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A ratag band of around fifty Dwarves gathers on a hill near Brennondale. Several of them are beardless, you notice now, the mark of either a dishonored, or a cowardly dwarf. Most are new faces to you. All look downcast. It’s raining, but that’s not the reason. They watch the pyre in front of them, the long delayed funeral of their king, Aldric, of the Undercity. Vaal is there, and perhaps other dwarfs of Brenondale too. Each dwarf in turn takes something personal -a pipe, a wooden die, a weapon, a lock of hair- and puts it on the fire, where it smolders next to the body. One Undercity dwarf mutters something under his breath, about this being inevitable, then turns to Vaal. “I cannot but feel we are stepping to some tune of fate, and it leads to a very ominous place. Aldric dreamed of this, you know: death should he come to the surface. We kept him back from it as long as we could. But, he was ever the brave one, wanting to take what was most difficult head on, never letting his fear show. We were the cowards. And, I wonder what this means now." He nods to the pyre. "You've work to do to live up to that." He bows respectfully, none the less. When the funeral is done, the dwarfs leave in a solemn procession, back down deep into the earth.