couple of weeks ago.

"Why do humans delight in trapping themselves in such walls?" Il'Tak remarks, more to himself than anyone else.

Shaking his head, Il'Tak points off to the Eastern side of the city.

"The grave I seek should be just outside the walls," Il'Tak remarks at his points to one finger, "Assuming that it's truly a grave at all."

Il'Tak's stomach sinks as he allows himself a brief moment of hope.

Not the time. Xir'nag is dead. The book already told you that. You are just here because... because...

"Have you learned to swim?" Il'Tak asks, abruptly changing the topic, "If we're followed from the south, we'll be hemmed in by the rivers."

"A grave?" Cadrogg's voice is almost interposing on Il'Tak, taken aback by the mention of a grave. After all, Il'Tak hadn't mentioned what, exactly, he's looking for in Lorestal. The Walker takes a moment in his bewilderment before addressing the latter question in a more composed tone. "There's a few oasis in the sandsea that we use for swimming, though it's mainly to hide and flee from beasts. They're too acidic to drink safely and it dissolves any dust or sand that enter it. We have to get our water from the wells going deep below the surface." He looks out in the distance again at the rivers. "There should be a bridge we can cross... They can't all have rotted away."

Cadrogg lets Il'Tak lead him down the rough slope and across the barren plains towards the city-state. The remaining time to Lorestal is quiet in contrast to the almost-pleasant conversations in the mountains. Back then, Cadrogg had been taken with an almost-naively fascinated interest at the Aijur orc's stories. Even the simple forest deer and great eagles of the forest came off as creatures of myth to Cadrogg. In turn, the Walker had done his best answering questions. Apparently, the tunnels had once belonged to a group of dwarf adventurers and their families who left Underwuldt; the design of these tunnels, intent to trick and trap invaders, ultimately was a failed experiment for the dwarves, who themselves were lost, struggled to find food, and abandoned this home almost as quickly as it was made.

...Though this is an easily-disputed tale, as that'd require the dwarves to cross through Aijur, past the orcs and goblins who indomitably defended their territory through any means.

As for the dig site, Cadrogg indicated that it is, as he said, a myth. The dig site had been publically known as a prison, and grave site, for Lorestal's enemies and criminals. But scouts and contacts outside the city-state believed differently. The twelve knights were more-than-keen on its constant construction, building far deeper than required for any sort of prison. Citizens of the once-mighty Lorestal spoke that the knights were almost impatiently excited about the dig, as if they had been literally sitting upon a gold mine of magical wonder. And what was more curious, no one was allowed near the site. With the city-state abandoned, there would be no better day to find out what, exactly, happened.

---

All that, though, was discussed in the tunnels that the two orcs passed. Instead, they walk quietly on their calvnum, with nothing but the pincers of their mounts skewering into the dirt and light grass. Approaching Lorestal, the stone walls appear increasingly like a dungeon uprooted from the ground. Upon reaching the first river, bursting with rushing water about thirty feet wide, the two find several wooden bridges supported by heavy logs and rope. The wood appears slightly eaten and rotted, yet still sturdy enough to support the two orcs and their mounts one-by-one. Cadrogg gives a nervous frown upon seeing his calvnum pincer the wooden platform, leaving a rather ugly series of stab marks on the bridge. Between that and the wood's condition, this bridge likely won't survive another calvnum crossing.

The remaining trip is relatively short as the two orcs pass around Lorestal's almost nonsensically-large walls. The large, rectangular structure, isolating the dig site, lies nearby.

But more importantly is the grave.

The pit was roughly ten feet wide, haphazard in its round shape. Loose, scattered dirt surrounds it. The pit extends at least five feet down before meeting more dirt, grass and leaves that's caved in over the years; only the rain weathered and packed down the now-round edges of the pit, the earth gathered down, the claw marks around the pit...

Cadrogg gets off his calvnum, looking over at some of the claw marks near the pit. He's silent, finding the scene almost... chilling for him. He takes his goggles off; his eyes are filled with a sombre confusion. His heavy mouth opens slightly with no sound, as if daring himself to ask, 'who's grave is this?'

It's hard to say for sure what, or if anything is beneath all that caved-in earth. If Il'Tak wants to find out for sure, he'll need to dig.

"A troll who cannot die," speaks Il'Tak, dismounting from his Calvum and relishing the texture of the soft earth beneath his feet, "or so legends claim. For Xir'nag, this pit could be a grave or a prison. I intend to learn which."

Il'Tak approaches the edge of the pit, looking down. Seeing the excavated pit and claw marks, it's easy to hope that Xir'nag clawed his own way from the grave... or that he was dragged into it forcefully... but Il'Tak remembers that the story of his defeat is years old. If Xir'nag were to recover and escape, it would have been a long time ago... long enough for those claw marks to vanish, anyway. Besides, the people of Lorestal probably held the wisdom to buy him a bit deeper.

"Feel free to keep a lookout," Il'Tak states as he lowers himself into the pit, "It looks like a scavenger has been here recently... unless it's a ghoul."

With that established, Il'Tak starts the task of digging to the best of his abiliites.

"Wait, what?" Cadrogg is taken back by the revelation brought on by Il'Tak. The Walker, despite his eyes covered by the goggles, gives a skeptical look toward the Aijur orc. Cadrogg gives a deep breath and just nods in silence. Nothing was said, but the intent is clear: this is something Il'Tak has to do. This is what his journey has led to, and where his journey may go from here.

So he digs...

And digs...

And digs...

Though the dirt and rubble is loose, the hole digs far deeper than a mere shallow grave. Without a proper shovel, Il'Tak presses his green-skinned hands down and scoops up the earth, piece-by-piece. As he digs, the earthen walls turn an ugly, scorched black familiar to a formerly-burning grave. Minutes drag on until they begin feeling like hours. The sky above the black pit turns from a blue sky to a yellow tint. And as the day begins to dwindle, so does the orc's stamina. Even with Cadrogg's generosity, passing down water every now-and-then, Il'Tak feels his muscles aching in a task that Dura probably would've finished long ago.

It takes far more than expected out of Il'Tak, working until the sun begins setting over the rectangular dig site wall, but it is eventually done. Surrounded at the bottom of the black grave, where the floor finally reaches the same, dark earth too hard to be dug up with his hands.

And there, Il'Tak saw... nothing.

He was sure he sift every speck of dirt and grass in the formerly-fiery pit. But there is no corpse, no bit of flesh, no bone, no axe, no bit of flesk Il'Tak can see. What he can see are the marks left in the pit: ferocious, deep, huge claw marks torn all across the ten-foot tall walls.

So what... happened to Xir'Nag?

While Cadrogg had a rope ready, the large claw marks on the solid dirt walls make it easy for Il'Tak to climb out of the pit. The walker remains silent briefly, giving one last look out in the distance, before quietly speaking to Il'Tak. "Xir'Nag, so that's He-With-No-Name." With the goggles off, Cadrogg's eyes give him a pensive look. "The walkers have heard about him from the myths, and rumors from Lorestal." He pokes his head down at the grave. "This... this is who you're looking for?" His orcish eyes give a look of wonder, as if finding the pit is an achievement; it's evidence that Xir'Nag exists or existed.

But the troll, himself, whether it's his body or corpse, is not in his grave.

It is all that Il'Tak can do to hold back the small wince of pain that comes every time he breaths. His muscles aren't doing too well, either. His legs have grown stiff from spending so much time on his knees and muscles in his arm twitch painfully at the slightest exertion... not even touching the current state of his hands.

All for nothing, it would appear.

Walking to the edge, Il'Tak examines the claw marks... the claw marks that go all the way down... and ponders what they would mean.

It is easy to imagine a great berserker, deep in a throws of primal rage, tearing apart the walls like a wounded badger. If Xir'Nag was trying to claw his way out, however, Xir'Nag could have certainly climbed out on his own. The story from Lorestall doesn't quite line up, either. What strange course of events, after all, would lead from an epic fight in the town to being buried alive in a pit. No, when Xir'Nag was buried here, there's a good chance that he was dead... or at least unconscious.

The claw marks, then, would be relatively recent. Either Xir'Nag clawed his way out or someone else extracted him. The fact that the hole was filled back in, however... What does that even say? Not the work of a common coyote, most likely. Doubtful that most warriors would show so much consideration for their own "grave". Even a ghoul or gravedigger would have little cause to hide their activities. Lorestall's knights have likely been dead for quite a while.

Il'Tak looks out of the pit, taking in the golden glow of the sky above...

"Can I get a hand?" Il'Tak asks Cadrogg, reaching toward the surface, "Not sure how much strength I have left in these arms of mine."

As an afterthought, the hunter adds, "Apologies for taking the sunlight. Looks as though he isn't here."

Quietly, Cadrogg throws down a hard, though short, interlaced rope made of two crossing sections of hemp; a hefty knot at the end provides an easy place for the Aijur orc's tired hand. And with a bit of support from the tugged rope, the numerous claw marks, and Cadrogg's outstretched hand, Il'Tak climbs back out of that black pit and back on the rough, dry and grassy land.

The yellow-and-gold tint of the sky shine from the sun as it begins passing over the hills to the east. The clouds above are more numerous and darker in form. Fog rolled in while Il'Tak was digging; the mountains the two came from are now obscured in that pale shroud. The scene unnerved Cadrogg slightly, evident not in his voice, but shaky, slow breaths.

"It's fine. I didn't know there was anything about him here," he comments quietly to Il'Tak. From the surface, the grave appears like a black, bottomless hole. "The Walkers only talked about the troll just as myth." Cadrogg looks at the Aijur orc and gives a faint smile. "You're on a crazy search, legend-seeker."

The Walker stands up and places the rope, and the rest of his supplies, back on his calvnum. "But if the legends are true," he continues, climbing on his mount, "This wouldn't be his first grave."

He waits a moment, cautious, or perhaps a bit uncomfortable, before nudging his head towards the other calvnum. "I don't have any leads, but I know enough about one old story about him. Might give us somewhere to go between here and the Grand Library." He waits for Il'Tak to respond, looking out futilely at the fog in the distance.

"If you know a story regarding Xir'nag, I would be grateful to hear it," Il'Tak huffs, "but what of the relic below these ruins? That was what brought you to these ruins, was it not? While I may need a-" Il'Tak wheezes, "-a bit of rest first, I would be happy to assist you as you've assisted me."

The Walker gives a slow nod to Il'Tak. "Well we won't be walking there," he nods at his calvnum. The mount may not be terribly comfortable, but it's gives Il'Tak a chance to rest his legs and arms. "I'm sure there are many stories about Xir'Nag. At least the one I know may be interesting."

The tale, as it turns out, was a quasi-creation myth, for the Walkers had little activity outside the sandsea. This one comes from the tribe's brief travel eastward, having found a giant ravine with no path forward. It dug almost unnaturally into the earth, as if the land was crushed by the force of unfathomable strength.

No one might've known who'd done it, were it not for Xir'Nag. The myth, dated far before Lorestal's inception, was that the eastward frontier was almost entirely barren; a place populated by few and watched over by less. Those who did watch over it were enormous, giants and monsters whose footsteps smashed the earth beneath them, saw adventurers from miles away, and chased them down before those poor travelers could retreat. So imagine the surprise of a storm giant, who stood at an unnaturally huge height of fifty feet and was seen from the top of the mountains south of Lorestal, witnessed the relatively smaller troll flying towards him. The giant swung his hammer, smashing Xir'Nag to the ground and cracking the dry dirt and clay. As if it was a challenge, the troll stood back up, raising his axe toward the giant. It was a foe unlike any seen elsewhere and a battle between two beings unlike anything else in the world.

It was an impossible battle for Xir'nag, one which even he seemingly knew. The giant swung with incredible speed, impressive accuracy, and brutal might. Each blow slammed into Xir'nag's slimy and thin body; and yet he kept going, far past the limits most trolls reached. And with every swing of his own axe, the giant's flesh and muscles carved open; its blood flowed like streams.

And eventually, the giant had enough. Wounded, furious, and confused, it raised its hammer high. As if calling thunder from the heavens themselves, it slammed its heavy maul down in an instant upon the troll. The frontier land first quaked, then split wide open. The long stretch of barren land collapsed down into a canyon; the giant himself was consumed by the very earth he rended. And Xir'Nag was, quite thoroughly, obliterated between the hammer and the land's collapse.

The Blood Ravine, as the Walkers called it, was given its name for the putrid, dry and sticky red liquid covering its stone and dirt walls, along with the stream of water, both blue