Sir Diebold's Wake, Part III

"Throngor, where are you going?" Thordrin Snorlickson said between pulls on his ale.

"The humans are having a wake for Diebold." Throngor said as he pulled his fur-lined cloak down from the beautifully wrought iron cloakstand.

"Oh." Thordrin said, his very expression questioning Throngor’s very sanity at associating so closely with humanity.

"I know. Human frivolity, to allow those not of the family or Clan to be present for burial rites," Throngor said as he checked the load of his pistol and slipped it back in the scabbard at his hip.

"Aye brother, they do engage in some strange activities." Thordrin said diplomatically.

Throngor shrugged, "I said I would be there, and that is that, though it turns my stomach like watching a shaved Dwarf cavort with a river troll."

Thordrin snorted into his ale, "Like you’ve ever seen that!"

Throngor grinned, "No, but I probably will, given the company I’ve been keeping." Throngor looked thoughtful for a moment, his cloak draped over his arm, "On another subject: what do you know about that messenger from Marienburg?"

Thordrin’s normally open expression closed tight, his brow furrowing, "The messenger."

Throngor smiled at his younger brother’s reaction to his question, "I’m not asking for guild secrets, brother."

"No, I don’t suppose you are. We did receive special instruction not to speak of it yet though."

"Special instruction, eh?"

"Yes."

Throngor shrugged into his rich cloak, securing the cloth-of-gold braids to the front of his shining plate before replying, "I see. Well, I cannot delay further."

"Take care, brother, and when my esteemed guildmaster tells me I may, I will tell you what The Fooger Consortium wanted with the Brotherhood Of Artisan-Merchants of Middenheim."

Throngor nodded to his younger brother, his heavy beard swaying as he absorbed that little tidbit.

"Good day."

"And to you."

Throngor left his family’s small hold, his head held high as the young Dwarf made his way to the surface. As he passed others in Grungi’s Tower, he was greeted with respect and even some small affection. His humble beginnings as a miner without great prospects had been greatly changed by his association with the recovery of the ancestral goods from the ancient Dwarf hold to the south.

He almost hummed to himself as he thought of his progression within the Engineer’s Guild. Humbly he had approached the current Guild Masters. More humbly than he had to, in fact. They had recognized this act as honoring his ancestors, even the recent ancestor who could no longer be called by his name, having taken the Slayer’s Oath. The young Dwarf took pains to act humbly among his own kind, quiet different from his father’s outspoken pride before his fall from grace.

Throngor’s thoughts of humbled Dwarfs naturally led to the Fooger Consortium and their messenger. The Fooger Consortium was a very powerful Dwarf and Human merchant’s association run by the Fooger Clan. Based in the trading capital of the Old World, Marienburg, the Foogers controlled nearly all of the trade overland into Marienburg. In order to do so, they had controlling interests in many of the Teamster’s guilds in The Empire and Bretonnia, and had representatives in many of the towns and cities of the North.

Their messenger had arrived at Grungi's Tower in poor shape, his clothing rent and torn and his entourage sporting many bandages and splints.

Nearly all of the overland trade between the Empire and Marienburg, and thence the wider world, passed along the Great North Road. As far as Throngor knew, that route was still overrun with brigands, greenskins, and beastmen. Most trade was now south along the Middenheim-Altdorf road, where it was loaded on boats at Delberz and floated down river. Even that route was not as safe as it was before the Storm.

The Foogers were rumored to be rich as Dragons, but Throngor wondered at their fortunes since trade had been so thoroughly disrupted in the North and especially overland. Throngor himself had been forced to pay a premium for some of the materials for his current project. It did not take a genius to figure that the Foogers were hurting from the disruption in trade on the road and had sent the messenger to somehow remedy that.

Warm thoughts of his current project carried the Dwarf through the streets of the City of the White Wolf, to The Little Moot, to the Happy Hearth, and to the wake of his dead companion.