Corvis Eralith
Vildorial was in celebration.
The city itself had been transformed for the event, its compact buildings draped in banners of gold and crimson, its cavernous vertical spaces filled with the warm glow of a thousand lights.
The week of the Darffest meant that the dwarven capital was decorated like many cities on Earth were during Christmas or other holidays, but this was something more.
This was a celebration of identity, of survival, of a people who had carved their existence from the bones of the earth and refused to let go.
The Anvilrun, Vildorial's main street that wound all the way from Lodenhold in the upper tier of the city to the portal at its core and down toward the lower levels, was thronged with people.
Dwarves of all ages, in their finest clothes, rejoiced as they continued to decorate the underground city.
Children ran through the crowd, their laughter echoing off the stone walls. Merchants hawked their wares from temporary stalls, their voices rising in a chorus of commerce and celebration. It was beautiful.
Beautiful in a way that made my currently dwarven heart burn with satisfaction, with a type of belonging that I had never felt in Zestier, no matter how much I loved my elven home.
For all its strangeness Vildorial was much more... Earth-like than everything else I have seen in this world. More than Azellio's alpine expanses and more than the Hearth quasi-modern technology.
The streets were illuminated by handmade lanterns of all kinds, crafted by combining different types of mana crystals in intricate patterns.
I had read the explanation of this tradition in "The Legend of Darff." The first dwarves had to fight against the darkness, and it was Darff who first learned how to properly use mana crystals.
He was also the first dwarven mage. Did that mean he was Darv's first Lance? The thought lingered in my mind, a question I filed away for later.
Anyway, these bright crystals were a symbol of those early days of adversity and how dwarvenkind defeated their first enemy: the dark.
The darkness of the deep earth, the darkness of fear, the darkness of a world that had not yet been shaped by dwarven hands.
Every lantern was a testament to that victory, a reminder that light could be found even in the deepest places.
I was obviously Finn Warend today, walking side by side with Olfred as we headed toward the headquarters of the Warend Trading Company.
The crowds parted around us, recognizing the name of Elder Rahdeas, and I felt their eyes on me—curious, hopeful, assessing.
"Olfred," I said, looking at the Lance.
For once, he was wearing casual clothes: a simple raw sienna shirt, working trousers, heavy brown boots, and a red shawl typical of dwarven clothing draped over his shoulders.
He looked almost ordinary. "Are you a person of holidays?"
"What do you mean?" Olfred asked, his tone flat, but I could see the flicker of something in his eyes. That question already gave me an answer.
"Do you like holidays?" I pressed. "The Darffest is Darv's greatest festivity, and everyone here is in jubilee."
I gestured vaguely at the people around us as we continued toward the Warend Trading Company. "You are the only one around who is not happy. Or at least relieved."
Even Lodenhold and the Hall of Lords were decorated for the occasion, their facades draped in banners and lights that spoke of wealth and power. But for them, it was just a showcase—a display of dominance.
Dawsid and his immense desire to be seen as the strongest, richest, greatest dwarf, and the lords—Darv's nobility—with their not-so-subtle animosity toward the Greysunders.
"I was abandoned by my family in the Pits during the Darffest," Olfred replied curtly.
The words hit me like a physical blow. Right. Before being adopted by Rahdeas, Olfred was an orphan of the Pits.
The lowest level of Vildorial, a place so forgotten it didn't even appear on maps. I thought of the cold, the hunger, the darkness that must have surrounded him as a child, and I felt a pang of something—anger, perhaps, or grief.
"What is the Throneholder competition's plan for the Darffest, anyway?" I asked, diverting the conversation somewhere else. It was a clumsy attempt to change the subject, but I couldn't bear to let that silence linger.
"We will talk about it with Elder Rahdeas," Olfred said.
—
I sat on an armchair in front of Elder Rahdeas's desk, the familiar model of the desk making me smile every time I saw it.
I tapped the floor with my Servo-Foot, testing its responsiveness.
Seeing Finn Warend having the same invalidity as Corvis Eralith—the missing right hand—would have raised too many suspicions.
But I had discovered a new trick with REmould: changing where I received damage.
So, Corvis Eralith's missing right hand was now my missing left foot as Finn Warend.
Elder Rahdeas was stroking his beard, looking intrigued at my Servo-Foot. I worried that seeing how Finn Warend couldn't use water magic, the malachite making the Servo-Limb wouldn't work, but that wasn't the case.
Affinity for water mana wasn't a necessity, nor was being a mage for Servo-Limbs to function.
For people without strings like me, there were cords of iron I had designed to bridge the gap, connecting the limb to the wearer's nervous system without requiring any magical ability.
"You surprise me once more, Prince," Elder Rahdeas said. "I see you have found a perfect replacement for your lost limb. Though I wonder how you managed to pull that trick with your foot, as far as I remember, it was your right hand you lost."
"Ehm... it's complicated," I said, scratching the back of my head. "But this is my new project after the Water Generator. I call them Servo-Limbs. This will be my gift to the people of Darv for the Darffest."
"You made your research well, Prince," Elder Rahdeas said, his tone thoughtful. "Indeed, cripples are a great plague to dwarven society."
I heard a certain not-said in his voice. Something unspoken, something painful.
"Sorry... I can't make Servo-Eyes," I told the old dwarf. Sight was something I still was unable to recreate. I could technically use a string of Fate to connect an hypothetical Servo-Eye to my brain, yes, but how could I make the same effect for others?
The cords of iron I used worked only for mobility, not for the complex neural mapping required for vision.
"But the design can still be improved!" I corrected myself, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I will try to do something for your problem too."
"Darv's problems are my problems," Elder Rahdeas replied cryptically. "I don't care about an eye, but thanks for the thought."
"What is King Dawsid planning for the Darffest?" I asked, steering the conversation back to practical matters. "What does he want us candidates to do for his game?"
"Game." Olfred, who was leaning on the entrance door silently listening, commented. "A fitting term for this competition."
"The king wants all the candidates to show the magnanimity of the Greysunders family," Elder Rahdeas said, the way he said the word magnanimity filled with disgust for the hypocrisy. "All around Vildorial, the other Throneholder wannabes are throwing their own celebrations."
"Rallies disguised as celebrations," I said.
"Well said," Elder Rahdeas continued. "While on the outside they seem just like the potential next Throneholder joining the festivities with the people, in truth it is just a way for the noble Houses to check on each other, assessing their rivals while distracting the people with food, liquor, and music."
I hummed in acknowledgment, my mind already working through the implications. "And King Dawsid?" I asked. "What is he going to do during the Darffest?"
"What he always does," Olfred cut in. "Drinking and eating."
"Olfred," Elder Rahdeas silenced his foster son, before turning his attention to me. "The king is going to visit each one of the Throneholders at their decided rallying point to speak with them."
I turned to look at the dwarven Lance leaning on the door. "And Olfred will accompany King Dawsid, right?" I asked.
Olfred nodded. "Yes, but he won't be with the king when he speaks with you," Elder Rahdeas said. "To 'avoid favouritism,' seeing as your cover identity and him share my surname."
"Olfred can't be the only one in this situation," I protested. "Surely other royal guards of the Greysunders are nobles with candidates in the competition."
"Yes, you said it right, Finn," Elder Rahdeas said. "Nobles. We are not nobles."
I clicked my tongue. Right. Classism. The invisible chains that bound even the most powerful dwarves, the unspoken rules that dictated who could rise and who would remain in the dark.
Olfred walked toward Elder Rahdeas's desk and placed a map of Vildorial on the table.
"The main adversaries you need to be wary of come from mainly three Houses," the dwarven Lance said. "House Silvershale with their candidate stationed at the Hall of Lords; House Earthborn and their candidate who set their camp at the famous Earthborn Institute, the greatest magic academy of Darv; and finally, House Lonuid, their candidate is found at Boris Stronghold, the main barracks, fortification, and military headquarters of Vildorial and all of Darv."
I nodded in acknowledgment. All these three Houses I knew from the novel, and House Lonuid...
Buhndemog Lonuid, one of Grandpa's friends, was one of their elders and a war veteran. I wondered what that could imply for me. Would he see through my disguise? Would he recognize the elf beneath the dwarf?
"I understand," I said. "Should I set my camp here at the Warend Trading Company?"
"That decision is yours, Finn," Elder Rahdeas said. "We will trust your judgment."
"The judgment of... a ten-year-old?" I echoed, the absurdity of the situation washing over me.
"Again with this story," Olfred scoffed. "If we thought you a normal kid, we wouldn't even have ever met each other."
I nodded silently, pondering my options as I looked at the map of Vildorial. The city was a massive vertical cave, hundreds upon hundreds of meters tall, divided into various tiers with the Anvilrun as the only artery connecting all these strata.
The uppermost tier, the level above the portal that connected Vildorial to the outside world, was filled with the rallying points of the highest nobility.
The nine Monolithic Houses—I had read about their origins in The Legend of Darff; they were the equivalent of Elenoir's Sister Houses.
The lower levels of Vildorial were occupied by lesser nobility and non-nobility like me. If I settled my camp in the main level, I was sure the Monolithic Houses would ally against me in some way.
That meant I would have to choose somewhere else.
Hopefully, Avicenna, Evascir, and Soleil—the closest thing the Asclepius Clan currently had to a proper council—would have agreed if they were here.
"I don't see the Pits," I said, noticing that on the map there was no mention of the slums of the city. "What happened to them?"
The ambient grew silent.
"The Pits are located far below," Elder Rahdeas explained, a ring-wearing finger tapping on the lowest part of the map. "But they crumbled after an earthquake a few decades ago, shortly before the Second War between Sapin and Elenoir, to give you a sense of scale."
"And now?" I dared to ask.
"They are still formally part of Vildorial," Elder Rahdeas said. "But they are completely neglected. They are the underground city of the underground city."
Unbelievable. Forgotten even by the maps. A place so lost to history that it had been erased from official records, as if the people who lived there had never existed.
"We are going there," I stated, my voice firm.
"Kid, Dawsid is never going to move his ass all the way down there," Olfred said, arms crossed. "It's going to be a miracle if he even visits all the highest level."
"Then we will just have to give him a reason to move to the Pits," I said. "This is not about making a good impression on King Dawsid. This is about making history. Elder Rahdeas, how long has it been since a Greysunders went to the Pits?"
"It never happened," Elder Rahdeas replied, his tone intrigued by my proposal. "But how are you going to make the king go to the Pits? Even if you made a good impression on him, I can hardly think of something that could accomplish what you are thinking of."
"Olfred, Elder Rahdeas," I said, rising from my chair, my eyes fixed on the map. "This is the Darffest. This is the holiday to celebrate Darv and its people—all of them. If King Dawsid will go from up to down during the festivities, I will do the opposite. I will climb from Vildorial's abyss to Lodenhold."
I paused, letting the weight of my words settle. "This is not about appeasing the king," I continued. "This is about doing what the Darvish people deserve."
—
I wished Berna were here with me right now.
The thought surfaced unbidden, a familiar ache that had become a constant companion since I had left her behind. I couldn't bring the bond of Prince Corvis with me to Vildorial, right under the eyes of so many, risking the identity of Finn Warend being compromised.
For that motive, my bond had stayed behind in Azellio. Fortunately, she hadn't whined as much as she did when I left her with Mom—she just gave me an accusatory look, a silent reproach that spoke volumes, and stayed in Azellio with Evascir and Lugano, much to the latter's happiness.
I could almost picture Lugano's massive black form padding beside her, his deep brown eyes fixed on her with an adoration that was almost comical.
Berna, for her part, seemed to tolerate his attention with the regal indifference of a queen acknowledging a particularly devoted subject—did she learn it from Tessia? I wondered as I walked Vildorial's main reddish street.
The lower the Anvilrun went, deeper and deeper into the belly of the earth, the more Vildorial lost its grandness.
Having seen only the upper district of the dwarven capital (from the portal above) had given me a picture of a city of impossible richness—a place where gold and gems flowed like water, where the architecture was so perfect it seemed carved by gods rather than dwarven hands.
But that picture had been a lie, or at least only a fraction of the truth.
Upper Vildorial, Middle Vildorial, Lower Vildorial, and the Pits of Vildorial were the sections in which the dwarven capital was vertically divided, even if the Pits weren't considered Vildorial anymore.
What happened to the people living there? Were they stripped of any right of citizenship? The question gnawed at me, a splinter of injustice that I could not ignore.
Middle Vildorial, even if just a thirty-minute walk on the Anvilrun from the Warend Trading Company, already seemed like a different city.
Gone was the perfect geometrical architecture of the Upper City, where buildings and stone were almost indistinguishable from each other and where everything was done to achieve symmetry and order.
The Middle City was the true metropolis, where chaos and life joined together, making city planning very difficult if you didn't want to invest resources in it.
This was also the source of all the noises of industry that were audible in the Upper City—the clang of hammers, the hiss of forges, the rumble of machinery that never seemed to stop.
Many short buildings stacked one upon the other surrounded me as I delved deeper into Vildorial.
Another peculiarity of the Middle City was that here the cave was far wider, allowing the Anvilrun to dislocate into many other secondary roads that reached the outer neighborhoods.
In occasion for the Darffest, many street markets occupied every inch of available land, with the dwarven population selling and buying goods of all kinds.
The effects of the opening of commerce with Elenoir years ago were fully visible here—elven textiles, dwarven metalwork, human spices from Sapin, all mingling together in a celebration of trade and culture.
"Hey! Hey! Finn Warend! Turn back!"
Thanks to my enhanced ears, empowered by my silver core, I managed to hear the familiar voice of a boy calling me from behind.
I turned, and amongst the hundreds of dwarves, I managed to discern the dwarven youngster with long sideburns that I had last seen in the headquarters of the Company in Burim a week before: Gilbert Hammerfell.
I raised my hand to make him understand I had noticed him and waited for Gilbert to ford the river of people walking the Anvilrun.
"Hello, Finn," Gilbert said, taking a breath as he leaned on his knees to rest. "I have been shouting for at least five minutes by Mother Earth. Luckily, you heard me eventually."
"I thought you gave up the Throneholder competition?" I asked him, remembering the last topic we had spoken about.
"Oh, yes, I haven't changed my mind," Gilbert said. "But I couldn't miss Vildorial's Darffest for nothing in the world!"
"Is it really that phenomenal?" I asked, and Gilbert's reaction was pure comedy. He looked at me like I was a madman spouting nonsense.
"Finn, I think you should leave your forge from time to time," Gilbert joked, his elbow hitting my side. "Just look around you! How can you say this is not incredible? Look at how many people!"
I did as he said, looking around me once more, this time focusing on the people around me. It was true—the amount of people gathered here for this event made the whole Bough of the Grand Nectary in Zestier seem like a hamlet for just how many people in such a relatively little space there were.
But I guessed that after what I had recently gone through, this didn't surprise me as it once would have.
When you had seen the threads of Fate, when you had pulled on them and felt the fabric of reality tremble, a crowded street, no matter how festive, seemed almost boring.
"Yes, I think I see your point," I replied.
"Now, speaking of more serious matters," Gilbert said, the spark of possibility shining in his eyes. "May I join your entourage?"
"My what? I don't have an entourage," I replied, shocked by Gilbert's question.
"All the better, I shall be your first," Gilbert insisted. "Aren't you going to set up a rallying post?"
"Yes, I am," I confirmed. "But I don't think I need someone."
Moreover, I wasn't going to make my rallying post proper until tomorrow. The first day of the Darffest, I wanted to get to know Vildorial and its Pits. Elder Rahdeas was going to send some people from the Unraveler's Company just in case, but I didn't think I would need an entourage.
A lone figure, a solitary voice guarding the course of the river—that was how I had always operated. But perhaps I needed to change.
"Fine, you are welcome in my... entourage," I yielded, not seeing a valid reason to refuse. "Come on, we need to go."
"Where?" Gilbert asked. "I think a good place for you could be the Ruby Drinks. It's a famous tavern here in Middle Vildorial, right by the Anvilrun."
That was good to know. A visit there might be good before the Pits. I needed to understand the pulse of the city, to feel the rhythm of its people before I descended into the forgotten depths.
"Okay, let's head there," I said, letting Gilbert lead the way. "But our rallying post will be in the Pits, not there."
"What?!" Gilbert turned 180 degrees. "Finn, the King might even consider that an insult! It would imply you demand of him to go down into the Pits—royalty in the slums!"
And? I wanted to reply. I was royalty too. In fact, I was technically double royalty with my position as Highprince of the Asclepius and that Mordain was my soulfather.
So, to paraphrase Olfred: Dawsid could use to move his ass to where his people suffered.
"My plan is very different," I said instead. "I will make my own ascent from the Pits, while King Dawsid makes his descent from Lodenhold. We are going to carve history into the very stones of Vildorial, Gilbert."
The Hammerfell boy blinked once, then twice, and scratched one of his sideburns. "I hope you know what you are doing, Finn," he said.
"I do."
That was my answer, while in truth I didn't, in fact, know what I was doing.
—
Ruby Drinks was a tavern located on the first floor of one of Middle Vildorial's many compound buildings, right by the side of the Anvilrun, just as Gilbert had said.
The insignia of the tavern—a large tankard painted on top of the stylized image of a ruby—glowed red thanks to the crystal it was made of, which gave a reddish colour to Vildorial's scarce underground illumination around the tavern.
Many, many dwarves flowed in and out of the tavern, singing, dancing, or drinking as they did, the sounds of partying echoing from the tavern like a living heartbeat.
I felt Gilbert give a push to my back. "Come on, let's go," the Hammerfell incited me.
Inside, the tavern was larger than I had imagined.
Rows upon rows of circular tables were occupied by dozens of dwarves that drank and ate merrily, while the tavern workers dexterously moved between the clients to supply them with food and drinks.
It reminded me of the ballroom of Sister House Ivsaar, but more chaotic and more frequented, with far shorter ceilings. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and ale, and the roar of conversation was a constant, comforting hum.
Amongst all the patrons of Ruby Drinks, one was difficult not to notice. A young dwarf in the prime of his years with a blonde beard entertained the tavern all.
Hornfels Earthborn? I asked myself, vaguely recognizing the dwarf from the novel. He was one of Lance Mica's cousins and one of the dwarves that never betrayed Dicathen for Alacrya. Even if I had stopped calling that behaviour of the dwarves in the novel as betrayal—otherwise, I would still have needed to doubt Elder Rahdeas.
"Wait, wait, wait; what is Hornfels Earthborn doing here?" Gilbert asked, looking at the dwarf with wide eyes.
"You know him?" I asked, and my question seemed to once again shock Gilbert.
"He is the candidate for the Throneholder chosen by the Monolithic House Earthborn, Finn!" Gilbert exclaimed under his breath. "I am starting to get worried you just know how to make fancy inventions."
I rolled my eyes. "Your worries are useless, Gilbert," I said, looking at Hornfels.
He was a good entertainer, I was starting to see why the Earthborns had chosen him—he was similar to King Dawsid in that aspect. My gaze then wandered to another person who sat calmly near Hornfels, identical to him, but with a much more serious expression—Skarn Earthborn, Hornfels' twin.
"Let's go and get acquainted," I told my companion, causing Gilbert to take my hand, trying to pull me away.
But to his surprise, I was just a little stronger than him—courtesy of this silver core of mine making my body way stronger even without augmenting it.
"Finn, I retract everything I said, I trust you completely," Gilbert said, alarmed. "But not an Earthborn. Everyone, but an Earthborn."
I halted. I wanted to meet with Hornfels because I was sure that he could become an invaluable ally for the incoming war; I wasn't thinking about the Throneholder competition.
But this was far from the first time I had heard people afraid of House Earthborn. Mr. Durzek Oreguard and his family had been brought to almost their knees by that Monolithic House—a story similar to Gilbert's, if I remembered correctly.
And both Olfred and Elder Rahdeas didn't have a nice opinion of the Earthborns. Well, they didn't have a nice opinion of all nobles, but the Earthborns were almost comparable to the Greysunders in the venom they held for them.
"What's the problem?" I asked, my attention however focused on Hornfels.
"You shouldn't be so at ease confronting the favoured candidate," Gilbert said.
Favoured candidate? What had he done for Darv? In fact, I was the one and only candidate that hadn't retired yet to have done something for Darv. What could Hornfels have done to beat resolving droughts? The thought burned in my chest, a quiet indignation that I could not voice aloud.
"The Earthborns are making alliances with the other Monolithic Houses to make Hornfels Throneholder," Gilbert explained, understanding my query.
"Just... that? Political alliances?" I asked, dumbfounded. "What about the people?"
Gilbert grew quiet. "Only you and Elder Rahdeas care for Darv's people," Gilbert said after a while. "The nobles just see this opportunity as a way to steal the throne from the Greysunders. The only reason you are being left alive is because you don't seem to care about it and because you are loved by the people—in Burim at least."
That made a dark kind of sense. The nobles were playing their games, moving their pieces across the board, while the common folk watched and hoped and dreamed of something better.
And I was caught in the middle, a "pawn" that had somehow become a player.
"Thanks for sharing your worries and voicing your doubt, Gilbert," I said sincerely. "But if you want to be part of my entourage, this is my way of doing things."
Without waiting for Gilbert, I walked toward Hornfels' table, politely passing through workers and patrons. The table where Hornfels and Skarn sat looked like a true tribunal room—only the two Earthborns were sitting down, while everyone else stood, listening and hanging from the lips of the Throneholder candidate like his words were gold.
"Stay back," a dwarf told me, pushing me behind him, probably mistaking me for someone who wanted to get too close to Hornfels. I caught his elbow.
"What are you doing?!" the dwarf demanded. I shoved him aside, surprising him.
Before I could be stopped, I was standing right in front of Hornfels and Skarn, and I sat down.
Silence fell on Ruby Drinks as if I had just insulted the king himself.
"Someone has the balls to sit down with me and my brother?" Hornfels asked, a grin displayed on his lips. I couldn't tell if he was amused, offended, or both, but I couldn't help but be surprised by his tone—he was way too vulgar for a noble. "Skarn, look at him! How old are you even?"
"Ten," I replied, matching the intense gaze of Hornfels. "And I apologize for the rudeness of my approach, but this seemed the only way to do so, seeing how everyone here wanted to speak with you."
"Don't mind it, kid," Hornfels said. "What's your name?"
"Finn Warend," I said, and that name resonated like a bomb.
Everyone started to whisper about me, wondering if I was truly the famous Finn Warend, seeing how young I was.
"The great inventor?" Hornfels asked. "I didn't know you were so young."
Didn't he see me at the Gem Banquet? But thinking about it, I hadn't seen Hornfels at the Gem Banquet either, nor other people I could have recognized from the novel.
The answer was simple: the Monolithic Houses didn't respect the Greysunders enough to attend a gathering in Lodenhold, a palace they all thought themselves worthier proprietaries.
"Indeed, that's something many people are shocked by," I replied.
Hornfels then exchanged a glance with his twin brother and looked at me. "Finn Warend, I have a proposition," Hornfels said. "I want you to join my entourage."
His offer was frank, without embellishments or arguments.
"No," my answer was just as frank. "I won't."
"You are fun, Finn, a jokester too," Hornfels said, not believing me. "So I take that as a yes, right?"
I shook my head. "No, Lord Hornfels," I replied. "I will continue to run for the Throneholder independently."
The crowd's tension was palpable, but Hornfels didn't take this answer too seriously. He raised his arms.
"Yeah, I forgot you are a merchant," Hornfels replied. "A Warend and all... you are ten, Finn. I am sure that I can put in a good word with my family to make you enter the Earthborn Institute as soon as you are twelve."
This offer made even Gilbert, who stood a few steps behind me amongst the crowd, gasp. The Earthborn Institute was the Xyrus Academy of Darv, but even more prestigious.
Not because of the quality of teachings, or of mages produced, but because only the pinnacle of Darvish society or generational talents that were born once in a century could afford to attend it.
And Hornfels knew this perfectly, but he doubted my aspirations.
"Lord Hornfels, I wish not to offend you, but I haven't approached you today to get into your inner circle," I said. "I am flattered by your generosity, but I am here as your rival for the spot of Throneholder."
I stood up as I said this. "I am Finn Warend, and I refuse your offer, Lord Hornfels Earthborn," I declared.
Hornfels started to laugh, his hand going to the back of his twin. "This kid is incredible, Skarn!" Hornfels laughed. "Now I want him even more!"
He then turned to look at me, his grin fading into something more serious. "You are making a grave mistake, Warend. Just let me tell you this," Hornfels said, his voice carrying a weight that silenced the room. "But I like your way of doing things."
He whistled, raising a tankard. "A toast to the foolish inventor and his even more foolish dream!" he called. "May he find reason and accept my offer while it still stands! To Tinkerfool!"
The crowd toasted back, but they were deeply divided in their intentions. People toasted to join Hornfels's mockery; others joined to truly toast at me.
"To Throneholder Finn!" some shouted.
"To Tinkerfool!" an equal amount shouted back.
And cloaked by the joyful atmosphere of the Darffest that made everything seem innocent and festive, the intrigue of Darv continued as I was offered a tankard and toasted with Hornfels Earthborn.