Record all the entries of the Grand Urbaz vaults and select a good-quality example of each minting to save from the smelters.
So between the time we know this action was voted in and the time we get the results, let me tell you a story about what's going to happen.
Mathilde is going to go through the vault, chuckling to herself as she records the tallies of these ancient civilizations. Somewhere in the back, all grouped together as if to keep them isolated from the other accounts, she's going to find... something from a source she can't quite identify. They're clearly meant to be c̷o̴i̸n̵s̶, but there's something... odd about them. When you turn them enough times they start to c̸͈̲̲̰̠̓̍̄̌̿h̷̨̜̬̀̌̊ą̵̫̥͓̲̓͗ņ̴̞̗͝ğ̶̭̙̻̭e̴̮̰̋̉̓͒, to vary, in their inscriptions. Like the Ranald's four-sided coin, but not so regular or predictable. There's something... something not right about them. Yet they show no sign of magic to her senses. None at all. The record showing who they belong to is a n̶͎͎͎̙̓̅͘͝͝a̷͕̍̈́͛̂͆m̵̲͔̾é̵̺̪̼͖͋ like nothing she's ever heard... she's not even sure how to pronounce it. The location of origin (is that what it is?)? Well, it's a short word... pronunciation seems obvious, even. The thing is, Mathilde has never heard of such a nation (ruler's domain?). She consults her books, and nothing.
The rest of the sorting goes fine, great. Mathilde has added to the historical record, and maybe someday she can even share the results. That location, though, it h̷̢̧͔͔̩̙̠̞͎̞͇͙̝̲̥̖̝̘̪͉̪͎̜̠̣̄͋̄̾̌̌̈́̏̍̋͋̋̈̾͗͘͘͝ͅa̴̢̡̨̛̻͍̯̲̠̫͎͍͇̖͙͋͛͋̉͌͗͑̈́͊ͅų̵̖̳̪͓̜̂̏̇̐͊̃̀̓̌͆̊̄̑̔̿͐̓̒̚͠ń̵̨̢̻͓̹̝̫͖̤̘̥̺͋̾̐̇͆̚ͅṯ̵̡̖̻͔̻͚̺͉̉̊̈̓͑̀̓̉̇̄̊̌͋͆̓̾̇͝ş̴̢̤̝̰̩̙̬̥͓̲̟̰̥͕̗̥̊̓̉́̅̈͐͗̚̕͠͝her dreams. She looks it up in one book, then another. She says the name to Kragg, and he stares blankly before grumbling and shaking his head. Nothing, nothing... until finally, in an old dwarven text she finds faded letters that appear to have not quite been destroyed. And someone did try to destroy them, but perhaps because the passage referenced a grudge the dwarf in question couldn't quite bring themselves to do it. She remembers....
"No such thing exists, except through forgetfulness and destroyed records. But I'm now my father's only child, and if you trace back the lineage to find the next in line - and my father did - the result is a Salkalten shipwright who has never seen the mountains. Apparently I'm preferable to that. So records were destroyed and forgetfulness was induced, and everyone who knows better stays silent, and in the privacy of their own minds their respect for my father diminishes with every day he does not travel to Karak Kadrin and take the Oath." Ulthar's face is stony, disgust thick in his tone.
Yes, yes... even dwarves who remember everything will sometimes c̷̡̡̛͍͚̻̼͕͖̞̱̝̪̞͖̭͓̠̼̪̤̹̆̑͌͒͌͋̑̀̒̾̓̓̇̍̂̄̏̀̃̍͌̆͗̐̕͘̕͝ĥ̷̨̧̧̨̛̛̬̰̬̪͔̘̜̹̲͚̺̞̘̱̩̳͉͖̜͕͚̳̹̘̭͐̆̃͜͝ͅo̶̡̲͉̻͚̭̮̝͉̠̪̰̳̺̣̩̪̻̰͕̱͙̙͖̹͓̬̜͔̩̹̹̱̮͌̔́͘͜͠͠ơ̴̢̛̞̹̫̈́̈͂̐̾͒̅͑̾̃͒̈́͒̃̒̈̿͑̉̕͘̕͘͝s̸̯͖̪͍̟̮̗̪͇͇̙̆̀̌̉͘͠é̵̢̢̛̛̮̙͇͖͕͎͍̹̟̺̥̄̐̃̓͐͐̄̀͐͆́́̾̑̅͌͒͊̾͒̿̒́̕͠͝͝ͅ to forget when the cause is great enough. When the need is great enough.
Mathilde knows this is wrong, this curiosity. All her training about chaos and memetic hazards screams at her that this obsession is unnatural, that she should forget, let it go. She cannot. The grudge is the clue. Even if all else was destroyed, surely dwarves would never have destroyed the grudge record in Karaz-a-Karak. She goes to Prince Kazrik and makes a request, Next time he's there, on one of his diplomatic trips, does he might looking up a grudge for her? It's from a long time ago, but the record is surely still there. He agrees, of course he does.
Kazrik's gyrocopter returns near sunset, when the shadows of the peaks bathe the land and the shadows are at their strongest. A comfort, only partially driving away the foreboding Mathilde feels. When Kazrik stumbles out of the passenger compartment, he looks like a dwarf possessed. Eyes wild, one hand knotted in his beard, gripping it as if it's the only thing in the world still real. He looks to Mathilde and his mouth opens wide, too wide, far too wide, as he pronounces the w̶̗̱̝̬̱̮̘͔̞̍̏̿͋̓̓͒̉̀̇̚͠͠ò̵̘̬̼̪͈͕̞̫̭̗͉̑͑͑̅̏̂͂̅͛͋̆̅̕̕̚͠r̷̡̡̤̞̽̈́d̷̛̦̋͑̂̂͗͒͛̈́̆̒͒̎̊̄̓̍̚͝, the terrible w̶͕̪͙̜̪̻͓̓̆̋̋͐̄ô̷̧̧̢̫̠͎͍͇̝̄̀͆r̴̹̼̫̙̞͔͖̎̐̾̐̚d̶̲͚͇̺̳͇̮̭̖̮̹̔̽́͋̃̇̂͂͑͜͝͝.
Z̶̨̪̤͓̺̲͈̲̲͕̦̰̪̘͉̼̲̩̺̘̺͈̑͐̈͘͝͠ͅA̶̢̢̲̤̭͔̙̗̳͙͓̟̖̠̩̙̳͙̲͓̩͗̃̃̇̒͑͝L̴̬̙͔̲̳͖̯̏̈́͆G̴͔̜̞̳̝͍̮͙͌̏̎͗̈͊́͌͑́͗̌̓̐̉̄̅̀̉̏̑̏̒͋̚͝͝Ö̸̡̢̖̘̝̘̲͔̦̱̞͇͕̖̣̥̩̳̳̺̅̎͑̔̈́͒̓̔͒̌̊̉̀̑̃̆͂̕͝͠͝͠
