"All Eight," he says slowly, his eyes falling to the wooden box, a slightly-shaking hand reaching out to run his fingers over the runes it bears. He opens it and for a moment the room glows blue as the sapphires release a burst of light, as if rambunctious from their long imprisonment, and he removes his crown to consider it. "Well, then." Then he moves with purpose, plucking the sapphires from the chest and socketing them with sudden energy. Click goes the fourth, click goes the fifth, click goes the sixth, click goes the seventh, and...
King Belegar frowns at the eighth and final sapphire, which throbs with sullen energy as it objects, but King Belegar simply pushes harder. With a reluctant pop it clicks into place, and glows a sickly green for half a second before bursting back into clear blue light once more, and the seven others follow suit, an inner glow growing inside each.
In Karag Lhune, engineers glance up from their work as unseen energies thrum through the mountain's peak.
In Karag Nar, Wolf barks at the energies shuddering their way through the penthouse, more on general principle than due to any actual concern.
In Kvinn-Wyr, Trolls that have licked and gnawed at warpstone for decades shove and scratch and bite at each other for the chance to grab fistfuls of the stuff and shove them into their slavering maws as it crumbles from walls, leaving clean, bare stone underneath.
In Karag Mhonar, an ancient construct had reached a pre-set limit on how many warnings it would give to any given civilian and returned to its long vigil over a problem it could sense but could not combat. It nods once in satisfaction, a gesture taught to it millennia ago, and then reviews an internal list of priorities.
In Karag Rhyn, none remain alive to bear witness to the energies that crackle through bloodied corridors.
In Karag Yar, Skaven look up worriedly from their work, only for the bark of their overseer to set them back to work as they try to goad the captured Warp-Grinder into burrowing an escape route for them.
In Karag Zilfin, a dragon growls in protest without budging from its bed of gold and jewels. Can't a beast have a good sleep without one thing or another disturbing them?
In Karagril, for the first time since he was an apprentice, Thorek Ironbrow drops his hammer on his foot.
"Well, then," King Belegar repeats, staring at the crown. With a slow, careful motion, he lifts it and replaces it atop his head, and for a moment the glow of the sapphires redoubles and then, in an instant, it is gone. The jewels return to their mundane appearance, twinkling innocently in reflected light. "Well then!" he roars suddenly, slamming a fist on the table in sudden animation. "Let them come! We will not fall again!" He leaps to his feet and strides from the room, the stone seeming to ripple under his footsteps.
You stare down at the table, at the point where the stone has cracked at the impact King Belegar's bare fist delivered, and reach over to pick a fragment up and consider it. "Well then," you say thoughtfully.
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