"Slim pickings, this year," Ducim Sworddawn, broker of Ceilingscorch, remarked, casting his eye critically over the bins of cloth the elves had brought this year.
The red haired elf smiled coldly. "When last we left, Earth-digger, there was a goblin army bearing down on you. There was some debate over whether there was any point in returning at all. The balance was finally swayed when it was pointed out that if you were dead, we could merely pick through the ruins for what remained of your crafts. In any event, how did you fare?"
Ducim grinned from under his braided mustache, and pushed an amulet towards the elf. "Thus does the Prison of Rocks serve all her foes," he noted.
The elf lifted the thing in her hands, turning it over. "Is this..."
"The tooth comes from a beast they called Ngom," Ducim said. "A cave dragon raised in the hell of the goblin forts, bred for war, and unleashed by the Goblin General himself- now nothing more than a pretty trinket for some elf's neck. Keep it- bring it back to your Druids, and tell them that Ceilingscorch stands!"
The last two words were delivered in a shout that echoed from the courtyard walls. The dwarves nearby turned towards the Depot. The militia, training just outside the entrance to the Hall Proper were the first to return the shout. Then the hunter, crossing the bridge with a dead coyote slung over her shoulder. Finally the mechanic glanced up from his work carefully aligning the ten warhammers that would crash down on the skull of the next enemy to challenge Ceilingscorch.
Then, altogether, in a great rolling wave of sound, "CEILINGSCORCH STANDS!"