The legend of the Deepvault Spire was not written in ink, but in gold, blood, and the scrape of steel.
He was the archetype of his people: broad as a barrel, arms like hams, and clad in plate armor so heavy a human would have sunk into the mud wearing it. He carried Earth-Breaker , a hammer the size of a fence post. He stood before the unblocked gate, the torchlight flickering against the crude, jagged steel of his helm.
The survivors returned to the upper levels, burdened with gold and sorrow. They told the tale of Thorum Iron-Eye. They spoke of the weight of the loot he had helped them carry. They spoke of the monsters he had felled.
With a final, sickening crunch, the Golem collapsed, crushing Thorum beneath its massive weight. The ceiling shuddered. Rocks began to fall. The unblocked path was sealing itself once more.
"This is too much, Uncle!" Gromli panted, his pack bulging. "We should retreat! We are rich!"
They didn't weep for his loss. They toasted it. Thorum had achieved the ultimate goal: he had entered the unknown, taken what he wanted, and died on his feet, buried under a mountain of gold and the corpse of a monster.