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Belegorn politely refused Carthor’s invitation to partake in the meal of unsavory dried meat the latter was consuming before being interrupted. Taking his leave from the veteran soldier, the lieutenant resumed his rounds and attended to his people. Like old Carthor, most were breaking their fast or trying to catch whatever rest they could before Belegorn decided that it was time for the subterranean expedition to continue. He would have preferred individual scouting parties to be sent out before having civilians make the journey themselves, but the king had made his decision and there was nothing he could do but abide by them.
The mood in the corridor was glum and lifeless and Belegorn passed by many without them even noticing. It was as if the very darkness of the tunnels had sapped the life out of the people. Even his soldiers who were usually sharp and alert, seemed daze and inattentive; not one managed to salute or even acknowledge the presence of their commanding officer in time. The situation was indeed perturbing and Belegron knew he had to get his charges out of the underground as soon as possible, but the complexity of the interlinking tunnels acted to oppose his will; every turn off the corner produced new foreboding passageways that left one undecided and witless. Unless he had in his service a cadre of scouts with superior senses to piece together some sort of decipherable pattern in the labyrinth they were in, there was no way they could exit the dwarven fortress in good time, or even at all.
Preoccupied with his thoughts, Belegorn failed to notice that somebody in his way and bumped into the latter. With the mind to apologize, Belegorn looked upon his intention and discovered that it was Faerim, the son of Carthor. And from the looks of it, the youth seem to be lost in a world of his too.
“Forgive me Faerim,” begun Belegorn sheepishly, “I should have been looking at where I was going.”
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