Infernacor

"Listen, that box is more than just a trinket," said Morrick, pausing to take a sip from his flask, "we-we have to destroy it, Grahm."

"It-it's the only way," he stammered a bit, putting the ornate box into his leather satchel, "but you wouldn't understand that."

He hiccuped and took another sip from his flask. The ambrosia dribbled from his lips and soaked into his a beard.

Grahm, wiping the sweat from his brow, "I'm not sure what the big deal is, Morrick. Why'd we have to dig through all this rubbish for that silly box?  Looks like a normal jewelry box to me."

"This box," stopping to hiccup, "this box is the single greatest threat to our peaceful existence, Grahm. For reasons I cannot share, I cannot explain to you why.  I just need you to tr-trust me, Grahm."

The prophecy had been long forgotten by many, but Morrick remembered. When he heard of the discovery of the ruins of Hellasgard, he knew what had to be done. The ruins were thought to be lost, buried under erosion of the nearby mountain range. Recent excavations revealed the ancient town. Legend was that the ancient city was burned to the ground when the inhabitants mysteriously went mad. They mutilated each other. Some cannibalized their neighbors; others pulled their own intestines from their body. The Sanctus Guard called the city a daemonic site, and burned it to the ground. Morrick, sworn to secrecy, knew the truth about the incident, and couldn't allow the trinket to fall into the wrong hands. He was one of the few remaining.

Taking another swig from his flask, he muttered, "let us head North."

"Where are we going?" Grahm asked.

"We need a Dwarven forge," Morrick now speaking a bit sluggishly, "Gandorul is our destination."