby window, Gron'rindul senses that dusk approaches, and that his fellow priests are likely about their evening worship.

(Khasar and Qayan)

Silence pervades in the stone-clad room. The minutes start to slip by slowly...one by one. One thing is definate about Dwarven construction. There is a great feeling of "weight" to it. Knowing full well that you are at ground level, that only a couple stories of temple lie above you, you still get the impression that you are deep underground in the heart of a mountain.

(Valarion and Gron'rindul)

The acolyte directs Valarion through the doors and into the shrine of Clangeddin Silverbeard, but cautions him as he passes, "Now tread ye lightly, for he is about his prayers, and the Father of Battle looks ill upon being interrupted when speaking to his children."

The shrine of Clangeddin Silverbeard is nearly empty at this hour. Only Gron'rindul and another priest stand before the statue at the fore, axes held high. Though neither is speaking, it is clear they are in prayer...though for how long it's hard to say, since they can't possibly be holding those hefty weapons up like that for long...can they?

(Zanas)

"Silver?" the shopkeeper comments. "What sort of a noble's frippery would craft a weapon like this of silver? Here now, let me....aha! 'tis not ordinary craft here. This is what in the trade 'tis known as alchemal silver. Although 'tis not quite as hard as steel, it will hold a solid edge. 'tis said that there are creatures for whom alchemal silver is the only means to cause harm...the were-folk, or so I am told. Even heard tell once of a demon or a devil or somesuch creature that only silver would harm."

The shopkeper looks it over once more, "Oh, aye...ye have a rare prize here, miss...what did ye say yer name was?" He looks at Zanas directly, and no mark of shock or surprise is seen on his face.