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There was something in Dzievaya's tone and the sacrificial shape of the bowl before the statue that threw Rovan into a dreadful unease. She kept dragging and lagging with her answers, as if reluctant to reach them.
Her hand extended above the ice near the bowl. A part of the ice where a single rune seemed grafted onto it with thin lines of stone.
The ice crackled and spat splinters of shards, unnaturally breaking and reshaping below her palm. Gradually, an angular shape rose up, sliding out like the ice was a sheath from which it was drawn by invisible hands. A staff -- no, a shaft, rendered from some strange wood that looked so dark and smooth it could be mistaken for an exotic metal. At its top hung old cords that seemed as weathered as time itself, preserved with the rest of this organic weapon. A slit at its top seemed to hint at something that once crested it: perhaps a crystal orb, a totem or . . . a spearhead.
Dzievaya hefted the staff and physically pulled it free with one last, decisive crack. She cradled it fondly, like one might run their hands over an old keepsake. Her memories knit together again by its mere touch.
"Gungril, the spear with which Inupa defeated Strivogg, and rid the world of an insatiable monster."
A faint pause emerged, which Rovan broke with his observation:
"A spear without a point. And a defeated dragon that looks very much alive, to me."
Dzievaya gave him a heavy look; ladened with centuries of misery that he could hardly fathom. She went on, now holding it in two hands, more akin to how one might carry a spear.
"She found the shard that would be its point buried deep within the earth, in a ruin of demons and shadowkin. Nothing had been able to pierce the dragon's hide. This was our last hope. In her final battle against Strivogg, it snapped off in his flesh, but its old magic weakened the beast and brought it to heel."
Bitterness laced her cold features, as her fingers reached the top, groping as if searching in vain there for some long lost hope.
"But Strivogg had one last revenge. Dark knowledge. The dragon told us the shard would slowly corrupt anything it touched -- all that lives and that which is dead. Even the elements, light and shadow itself twisted before it. Nothing could contain it, and since Inupa had released it from its prison, it would now slowly corrupt the world with its presence. Slowly, but surely, it would destroy all. It had already begun to corrupt us, so we knew the truth of his words."
Dzievaya looked down her own underarm, where some of her veins protruded with black lines.
"The only thing that could contain it was a living will. A will, and somewhere far from everyone else, so deeply buried within stone, earth and ice that it would take millenia for it to find release."
A pregnant pause punctuated her finished thought. They all looked around them in the grand, icy hall, reflecting upon the depths they had plunged into this mountain to get here.
"Inupa made a bargain with Strivogg. Instead of killing him, she would let him live. But he would live a life of imprisonment, of servitude and of guardianship. The shard; it would remain where it was planted. Encased within a layer of Eldifryst and the dragon's own magical scales. Eldifryst had contained its evil influence for far longer than most materials could, hence why our leader could wield its awesome power." Here, the nornfaedd's features darkened like a gathering thundercloud, and her voice sunk dangerously lower, dark orbs for eyes searching the reflective ice for answers. "But it had already corrupted her too. Her, and the tribe. To truly contain it, we would all have to be stowed away. We would all have to linger, in eternal guardianship, with our sworn foe . . . and ensure that neither he or us could ever leave."
Dzievaya turned for the bowl, looking at it with knitted brows of lament.
"Our blood was used to keep the dragon's life intact against Eldiskaar's influence. But even our blood mingling with Strivogg's could not keep it from bending shadows and darkness to its will. So we had to imprison all with Eldifryst -- and make this our tomb."
Silence fell over the remains of the expedition after this revelation.
"So," Rovan began, again breaking the silence, but this time with a more muted, careful approach. He clapped his gloved hands together. "Those shadow creatures we have met so far . . . they are spawned from this shard, then, yes?"
Dzievaya simply nodded, gravely. Rovan clapped his gloved hands together and rubbed them briskly.
"Well, it appears there has been a terrible case of misunderstanding here. We simply came here for, ah, knowledge. And now that we have said knowledge, I suppose we'd best leave and leave you to your -- custodian duties. You and that dragon both, that is. Worry not, we shan't tell a soul! Your secret is safe with us."
She stared at him while he quickly attempted to defuse any notion that they had come here as tomb raiders to plunder Frostling Barrow of its ancient riches and lore. All he wished at this point was to return home in one piece.
"I fear you do not understand." Dzievaya's words were as heavy and gloomy as a death knell. "You, too, have been touched by the Eldiskaar -- by its minions. You have been in the vicinity of it, and thus, you too carry its corruption."
The staff hammered down on the ice with a crack of finality. The remainder of dwarves near leapt in alarm, and some reached for their weapons. Rovan's face paled with his dawning realisation, even as Dzievaya made her intentions clear, dark eyes pinned on them like a pair of nocked arrows.
"I cannot let you leave. This will be your final resting place. I am truly sorry."
With this, she turned for Frazil, features drawn into regret.
"Perhaps I can offer you more grace, kin of mine. You may be able to sustain the langsevn, the long sleep which will awaken us, should other intruders find their way here. And then, you may tell them what I have told you."
Frazil Valrulf
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