The earth wrapped around Stronric like a warm, earthen blanket as the stone door slid shut behind him. He stood in darkness, one hand clutching a throwing axe, the other pressed tightly against his ribs. The Mountain Canary let out a shrill screech and quick as a snakes strike the bride had lashed out and plucked a button straight from his traveler's vest, it great sharp beak surprisingly nimble.

"You blasted bird!" Stronric began to shout as the bird darted into the shadows ahead, its claws skittering over stone as it vanished into the unseen depths. Stronric grumbled in annoyance as he stepped within the homestead following the Canary.

Dust blanketed some of the furniture like snow on a mountain peak, untouched for years. The Canary's earlier movements had carved erratic trails across the dust covered floors, like gales ripping through mountaintop drifts. Stronric could see the path the Canary must take in and out of the house easily. The entryway itself was a rectangular chamber, the air stale but still dry. A hallway stretched directly ahead, leading deeper into the hillside home. On either side of the entrance, alcoves were carved into the stone, one held a squat chair and a low shelf, while the other what seemed to be a large table or work area was draped in a large tarp that jutted upward and outward in strange angles, concealing something beneath.

Stronric limped toward the alcove with the chair first.

He ran a finger along the armrest, leaving a line in the dust. As he circled the chair, he paused, noticing a pair of boots tucked neatly behind it. His brow furrowed. Why would someone leave boots there, out of sight? It was strange, but he moved on.

The shelf beside the chair was filled with more boots, old ones, some worn through at the soles, others clearly too small to fit an adult. He stared at them for a moment longer than intended, then turned toward the other alcove.

A large area was covered by a tarp and at the far end an erratic pile of items was thrown about the table. Carefully, he approached the tarp and grabbed a corner, with his Axe in one hand he pulled it free.

The fabric came loose with a dry rasp, collapsing to the ground in a puff of dust that choked the air. Stronric coughed and squinted against the haze. When it cleared, he saw what lay beneath.

Tools. A jumbled pile of them, carelessly stacked in the corner, hoes, rakes, scythes, a splitting axe, and other implements meant for a farmstead, not a battlefield. Their handles were dry and cracked, blades dulled by time. Stronric's eyes lingered on the splitting axe. It had weight and balance. It wasn't made for war, but in the right hands… He skimmed the other smaller table but found nothing worth looking through, it all seemed to be junk. The bird appeared from the darkness before he could investigate further and with a squawk and a snap of its beak it brought Stronric's attention back to the home before him.

He grunted and turned toward the hallway, as the bird again dashed out of sight.

Whatever this place had once been, it was long abandoned. But something about it still felt... settled. Like the house itself was waiting to be remembered.

Stronric limped into the next room, and for the first time in hours, a smile tugged at his lips.

To the right sat a hearth. Not as grand or majestic as the great fires of home, but bold enough for a dwarf. A stone mantle arched above it, cluttered with the knick-knacks of a life once lived. A single armchair faced the hearth, and beside it stood a low wooden couch, stacked high with blankets and pillows. An end table sat near the chair, still bearing a pair of spectacles, a closed book, a dried-up inkwell, and a quill laid across the top like someone had just stepped away.

On the far wall, three bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with leather-bound tomes, old journals, and scrolls stuffed haphazardly between the gaps. Stronric stepped deeper inside, his eyes drifting over the candle holders and lanterns hanging from the beams above.

As he made his way across the room, he noticed a narrow opening tucked beside the hearth. He leaned in poking his head through the opening to take a look.

It was a kitchen. Compact, but well-used. Worn utensils hung from hooks, all clearly handmade. The shelves were carved directly into the stone, and a set of old pots sat stacked near a long-cold stove. Everything about it whispered comfort.

Stronric smiled. "Later," he muttered. "Once I've found where the wee bugger wandered off to."

He pulled back into the main room and nearly tripped over a large rug stretched across the floor. Catching himself, he turned left and followed a hallway branching from the living room. The walls were lined with picture frames, but each was so thick with dust that the images beneath were nearly invisible. He didn't stop to clean them, instead he followed the trail of disturbed dust to the only open door at the hallway's end.

Inside was what had likely been the owner's bedroom.

A simple but sturdy bed sat against the far wall, its frame thick and hand-carved from wood. Two dressers stood nearby, their surfaces buried under old scrolls, journals, and forgotten trinkets. The shelves that lined the room were much like those in the living room, crammed with writings of all kinds. An end table beside the bed bore an unlit lantern, a fresh bundle of quills, and another closed journal.

In the far corner, curled tightly into itself, the Mountain Canary lay inside a wooden box padded with wool. The box's front had a gently curved cutout to allow easy entry, and affixed to the outside was a metal nameplate, hammered in with pin nails. The bird let out a soft "coo" before laying its head down and falling to sleep. Stronric couldn't read the inscription, but the sight of the beast, safe, content, softly snoring, made him smile.

His gaze drifted to the bed. It had two pillows and barely a layer of dust. Someone had made it, perhaps not long before leaving. Or perhaps the house kept itself, just enough.

Stronric's whole body ached to collapse onto it. But he forced himself upright.

"Not yet."

He limped to the three other doors at the hall's end. One opened into a storage room filled with crates, the second into what must've been a child's bedroom, small bed, toys, books, and the last into a bathroom carved from stone.

Stronric stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

The room was narrow, with a stone counter acting as a wash table. Small items lay scattered across it: a lantern, a comb, a few worn containers. A toilet sat to the side, and along the far wall stretched a square metal tub, wide enough to bathe in and deep enough to soak. Above it, mounted in the ceiling, hung a bowl-shaped copper tank with a small pipe hung directly below it over the wash tub. At the head of the spout a single silver nozzle protruded downward with a handle slotted for a grip.

He turned back to light the lantern, confused by this massive tank contraption. He pulled the wick and lit the flame.

The light hurt his eyes at first, stabbing through the fatigue in his skull, but he adjusted soon enough. Holding the lantern higher, he noticed all the metalwork in the room was copper, aged but clean. A shelf hung below and encircled the hanging tank. It was blackened with soot, clearly it had been used to heat the tank from below. The nozzle's cap looked like it could twist.

He grabbed it.

It stuck at first, then gave way with a metallic creak and water burst from the spout.

The water gushed out all black and gritty, sludge and sediment pouring into the tub. But after a few moments, the flow cleared. Cold, clean water trickled freely, the tub slowly filling before draining out the base to some hidden system. Where it went, he didn't know. But the whole setup still worked.

Stronric's body shook as realization struck him.

He limped back to the hearth.

The woodpile beside it was tall and dry. He struck a flame, set the kindling, and watched the fire take. It caught quickly, crackling with life. He fed it until the blaze roared.

Then he waited. Letting the coals build.

The warmth reached his bones.

When the coals were ready, he would carry them back to the bath. Before he gave that work of engineering a try, he has needs that needed tending to first. He wandered to the kitchen.

The kitchen greeted him with a silence that was not unfriendly, just... waiting. Like the rest of the home, it held its breath beneath layers of dust and memory. Stronric ducked through the narrow opening and stepped inside. The air was cooler here, the stone pulling heat from his skin, but not uncomfortably so. The lantern in his hand cast a flickering glow across the room, sending shadows dancing across the walls.

He took it in slowly.

The counters were stone, smoothed from years of use. Utensils hung neatly from pegs, wooden spoons, iron ladles, curved blades meant for butchering. Their edges had dulled with time, but they were clean. Kept, even if abandoned.

A thick wooden table sat in the center of the room, its surface scarred with knife marks and stains from long-forgotten meals. A single stool had been tucked beneath it at an angle, as if someone had stood up mid-preparation and simply never returned.

Stronric limped forward, resting a hand on the table's edge to steady himself. Then he opened one of the lower cabinets.

He found dust and a few cracked clay jars. One jar had grain, it was dried and brittle, but intact. He reached into another jar and found hard, curled strips of what might've once been root vegetables. The scent was dry and earthy, no stench of rot making it still edible, probably.

He sniffed. "Aye... I've eaten worse."

He set them aside and opened the upper cupboards.

More jars. More containers. Most were sealed with wax that had long since crumbled. He found salt in one and herbs in another. They were pressed, dried, and curled like sleeping spiders. He tucked them under one arm and kept searching.

Then he opened a low drawer and paused.

Inside were four small metal tins, each carefully labeled in a language he didn't recognize. But the contents were familiar the moment he pried one open. Inside were tea leaves. They were still fragrant and the scent alone sent a wave of euphoria through him at the thought of a nice warm cup of tea.

He blinked, surprised, and chuckled softly.

"Well now... that's somethin'."

He found a battered kettle nearby, its copper dulled but unbroken. He turned it in his hand and gave it a nod. It was serviceable and he grinned as he filled it at the sink and set it on a flat iron surface above the cold hearth built into the kitchen wall.

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No fire yet, but he could fix that.

He crossed back to the main hearth in the living room, fetched a long coal with the help of a blackened poker, and carried it gingerly back to the kitchen. He set it beneath the kettle, nested in kindling, and breathed life into it with careful puffs of air.

Soon, the fire crackled. The warmth spread, and the kettle began to sing.

Stronric leaned back against the wall, letting the scent of heated copper and old herbs drift around him.

A small clay jar sat near the kettle, its lid long gone. Inside, he found honey. Crystallized, but pure. He chuckled again, more to himself than anything.

"Aye... whoever lived here knew how to make a home."

He turned his gaze slowly across the room once more.

Everything about this place felt practical, humble even. No grand spells and no arcane traps, just the work of hands that knew what they were doing. It wasn't dwarven craftsmanship, but it bore the same soul.

He set about preparing what he could.

He found a pan with only a little rust. Enough oil to keep it from sticking. He cut the root strips thin and dropped them in with a pinch of salt and the dried herbs. The kitchen filled with a light, sharp aroma of rosemary and pine.

His stomach growled.

When the tea was ready, he poured it into a chipped clay mug, added a finger of honey, and cradled it in both hands. He took a careful sip and let the warmth seep through his cracked lips.

Then he ate.

It wasn't much. But it was enough. And for the first time in what felt like days, he didn't feel hunted, or watched, or bleeding. He was just a dwarf in a kitchen, eating fried roots and drinking spiced tea while a bird slept in the next room.

Stronric sighed.

"Aye," he muttered, voice low. "Could get used to this."

But he didn't let himself linger in the thought too long. There was always something waiting. He just didn't know when it would knock. Stronric gave the pan a final scrape, popped the last sliver of fried root into his mouth, and set the mug of tea, now only lukewarm, on the table. His limbs ached, his side flared with every movement, but he wasn't shaking anymore. He felt... steady. Fed. Warm.

And now it was time.

Stronric returned to the living room and knelt by the hearth, where the coals glowed low and steady. With practiced care, he scooped a few of the hottest into a handled pan and carried them down the hallway, each step deliberate. His ribs flared with every breath, but he moved with the quiet resolve of a man who had already survived worse.

The bathroom met him with its familiar chill. He crouched and slid the coals onto the soot-blackened shelf beneath the hanging copper tank. The shape of it still struck him as odd, round and drooping like an udder, but smartly made. Above was water, and below was heat. No magic needed, just clever craftsmanship. He added a few curls of kindling and coaxed the flame to life. Soon, steam began to rise in slow wisps from the tank's seams. The copper pinged and flexed as heat soaked through it.

As the water tank heated Stronric's mind wandered to the table covered in random items. He sighed as his body complained about moving again, but his mind was still active, and he had some time to wait. As he made his way back to the table, he tracked where the bird had traveled most in the house and where the bird simply ignored. Around the table the ground was mostly clear of dirt and dust, but on the table itself the items ranged from completely covered in dust to fresh. He noticed the button the bird had stollen off his vest sitting fresh and new atop the pile of collections.

The table held all sorts of items, from dried and wilted plant life to the cracked shells Stronric thought resembled those outside. The dustiest items reminded Stronric of the home itself, solid dwarven built trinkets or pieces of stone, likely from the fence out front. He lifted the skull of a small animal, likely a rabbit, but the teeth were too long and too sharp, but were barely noticeable if seen from an trained hunter's eye. The dried plants became increasingly twisted. It hit Stronric then, that the bird had unknowingly, or not, created a time capsule. The next bone lifted had jagged spikes coming off at odd sharp angles as corruption began to twist the wildlife within. The pieces were thrown on the table as if a gift left from a pet returning from a night hunt.

Stronric lifted a small piece of rock, it clearly showed a portion of a runic carving, Stronric ran a finger along the edge and the sense of home filled it. It reminded him of the ways to mark lodgings carved into the rock back in his home world, a name or word to mark which family resided with in. He set the piece down as the old sadness of loss boiled to the front of his mind. He pushed the feeling aside as he lifted more stones and ore that looked more weathered and broke down.

How long has this home stood? How long has the old bird been bringing these gifts back and for whom does he leave them for? Stronric thought with a tug on his beard. His concentration was broken by a whistling noise coming from the bathroom. Stronric hurried back to ensure the contraption was steaming and falling apart, but as he entered the room all was as it should be. The whistling was coming from a small hole on the side of the tank that was silenced with a flick of his finger, closing the valve from the warm steaming water with in.

The ache in his limbs was heavier now that he had eaten and rested in the home. Weariness pulled at the corners of his mind like the weight of deep water. But the coming heat kept him grounded. He stepped forward and twisted the silver nozzle.

Warm water spilled out in a steady stream, falling directly into the copper catch-basin below. It splashed gently and drained immediately, guided down some hidden pipe into the mountain's belly.

First, he unbuckled his pauldrons. The leather straps were stiff with grime, and the buckles were crusted over with dirt and dried blood. His swollen fingers struggled with the pins, fumbling against the latches. His shirt clung to scabs and half-healed cuts, peeling away with each painful tug. His hands moved slowly to his belt, then to his boots, caked in mud, blood, and rotted flesh. The hobnailed soles were on the verge of coming apart. He peeled them off with a grunt. His thick wool socks, once soft and full, were so soaked in filth that when they hit the floor, they stayed standing.

Finally, naked and aching, Stronric stepped into the basin.

The moment the water struck his back, Stronric hissed through clenched teeth. The bruises and cuts still burned, but the sound wasn't from pain, it was relief. The warmth flowed over him in steady sheets, sinking into his battered muscles, loosening knots he hadn't realized had formed. Even the grinding ache in his ribs dulled beneath the heat.

He closed his eyes and let the water run.

The water didn't pool. It didn't rise around him. Instead, it poured from above in a constant stream, washing away the dried blood, the dirt, and the stink of sweat and battle. It rinsed the fear from his skin, and for the first time in what felt like days, he exhaled.

Wiping water from his face, Stronric spotted a black box tucked behind the shelf above. He reached up and pulled it free. He found a container carved from insulated ironwood, shaped with care and still perfectly sealed. Inside was a bar of soap, pure white-gold in color and smooth as river stone.

He sniffed it.

"Oh, that's nice... goat milk soap," Stronric muttered, voice softer than usual. He brought it closer and took another deep breath, the scent pulling something loose in his chest. For a moment, he stood still, thinking of Hearth Fire. His thoughts were drawn back to home, and Beatrice his stubborn wide-eyed companion, always bleating for attention, always close by.

The thought lingered like warmth in the ribs.

He set the box aside but kept the soap, lathering it into his hands and beginning to scrub. It cut through the filth like an acid. Mud, blood, rot, it all lifted and spiraled down the drain in swirls of color. The catch basin looked like a mad artist's watercolor palette, streaked with reds, browns, greens, even flecks of black.

He frowned when one patch of skin didn't clean. For a heartbeat, he thought he'd missed a spot. But as he scrubbed again, he realized, it wasn't dirt. It was the sick yellow of old bruises, the purple bloom of deeper trauma, the red-slick edge of cracked scabs. No soap would fix that.

He tilted his head forward and let the stream trail down his neck, over his chest, across old scars and new wounds. The cuts on his arms flared with fresh pain, but it was a good kind pain. The kind that meant healing had begun.

He stood there in silence. Letting the warmth of the water do its work and he let his thoughts drift.

He thought of the necromancer and of the screaming bodies in the flesh golems. He thought of the madness he had stared down and beaten back, blow for blow. Rugiel's light and Bauru's bolts fluttered through his mind and Serene's staff flashing with precision. He even thought of Giles and Kara, how distant they'd seemed, even before the well had boiled over.

He thought of the Mountain Canary, asleep now in its box, safe. The trusting and strange thing it was.

What do ye want from me? He wondered. What do ye see that I don't?

He didn't have the answer.

But the question stayed.

Eventually, the water began to cool. He reached up, twisted the cap closed, and stood for a moment longer, bare feet on warm copper, eyes closed, steam curling around him like breath from an ancient forge.

Then he stepped out and dried himself with one of the old towels from the wall rack, surprisingly soft, untouched by time's usual cruelty. Another gift of the house. Another quiet miracle.

He dressed slowly, carefully.

And when he was done, he walked the quiet corridor back toward the bedroom. The Mountain Canary still slumbered, curled tight in its wooden box. Stronric smiled faintly and crossed the room to the bed. The blankets welcomed him like old friends. He sat down first, then eased his way beneath them, shifting slowly until his ribs found a comfortable shape. His hand reached for the lantern.

He paused, just for a moment, and listened to the quiet. Then he pinched the flame out and darkness embraced the room, feeling more like an old companion than an enemy here. The last thing he heard was the soft breathing of the bird nearby, and the quiet creak of the house around him. A place not dead, not haunted. A place that stood waiting. He let his eyes closed and sleep took him.

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