Thorgrimm POV

Several dozen meters beneath the surface of Hafenstadt, where the sounds of the bustling city above faded into a distant memory, lay the hidden stronghold of the Dusters. In this subterranean realm, Thorgrimm had established his clandestine empire.

The discovery of this underground haven had been a stroke of fortune for Thorgrimm. Upon arriving in Hafenstadt with the intent to produce Dragon Dust, he knew he needed a place that would escape the notice of prying eyes. Hailing from Steinherz, one of the grandest dwarven cities renowned for its deep mines and intricate tunnels, Thorgrimm was no stranger to delving beneath the surface. To him, excavating the soil beneath Hafenstadt was as simple as breathing.

By chance, he stumbled upon an area of the city devoid of sewage connections, a forgotten pocket beneath the foundations. This absence of underground infrastructure allowed him to expand his domain freely, carving out tunnels and chambers without the risk of interfering with the city's plumbing or drawing unwanted attention. His network even extended beyond the city walls, granting him routes and passages known only to his trusted circle.

As the days turned to weeks and then months, Thorgrimm's modest operation flourished. The demand for Dragon Dust surged among the denizens of the Lower Quarter, those desperate souls seeking escape from the harsh realities of their lives. Business was good, but despite his growing wealth, a seed of dissatisfaction began to take root within Thorgrimm.

Dragon Dust was a double-edged sword. Its potency made it highly sought after, but it was also dangerously lethal. Users often succumbed swiftly to its effects, which meant a constant need to find new customers. Worse yet, whenever a member of the Noble Quarter fell victim to the drug, it attracted the scrutiny of the city guard. Increased patrols and investigations forced Thorgrimm to deepen the coffers he used for bribes, funneling more gold to corrupt officials just to keep his operations concealed. The balance between profit and risk was becoming precarious.

In the heart of his underground lair, Thorgrimm sat upon a throne carved from solid stone, a humble seat befitting a dwarf who valued strength and resilience. The grand hall stretched before him, hewn from the very bedrock, its walls adorned with rugged tapestries and the flickering light of torches. Three long wooden tables filled the space where his men feasted and reveled each night. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meat, spilled mead, and the faint, acrid hint of alchemicals used in Dragon Dust.

A murmur rippled through the hall as one of his lieutenants strode forward, his boots echoing on the stone floor. The man's expression was a mix of irritation and unease. "Boss," he began, his voice carrying just enough to reach Thorgrimm over the din, "that captain showed up again. He's demanding a higher cut this time. Says the nobles are putting pressure on to wipe out Dragon Dust altogether."

The hall quieted as the words sank in. Conversations halted, and heads turned toward the exchange. Tension crackled in the air like a brewing storm.

"That greedy dog returns, asking for more?" another voice spat from one of the tables. A burly dwarf with a scar slashed across his cheek slammed his tankard down, causing mead to slosh over his hand. "We should deal with him once and for all. Bury him where no one will find him!"

A chorus of angry agreements bubbled up, fists pounding on the tables, curses muttered under breath. The men were riled, their frustrations seeking an outlet.

Thorgrimm raised both hands, commanding silence before the fervor escalated beyond control. The hall gradually settled into a heavy quiet, all eyes fixed upon their leader.

"Simply killing them won't solve our problem," Thorgrimm declared, his deep voice echoing through the cavernous chamber. He slammed his hefty tankard of mead against the arm of his stone throne, the metal ringing sharply in the underground hall.

The soldier standing before him nodded in solemn agreement, the tension in the room palpable.

Thorgrimm leaned forward, his piercing eyes scanning the faces of his assembled lieutenants. "We had the perfect plan," he continued, a sour note threading through his words. "Eliminate the Cutpurses, secure their contract with Maria, and no soul could stand against us." His thick fingers drummed impatiently on the throne's armrest. "But that damned bard thwarted us, and now he's seizing the very territory that should have been ours for the taking."

"Why don't we just attack them outright?" a gruff voice piped up from further down the long wooden table that dominated the hall's center. "They seem weak enough. Only a handful of our lads left two of them at death's door."

A ripple of laughter coursed through the room. Mocking jests were tossed about like dice in a tavern game.

"Did you see the look on their faces?" another chuckled, slamming his mug on the table with a hearty thud. Several others stood, reenacting the skirmish with exaggerated motions, swinging invisible swords and clutching at phantom wounds. Their comrades roared with amusement, the clamor rising to fill the vaulted space. Even Thorgrimm allowed himself a booming laugh, his shoulders shaking as he recalled the scene.

"Settle down, lads, settle down," Thorgrimm called out, still chuckling as he patted his ample belly. The merriment subsided, and the men resumed their seats, though grins remained plastered on their faces. "While they may be weak," he cautioned, his tone turning grave, "the problem isn't as simple as you think. Don't be fools."

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A murmur of curiosity swept through the crowd. "What do you mean, boss?" asked one of the dwarves who had been mimicking the battered youths. His head was cocked to the side, eyes narrowed beneath bushy brows.

Thorgrimm stroked his thick beard thoughtfully. "The issue isn't just wiping them out," he explained. "It's doing so without losing any of our own or even getting ourselves hurt." He stood, the heavy furs draped over his broad shoulders lending him an imposing silhouette. "Right now, I wager that old Lysara has her eyes on us. She's cunning, always looking for a chance to expand her reach. If we show any signs of weakness, she'll seize the opportunity to encroach on our territory."

At the mention of Lysara, a collective unease settled over the assembly.

"Besides," Thorgrimm continued, "there's the matter of the old veteran." His iron gaze swept the room, noting the apprehensive glances exchanged among his men. "He's been lying low for a while, but there are rumors he's becoming active again in the Commercial Quarter."

That piece of news elicited a stir. One of the humans among the Dusters, a lean man with a scar running across his cheek, spoke up. "If the Veteran's on the move, that's trouble. Last time he got involved, several gangs disappeared overnight."

Thorgrimm nodded grimly. "Precisely. And while I don't believe the Veteran would bother meddling in the Lower Quarter, we can't ignore the possibility. However, Maria won't let him gain more power than he already has. It would upset the balance she's so carefully maintained."

Despite Thorgrimm's perpetual scowl and preoccupation with his growing list of troubles, his comrades seemed largely uninterested in his concerns. Business might have slowed, with sales dipping and minor issues cropping up, but there was no shortage of food, drink, or women.

As the night unfurled, the mead flowed freely. Laughter and raucous shouts echoed through the subterranean halls as the Dusters reveled in their underground sanctum. Tankards clinked, dice rolled across worn tabletops, and the bawdy melodies of old dwarven songs filled the air.

It wasn't until the early morning hours that their revelry was interrupted. Rousing from deep slumber proved difficult, especially with heads muddled by drink. But the urgent clamor of one of their scouts pierced through the haze.

"The bard is coming!" the scout bellowed, his voice reverberating off the stone walls as he dashed into the main hall.

Thorgrimm, who had dozed off upon his stone throne, jolted awake. He shifted in his seat, the furs draped over his broad shoulders sliding askew. With a gruff hand, he wiped crumbs from his tangled, expansive beard and blinked owlishly. "What did you say?" he demanded, still groggy.

"The bard!" the scout repeated, breathless from his haste. "He's here, and he's brought others with him."

"How many?" Thorgrimm's eyes narrowed, the remnants of sleep quickly replaced by a steely alertness.

"Seems to be five in total," the scout reported.

"Just five?" scoffed one of the soldiers who had roused at the commotion. His hand instinctively rested upon the hilt of his sword, fingers flexing eagerly.

A murmur rippled through the hall as other Dusters stirred, curiosity piqued.

Thorgrimm's lips curled into a feral grin. "Set up defenses in the corridors," he commanded, his voice booming. "We don't need to meet them aboveground. Let them come to us."

He rose to his full, stout height, the torchlight casting sharp shadows across his rugged features. "Show them the terror of challenging the Dusters!"

His words electrified the room. The sheer force of his voice was enough to jolt the remaining soldiers from their stupor. With the sound of scraped chairs and clattering boots, they surged into action. Men dashed through the tunnels, weapons drawn and eyes alight with anticipation. They took up positions behind barricades and concealed niches, their familiarity with the warren-like passages giving them a distinct advantage.

In the grand hall, silence settled once more. Only Thorgrimm and a handful of his most trusted lieutenants remained.

They waited.

Minutes stretched thin, each one heavier than the last. Thorgrimm strained to hear the telltale signs of an approaching skirmish, the clash of steel, the shouts of men, but the oppressive quiet remained unbroken.

An unease began to gnaw at him. His senses, honed from years of subterranean life, detected something amiss—a faint odor, sharp and acrid, wafted through the air. At first, it was barely perceptible, like the distant memory of a long-cooled forge. But it grew steadily stronger, evolving into a metallic tang that coated his tongue and nostrils.

He wrinkled his nose. 'Rust?' he thought. But this was different, more insidious. The smell intensified, seeping into his lungs with each breath. It burned, a searing pain that clawed at his throat and chest as if he had inhaled smoke from a slag pit.

Around him, his lieutenants exchanged worried glances, their expressions mirroring his confusion. One clutched at his throat, eyes wide with alarm. Another began to cough; a harsh, ragged sound echoed off the chamber walls.

"What is this sorcery?" Thorgrimm rasped, his voice strained.

The coughing spread like a plague. Men doubled over, gasping for breath, their faces contorted in agony. Thorgrimm felt a sharp stabbing sensation within his lungs as though invisible talons were rending his insides. A metallic taste flooded his mouth, and when he wiped his lips, his hand came away smeared with frothy spit.

Panic surged through the room. "Help!" someone choked out, stumbling toward the exit. Others clutched at walls or collapsed to their knees, their weapons clattering uselessly to the ground.

Thorgrimm's vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges. Each inhalation was a battle; the air itself turned hostile. The burning in his chest intensified, and a cold dread seeped into his bones.

'I'm going to die,' the thought pierced through the haze, terrifying clarity amid the chaos.

But it wasn't just him. The same realization was etched on every face around him.

Desperation overtook discipline. The Dusters, once so confident in their stronghold, were reduced to a frenzied mob. They staggered and stumbled, colliding with one another in their frantic scramble toward the surface.

'We have to escape!'

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