The dwarf's body made for a rather unorthodox camera.
Through Thordak's eyes, Quinlan watched the interior of the tomb.
The corridor ran long with pale, smooth stone underfoot.
Isveth led the procession with her blade drawn and her braid swinging behind her in rhythm with her steps, refusing to let a dwarf walk first into the sacred grounds. It had to be an elf.
The elders followed in a tight knot, their staffs tapping against the silver-veined floor in a pattern that might have been ceremonial once but now sounded a lot like nerves.
They were a weeping mess.
Quietly, at first. The staff-bearer who had demanded Quinlan's blood was the first to crack. Her shoulders began to shake three minutes into the descent, and she pressed the back of her wrist to her mouth as if she could push the sound back in. It didn't work. Another elder followed. Then a third.
"Control yourselves," Isveth said without turning.
