This would be the idea, although shorter, since they are two chapters together.
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POV of Duran Snorrison
events of chapters 63-64
When word first reached us that one of the holds that once belonged to our clan had been taken back from the grasp of the grobi, my heart thundered in my chest like a war drum. For years, I had resigned myself to the thought that we would never again set foot in our ancestral halls, that what was lost would remain only in the echoes of the past. Aye, the clan lived on, but we did not live as dawi—we scraped by as refugees in Karak Norn, taking whatever work was offered just to survive, too few in number to dream of reclaiming what was ours. I had always believed it would fall to my descendants, if any, to take up that task.
But then came the news. Glorious news. The karak had been cleansed. Grobi dead, tunnels cleared. I did not care that the mining rights to our own mountains now belonged to the umgi who had led the retaking. When they told me he'd found the Dammaz Kron of my family line, I feared the worst—that it had been defiled by foul goblins or plundered by human hands. But no. I was told the Custodian had guarded it well, kept it sealed and watched, and that he was asking for us to come and claim what was ours by blood-right.
We gathered the longbeards of the clan. There was no hesitation. Every coin we had saved for the future was spent on tools, beasts, and provisions. Nothing was spared. We gathered every dawi—from the youngest to the oldest bent by the weight of years—and left Karak Norn. We gave our thanks to King Brokk Ironpick and Queen Thurma, and we offered prayers to their ancestors for sheltering us in our darkest hour. Thus began our journey home, through the roads of the umgi.
On the road, I swore that some of the umgi merchants we encountered would be named in my Dammaz Kron: scum who sold us faulty wares or kept copper coins from change. In every village there was at least one who thought they could cheat a dawi—as if they didn't know an offense to a dawi is a debt for life.
Near the lands of the Imperial noble, a group of riders met us. Among them, a young umgi whelp watched us with curious eyes. He gave the usual "Blessings of Sigmar" greeting, but what froze me where I stood was the sight of him wearing… a runed armour! A human whelp, wearing dwarfen runes. Unthinkable. I could not stop myself—I asked where he'd got it, fearing the worst… that he had taken it from our lost halls.
But my shame was great. Not only had he been given the armour lawfully by one of our own, but that pup… that umgi… he was the very Custodian of our karak. The one to whom I owed my right to return. I had nearly called him a thief on his own ground. And yet, he took no offense. He dismounted and welcomed us with respect. He led us through his lands, escorted us to the gates of the karak, stopping only to cross a stone bridge, while some of our smiths scoffed at the human forges nearby. We knew well—umgi forges have neither the craft nor the patience of a dawi. For them, a suit of armour is a toy. For us, it is our name and honour.
When we reached a nearby mining town, many among us remembered bitterly that we had lost the right to mine these mountains, and that we might have to labour under the umgi . But that mattered little now.
When I stepped into the tunnels of the karak… when I walked again the halls my ancestors carved with stone and sweat… a deep joy passed through my beard. In the sealed hall, where the bones of my forebears lay, I saw it: the Dammaz Kron. Untouched.
I could not resist. I opened the book and began to write. One by one, I listed the names of those who had wronged us on the road. Lying merchants, dishonourable umgi… Each stroke of the quill filled me with a satisfaction I cannot explain. At last. Justice.
Now, nothing else matters. If I must work human mines or sell my forge to feed the clan, so be it. I have fulfilled my duty. I have returned. My ancestors rest in peace, and the clan has a home. There are more holds yet to reclaim, aye… but now we do not begin from nothing. Now, we begin as dawi.
It was all thanks to him… I owed him a debt without end… to my Dawongi. I declared, without hesitation, that he was a friend of our clan. A title not given lightly. But his deeds were so honourable, his conduct so just, that there could be no doubt.
I expected nothing more from him, and yet… my Dawongi proved more worthy and honourable than many dawi I have known in my short life. He offered to share his property, to open his mining rights to us, in exchange for collaboration. He even spoke of giving us military aid to reclaim more lost karaks. Once again, he offered his hand so we would not have to bear the shame of working in umgi forges… but could earn our living as our ancestors did: drawing wealth from the stone with our own hands.
I could not refuse such an offer. When I closed my eyes, I heard the voices of my ancestors whisper: "Do it." It was their will. And a dawi does not ignore the will of his ancestors.
I accepted,. The celebration had to begin, and my Dawongi had to be at the heart of it. I did not care if we spent what little we had—he had to be honoured as he deserved.
I felt great joy seeing him dine with us, and more still to see him truly enjoy dawi cooking, as if he'd been born among us. No one was pretending—it was genuine. He truly appreciated our food.
But who would have thought such a just and noble umgi would have enemies? Other umgi had wronged him deeply. His whole family… dead. The last of his line. Alone in the world. Surrounded by cruel, greedy umgi without honour. It made my blood boil.
I offered him my aid, but he refused. He wanted to be the one to settle those debts, to cleanse with his own hands the wrongs done to his kin. And I was not about to deny him that right—for it is an ancestral duty to avenge one's own.
He asked to speak in private. Strange, but I agreed.
With a pride worthy of a longbeard, my Dawongi told me he was an alchemist. He even dared compare himself to some of our own. As much as I respect him… I thought he was boasting. But he silenced that thought with the same firmness he showed this day I nearly called him a thief.
He showed me his version of black powder… smokeless. I've heard many of my cousins grumble about the soot, about scrubbing barrels after every shot of an arquebus… and the moment I saw it, I knew—this was a solution.
Once more, he proved why he is our friend. He could've kept it secret, sold it only to his folk, waited generations before trusting us with it. But he didn't. He wanted the dawi to be the ones to bring it into the world. For us to hammer it, test it, and sell it. Not the umgi. Us.
But i wanted to say no. Not out of disdain, but fear. What if it failed? What if my clan was shamed? But before I opened my mouth… I remembered our coffers. Empty. Bone dry. And if I ever hoped to restore my clan's old glory… I needed gold. Without gold, there's no hope. And there it was—right in front of me—the chance.
I didn't even consult the longbeards. I accepted. It was the light at the end of the tunnel. Our best chance.
Once back in the main hall, I gathered the longbeards and told them what I had done. Some were angered that I had acted alone, said I was still young and should've waited. But I told them what I had seen.
One of them, a master weaponsmith, was the first to show interest. He demanded to see the powder with his own eyes. I'll get him another sample. He wants to test it himself.
Our runesmith opposed it with force. He said something so revolutionary could bring imbalance more than benefit. But even he understood: if we are to see our clan shine again… we must take risks.
Truth is, we already had.
We began the ceremony as our ancestors decreed: reviewing one by one the grievances recorded in the Dammaz Kron. Those fulfilled were solemnly struck through, and those still outstanding were read aloud, so they are not forgotten. Every name, every debt, every insult was treated with the respect it deserves. That is how dawi keep memory alive. That is how justice is done.
After the celebration, we gathered with the Dawongi of the clan. He spoke with clarity and precision about what he needed. He was no charlatan, no eager apprentice. He was a true master of his craft. Both our runesmith and our clan engineer were left speechless listening to him. The Dawongi spoke with such depth, such understanding of his art, it was as though he'd been born in our forges. He knew every concept, every technical detail needed to bring this smokeless powder to life.
When he withdrew to rest, we spoke among the longbeards. And all of us, even the doubters, admitted we had done right to honour him. His words showed not only knowledge, but vision. A vision that could give us back what we once thought lost.
Never, in all my decades, have we been this close to reclaiming the glory of our clan. For the first time in many long years… I felt pride. Pride to still be alive to see the beginning of the return. Pride that maybe I, with these old eyes, will live to see the restoration of every fallen karak. One by one. Stone by stone.
And may the ancestors bear witness.