Deep underground, under the lowest official level of the vast archives of Karaz-a-Karak, the air stirred for the first time in years as a door swung open, creaking on hinges older than civilizations. The light that fell upon it was not the flicker of lamplight, as no flame was allowed deeper than the second level of the archives - this was runelight, and save for the sun itself, no steadier illumination could be found. In stark contrast to the neat and orderly shelves above, these were dotted with a chaotic mess of assorted writings, from tattered books to half-torn scrolls to individual scraps of paper, each kept in a custom-made compartment to keep it safe from the ravages of the years.
"All of it, your Majesty," the Loremaster says, his voice still strong despite his centuries. "Every book, every scroll, every letter, rubbings of wall carvings, even the warpstone-tainted ones are around here, in runed crates. Not quite as glorious as skulls and captured weapons, but it still does the heart good, to gaze upon it all."
High King Thorgrim Grudgebearer nodded in thought. "Is that why they've been collected? As trophies?"