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His descendants are careful with their money, never too thrifty, yet never risking too much. They solidify the family claim over the town and a handful of other neighbouring towns. They eventually become Lords and Ladies of the area, guiding it with a steady hand.
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Tolbar tucks into his evening meal. The days of roast venison and stewed Tuskhide boar are long gone. In front of him sits a plate of wilted carrots, a lump of unidentifiable vegetables and a bone with a scant amount of meat on it. Probably Murderowl. Tolbar digs into his meal with relish. The cook has outdone himself this night.
A single candle burns in the middle of the long dining table. Tolbar, at its end, is almost in complete darkness. His butler, Codol, stands in the corner in complete silence whilst Tolbar quietly chews the leg of meat.
Blashryk was a thriving town once. Once. Before the Vingaborda mess. Before the Grol started raiding smaller, more feeble settlements. Now, the houses are empty, the inns are bare, the fields are overgrown and full of weeds. Tolbar and his retinue are the last remnants. He refuses to leave and they, perhaps out of pity, perhaps out of loyalty, have chosen to stay.
A tiny pinprick of light appears at the end of a pitch-black hallway. The sound of leather slapping against stone can be heard faintly. Keys jingle and a Dwarf's breath gets heavier as they sprint their way to the dining room.
Tolbar peers over. A crusty old Dwarf rushes into the room, all pretense of subservience thrown aside as they slap some parchment down on the table. One, a thin leather-bound missive, the other, a dusty scrap of a map.
"I have it!" the librarian shouts, almost screams actually. "Our...", he quietens down, remembering where he is, "..that is, rather, YOUR salvation, m'Lord." The cook has turned up now, all of the household retinue are contained within this one room.
Tolbar says nothing, putting his knife and fork down. He grabs the parchment and peers through a pair of tiny, cloudy spectacles.
The librarian perks up and begins to speak, either for the benefit of the rest of the staff, or just for himself.
"When your cousin left you your inheritance..." the librarian gestures towards the leather-bound missive...
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Tolbar had seen the inheritance before, many times. He brushed it aside for now, it held no secrets from him.
"We always thought that 'Gellion's Cross' was a piece of long-lost jewellery, some trinket we never found." The librarian went on, grabbing the map as he did.
"It isn't!" he shouted as he jabbed his finger down onto a seemingly-random point on the map. "It's a place!"
Tolbar peered over his spectacles at the map. It did look like a cross...
A + shaped section, tiny in comparison with the nearby mountain ranges, backing onto the Ariq Desert. It was on the very outskirts of Bormar, perhaps too far away to be true Dwarven territory. There might be contestations within some factions, or indeed with the Humans of the Ariq, but the legality of the will was water-proof, Tolbar knew that from experience.
If this was true, it would be his last chance at regaining any semblance of a Lordly life. It would be nice to have subjects again. Well, it would be nice to have anything again.
But his funds were dwindling. If he did this, he risked everything.
[[Category:Folklore]]
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