~ ~ ~ Having been to see the best tailors and metalsmiths the City of Sundabar had to offer, the Elven Knight acquired at the Temple's expense a wardrobe of the finest clothes, favoring the colors red, white, black and gold.  The Paladin of Torm, after searching much of the night, found the oldest living Dwarf in the very heart of the underground, volcanic forges of Everfire, and after much persuasion in the form of storytelling and ale consumption, did entrust his damage Elven platemail armor to him for repair again at Temple expense.  The ancient Ithil'Quessir still strongly felt the pull to go into the West, and nothing either the High Priestess nor anything he'd seen as yet persuaded him to change his mind. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ After the conclusion of the war council when Arienne and he teleported from the Starsinger Tower, Sundabar should have been their destination, but Sundabar was not where he arrived nor was the Elven Mage with him.  The ancient Ithil'Quessir instead finds himself in the finely crafted halls of a great, bustling, underground Dwarven Hold with hundreds of the short, squat, bearded folk going about their daily affairs completely oblivious to the foreign presence of an Elven Lord standing in their midst.  To the Paladin of Torm except for himself, everything appears indistinct and monochrome with wavering spectral Dwarven figures [think when Frodo puts on the Ring] passing to and fro and even through him as though he were viewing the prime material plane from the border regions of the ethereal plane.  Even more disquieting, the Holy Warrior feels the all-too-familiar, crawling sensation of his skin when he detects the presence of evil, and firmly grasps the pummel of the Elven Blade, Aery'Velahr'Kerym, as he cautiously surveys the unnerving dreamscape.  In every direction except for one, the Commander of the Akh'Velahr senses the diffused presence of evil, and knowing he must search for meaning in his Reverie, only follows those streets and corridors of the underground city which didn't make his flesh to crawl.  The Arms Major eventually realizes he's wandering the Dwarven Hold of Everfire beneath the City of Sundabar.  The same place where he'd had his platemail repaired by the Dwarven Forgemaster. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ With this realization, Lord Galifrey spies in his dreamscape a vaguely familiar figure, shining like a brilliant beacon in sharp clarity and full color stumping along through the crowded sea of wavering, indistinct, monochromatic stocky folk.  The armor plated, Dwarven Cleric of Clanggedin, Ashen Shugar flourishes his glowing holy symbol, a double-bited, throwing ax made of several precious metals, silver, gold, mithril, platinum and adamantium, and waves it about, making it brightly flare in every direction he's not supposed to follow.  Only in the direction facing the Elven Lord does the holy symbol not grow brighter.  The Battle Rager stops dead in his tracks, staring perplexed at the presence of the shining Ithil'Quessir, and finally finding his voice, gruffly exclaims "Yer that Pallie we brought in!  What are ye doin in ma dream?!"  The Dwarf stomps closer to Kur'ai, and folds his muscular arms, suspiciously eyeballing him for his answer. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ Dramatically arching a single eyebrow, the Arms Major is glad the Dwarf lays claim to this bizarre dreamscape.  Something he certainly wouldn't do as an Elf.  In any case, the finely dressed, Elven Knight sternly answers, "Priest, you'll understand when I say that Torm led me to you.  Why remains to be seen.  But I think you have something to show me.  And in case you've forgotten, I am Lord of House Galifrey and Arms Major of the Myth Drannor Akh'Velahr." and slowly peruses the area surrounding them getting a feel for the direction they should go in next. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ Something clicks in the recesses of the Dwarf's memory, triggered by the mention of Myth Drannor, something about an ancient prophecy.  Five or six generations past, the Dwarves were banished from Myth Drannor for delving, in violation of the Elven Rulers edicts, beneath the great city and violating the sanctity of the Noble Houses' burial crypts.  Try as they might, the Dwarves could not placate the Elves with their fabulous gifts of artwork or promises of adherence to the ban on delving, and in the end, gradually migrated west to the Thunder Peaks and beyond to the Storm Horns, the Graypeak Mountains and eventually the Nether Mountains, the present day site of Sundabar and the volcanic fissures of the Everfire.  Naturally, the Dwarves were extremely bitter at their exile from the city of the Elves, but in hindsight, saved from the fate of the Elves and their city.  The Stone Tellers of that era prophesized before leaving Myth Drannor in exile that one day the last Elven Lord of Myth Drannor would come before the Dwarves at the behest of a god seeking one of the fabulous gifts the Elves spurned. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ Staring dumbfounded and unblinkingly at the Elf, Ashen drops his arms to his side, and dubiously exclaims "Ya've got ta be yankin ma beard!  Yer the One?!  Yer God sent ya to find me in ma dreams, an yer from Myth Drannor.  By Clanggedin's Ax, a've got ta be dreamin!"  The Dwarf scrutinizes the Elf from head to foot, still in a state of disbelief, and shakes his head at being involved in the fulfillment of a prophecy handed down from his forbears. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ Crinkling his brow in puzzlement, Kur'ai frowns down at the stocky Priest, hoping he wouldn't have to repeat himself all the time with the Dwarf, but barely nods his confirmation of what he'd already stated about his identity.  The Paladin, kinda impatient, verbally nudges Ashen directly stating "Come, Priest.  Show me of what you dream before you awake." and with one pale hand, motions in the direction free of any evil influences. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ "Oiy?!  Ya gots an important date or somethin?" mumbles the Dwarf eyeing the Paladin, and shrugs his armored shoulders, saying "Well, alright then c'mon.  Lets fine what yer a lookin for."  Ashen, pulling his holy symbol from his belt, waves it about until it dims in the direction the Paladin indicated, and glancing at the Pointy Ears, grumbles "Lucky guess.  Right this way."  The Priest of Clanggedin clomps away in his rocking gait down the particular hall, waving his holy symbol ahead of him as he goes, and whenever it flares, searches about with it until it grows dim.  Along vast halls, long corridors, steep stairs, wide passages and arching bridges, the dour Dwarf leads the Elf through the depths of Everfire and the domain of the Shugar Enclave, and eventually brings him to the most sacred Vault of Treasures, where every trinket and tidbit collected or created by Clan Shugar down through the ages is stored.  The Battlerager, as the doors slide open, exlcaims "Behold yee, the treasures of my ancestors dating back to the time of Myth Drannor and beyond!" ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ Around the Dwarf, the rumpled countours of the bedding shift, rise and fall to the disharmonious accompaniment of elephantine snoring coming from the sleeping forms of his five wives.  Dropping his arms, Ashen grabs and kicks at the various concealed forms hidden beneath the covers, and using progressively more force, extorts of his sleeping wives "Wake up.  Wake up!!  Staup yer Gaud awful snooring!  I gautse ta goo..." ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ From multiple spots around the huge bed, several highly discombobulated and disheveled, bearded female heads pop out from beneath the bedding.  Most of them off to a bad-hair day already, that would do a medusa proud based on the unkempt disarray.  After a momentary glare at one another, silently communicating as only the female of the species can do, five pairs of dark eyes swivel upon the one who deserved their collective wrath for such a rude awakening, and balefully fix the position of their husband.  Rough, calused hands noticeably tighten upon nearby stockpiles of pillows, his only warning, before being unerringly pelted with a barrage of downy pillows from the various directions. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ Catching the unmistakable signs of a preemptive strike coming his way, the Priest puffs up, and imperiously declares "You wouldn't dare!  Put those dauwn!  I'm warni..."  'Whumpf', 'whumpf', 'whumpf', 'whumpf', 'whumpf', 'whumpf', 'whumpf', 'whumpf' go the sounds of multiple pillow strikes falling upon the poor defenseless Battlerager until only a mound of pillows piled high marked the final resting place of the great Dwarven Lord.  Downy feathers in a serene snow storm slowly drift down out of the air covering both bed and pillow mound as though mournfully marking the ignominious passing of the mighty Cleric of Clangeddin cut down in his prime.  Silence reigns over the barrow pillow mound of peaceful repose for Ashen Shugar. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ But only long enough for the last of the feathers to settle, and then from deep beneath the barrow pillow mound, an ominous, deep-chested, guttural growl does issue "Ghhhrrrrrrrr!!!" just before the pillows violently explode to fly far and wide over everything.  Rising from the crater of pillows, the hairy, naked Dwarven Lord angrily stands up in a crouch in the center of his huge bed, and eyeing the squirming masses beneath the bedding, declares most outraged "You insolent minxes!!  Your treachery will not go unpunished!"  The Battlerager pounces upon the nearest squirming form, and commences to unrelentingly tickle the figure, elliciting shrill squeals of laughter and protestations from beneath the bedding. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ Keeping up his tirade of indignation, Ashen exclaims, "How dare you assault your Lord and Husband this way!" and finding a heel, easily hoists upside down one of his wives by the ankle.  The bedding, conforming to the shape of the female dwarf beneath it, reveals a heavily gravid belly doming out the middle section of the figure.  Upon recognizing this, the Dwarf grumps, "Oops, caught a pregnant one!  Have to throw you back." and casually tosses his pregnant wife several paces across the plush bed, before bounding after the next form hiding under the blankets.  Upon capturing the next of his wives, the Priest again tickles breathless screams from her while admonishing all the rest, "No use hiding!  You're all gaunna get what's comin to you's." and for the next several hours, duly exacts his pleasureable vengeance upon the luscious dwarven harem.  It's almost mid-morning, before the Cleric of Clangeddin makes himself presentable dressed in his heavy plate mail armor, and heads off to inform the Long-Beards of the Ruling Dwarven Council, about the Elf of his dreams. ~ ~ ~

 ~ ~ ~ As the Paladin of Torm drew forth the sentient long blade from its sheath, blue and silver flames engulfed the entire weapon and his hands without harm.  No sooner was the Warblade free of its scabbard than Kerym disgruntlely exclaimed in ancient Elven "Eithel, ta naa tel'coiasira!  Ikotane nostale en llle panda amin e'mani naa marta!  Malia kwentr amin mani i'uryi naa marrta! Manke naa lye?"*  While critically examining the powerful sword, Lord Galifrey mentally responded 'Halls of Everlasting Justice, Temple of Tyr and Torm in Sundabar.  I remain in the God Torm's service.  We're going to see the High Priestess, and arrange for an official delegation to accompany us to see the Dwarves.  Torm showed me the mount I was to seek during my Reverie.  There is a Mithril Griffon in the possession of the Dwarves here, and the reason why we are going to see the Dwarves.' and concluded the inspection, saying 'You appear to be in good shape.  What do you need?'  The burning blade replied aloud "A ailuume' e'kalpa en celebtinco karne siirima palpa luinleuthil rusva e'a asto."**  The Elven Lord nodded, and sheathed the Warblade, declaring in ancient Elvish "Ikotane naa ta!"† ~ ~ ~