Destan
Citizen of Val Hor
A Feast of Elves
Amelyssan stared at the cavern wall, thin lips pressed tightly together. John strolled forward, rapier in hand, and studied the featureless wall for but a moment before addressing the elf. “You have the look of one who’s found a beetle in his broth.”
Amelyssan scowled. “A minor dweomer - little more than a cantrip, actually.” He waved dismissively at the wall. “An arcane mouth was triggered to shout should the stone lid be removed.”
“That minor dweomer caused quite a stir, eh?” John looked pointedly at Baden.
Baden, if he noticed, gave no indication. The Axemarch dwarf toed the corpse at his feet before giving a cursory glance toward the other prostrate bodies. “This one here is dwem. As are the others.” The dark dwarves were now nothing more than skeletal remains encased in archaic ringmail. Yet each of them still possessed flowing, bone-white beards. It was an odd sight.
Vath’s blistered brow hung over his eyes. “I have never seen dwem. Are their beards always so white?”
“Not after feasting on prawns smothered with honey-sauce, I’d wager.” John chuckled softly, caught the half-troll’s flat stare, and nodded. “Dwem have skin the color of pitch and beards white as driven snow. Ugly buggers, mostly.”
Raylin knelt to the ground and ran his fingers along the floor. “Two died here, but those other two,” Raylin nodded to the pair near Baden’s boots, “were slain somewhere down that passageway. Then dragged to this spot.”
Vath breathed through his nose - still no scent, save that of stone. The half-troll turned from his companions and allowed his darkvision to penetrate the lone corridor leading further into blackness.
“How did they die, clansman?” Amelyssan looked from the skeletons to the ranger.
Raylin shrugged. “Violently.” He stood. “It appears they were surprised. All of them were killed from behind. Look to the skulls of those two without helms. See those holes? I am thinking a pick, perhaps a narrow spear, was responsible for such handiwork.”
Kellus bent downward and lifted a shovel from amidst a clutter of rocks against the hewn wall. There were many digging utensils scattered about – picks, chisels, more shovels. The Rhelmsman studied the shovel’s blade before replacing it – quietly – upon the floor.
Baden leaned upon his axe. “This chamber is thousands of years old, and formed naturally; them dwem but reworked it some, as they did the cleft leading from the wyvern’s ledge. I imagine that entry tunnel heads somewhat straight forward, into the mountain, between two strata. The walls on our left are hewn, and a different color than those to our right. Likewise, the dwem must have-”
John coughed. “And this is important…why?”
Baden paused, unruffled. “There are mysteries here. Dwem bury their dead in their own communities, nestled in the darker folds of Deepearth. I have no idea why they would entomb one of their own up here, upon this peak. It takes time to shape the rock as they have done.”
John frowned. “Mayhaps this Borbidon Elfkiller was an outcast? Whoever buried him may have wished to prevent his tomb from being plundered – even by his own kind.”
Amelyssan favored Baden with a look. “The sand wizards of the Aradeeti, and the worshippers of the Dead God within the Genn Patriarchy, oft-times murder those who fashion their tombs so that secrets are not revealed. I am thinking these dark dwarves were those who must have carved this crypt – if crypt it is – and then were killed because of it.”
“A good theory,” John agreed. “Let us now search for proof.”
***
The party made their way deeper into the mountain fastness of Borbidon’s tomb with excruciating caution – like “a gaggle of chaste women through a feasting hall of drunken minstrels,” as John so aptly opined. Nearly an hour passed as they rummaged through an old storeroom and thoroughly searched a pocket within the stone that must have once served as a dining area. A stone table was still set with empty copper plates and pewter mugs.
In all, the complex thus far consisted of but three rooms – dinning area, storeroom, and the entrance chamber containing the dwem skeletons. Of horrors and treasure there were none. The morning was turning out to be unremarkable and somewhat anticlimactic. Unremarkable, that is, until Amelyssan’s elven perception noted the outline of a stone door made to look like the cavern wall.
Baden studied the portal intently after Amelyssan declared no magic was evident. The dwarf reached out a hand and pushed. It pivoted open easily. Beyond was another corridor – still of roughly worked stone – which ended at yet another door, this one of wood.
The party assembled around the newly discovered threshold, faces ruddy in the light of Kellus’ torch – for the priest had been forced to switch to more mundane illumination after exhausting his orisons early in their exploration. The door before them was but four feet high and three wide, the wood in amazing condition considering its age and reinforced with iron to prevent warping. There was an iron ring, no keyhole, and nary a seam around its perimeter. In all, Baden voiced, the door exhibited master craftsmanship.
“There is no magic here, either,” Amelyssan offered. “Here, step away. If the portal is unbarred and unlocked, I may be able to open it from a distance.”
Baden and Kellus retreated toward the mage. John slipped his rapier within his belt and readied his crossbow. Amelyssan produced a tiny brass key from a pouch at his belt and waved it toward the door as he murmured. The iron rung jerked outward from the elf’s arcane touch and the door swung open with a slight groan of protest.
Click. Hissing filled the air as an umber fume filtered through a heretofore-unseen crack in the ceiling.
“Trap!” Raylin spat.
“Gas!” Baden shouted.
“Aaargh!” John cried.
The party nearly fell over one another backpedaling toward the secret door as they exited the corridor. Yet the sound of released gas ended soon after it began.
Raylin, after a few heady moments, patted John on his shoulder. “Aaargh?” The ranger’s face split into a grin. “Tell me, southlander. Should you ever compose a song of our current endeavor, will you include your cry?” John was, for once, quiet.
“I must meditate,” Kellus announced without preamble.
The former priest strapped his shield to his back, sat down, and clasped his hands together. Old habits died hard. His companions busied themselves adjusting armor straps, cleaning weapons, and lighting a new torch. Vath maintained a vigilant watch upon the tunnel leading to the iron door. Outside, though muffled, they could hear the storm growing in intensity.
Finally, Kellus stood without announcement and strode down the corridor once more. He waved a hand toward the threshold before calling his companions to his side. “If there was poison, it is gone now. Perhaps it was weakened by the passing of years since the trap was first set.”
Vath, unbidden, passed quietly through the opening. The others shared a look before John casually remarked, “I like the half-troll scouting ahead for us.”
Raylin furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“Because if he is, then I am not.”
***
Amelyssan vomited. The elf drew a shaking hand across his mouth and leaned against the wall for support. The chamber told a terrible tale. There were no less than twenty skeletons scattered upon the flagstones. Some appeared male, some female, and still others – smaller than the rest – were undoubtedly children. All were elven.
Baden had located the seeing-holes in the opposite wall. Three sets of them spied upon the room from a secured alcove, allowing anyone within the adjoining chamber to watch what transpired upon those dark cobbles whereupon the party now stood.
And it was brutally clear just what had transpired - the long-dead elves had been forced to cannibalism. Amelyssan counted over thirty bones, snapped in two in order to suck marrow from them, intermingled with the skeletons. Most of the dead elves had broken fingers – whether from fighting one another or vainly attempting to dig through rock, Amelyssan was unsure.
The dwarf returned from the spying chamber. His voice was less gruff than normal. “Three stone chairs, pushed forward toward the holes. Two kegs, now empty, and a handful of drinking horns. A satchel filled with potions.” He tossed the rucksack to Raylin.
Raylin opened the bag. He grabbed one of the vials, unstoppered it, and waved it beneath his nose. “I have never smelled its like.”
Amelyssan extended a trembling hand. “I believe I know what they are. Here, give it to me.” The elf, too, sniffed the fluid. He swirled the vial and looked upon the sediment as it settled at the bottom of the crystal container. “Sustenance. One swallow and a man – or a dark dwarf – would be nourished for a handful of days.” He dropped the satchel to the stones with a grimace of disgust.
John’s face was uncharacteristically somber. “So the old tales are true, then? Dwem delight in watching elves fall upon one another. I have heard such yarns, yet thought them but tasteless fabrications.” The bard looked toward the seeing-holes. “The dwem must have sat there, perhaps for a tenday or so, and watched while drinking their mead and their potions.”
An uncomfortable silence fell as the party stood amongst the massacre. Amelyssan began to collect the bones into a single pile, his hands tentative in their movements, his manner exceedingly gentle. Soon his companions, all save Vath who continued to watch the outer hall through the doorway they had entered, bent to help him.
Finally, Amelyssan straightened. The task was complete. He murmured a soft benediction in the elvish tongue of his homeland, then stood – head bowed – for quite some time. When he again looked upward, the characteristic haughtiness in his eyes was clouded by tears.
Amelyssan walked from the chamber, his companions following in his wake, plunging the chamber once more into interminable darkness.
Amelyssan stared at the cavern wall, thin lips pressed tightly together. John strolled forward, rapier in hand, and studied the featureless wall for but a moment before addressing the elf. “You have the look of one who’s found a beetle in his broth.”
Amelyssan scowled. “A minor dweomer - little more than a cantrip, actually.” He waved dismissively at the wall. “An arcane mouth was triggered to shout should the stone lid be removed.”
“That minor dweomer caused quite a stir, eh?” John looked pointedly at Baden.
Baden, if he noticed, gave no indication. The Axemarch dwarf toed the corpse at his feet before giving a cursory glance toward the other prostrate bodies. “This one here is dwem. As are the others.” The dark dwarves were now nothing more than skeletal remains encased in archaic ringmail. Yet each of them still possessed flowing, bone-white beards. It was an odd sight.
Vath’s blistered brow hung over his eyes. “I have never seen dwem. Are their beards always so white?”
“Not after feasting on prawns smothered with honey-sauce, I’d wager.” John chuckled softly, caught the half-troll’s flat stare, and nodded. “Dwem have skin the color of pitch and beards white as driven snow. Ugly buggers, mostly.”
Raylin knelt to the ground and ran his fingers along the floor. “Two died here, but those other two,” Raylin nodded to the pair near Baden’s boots, “were slain somewhere down that passageway. Then dragged to this spot.”
Vath breathed through his nose - still no scent, save that of stone. The half-troll turned from his companions and allowed his darkvision to penetrate the lone corridor leading further into blackness.
“How did they die, clansman?” Amelyssan looked from the skeletons to the ranger.
Raylin shrugged. “Violently.” He stood. “It appears they were surprised. All of them were killed from behind. Look to the skulls of those two without helms. See those holes? I am thinking a pick, perhaps a narrow spear, was responsible for such handiwork.”
Kellus bent downward and lifted a shovel from amidst a clutter of rocks against the hewn wall. There were many digging utensils scattered about – picks, chisels, more shovels. The Rhelmsman studied the shovel’s blade before replacing it – quietly – upon the floor.
Baden leaned upon his axe. “This chamber is thousands of years old, and formed naturally; them dwem but reworked it some, as they did the cleft leading from the wyvern’s ledge. I imagine that entry tunnel heads somewhat straight forward, into the mountain, between two strata. The walls on our left are hewn, and a different color than those to our right. Likewise, the dwem must have-”
John coughed. “And this is important…why?”
Baden paused, unruffled. “There are mysteries here. Dwem bury their dead in their own communities, nestled in the darker folds of Deepearth. I have no idea why they would entomb one of their own up here, upon this peak. It takes time to shape the rock as they have done.”
John frowned. “Mayhaps this Borbidon Elfkiller was an outcast? Whoever buried him may have wished to prevent his tomb from being plundered – even by his own kind.”
Amelyssan favored Baden with a look. “The sand wizards of the Aradeeti, and the worshippers of the Dead God within the Genn Patriarchy, oft-times murder those who fashion their tombs so that secrets are not revealed. I am thinking these dark dwarves were those who must have carved this crypt – if crypt it is – and then were killed because of it.”
“A good theory,” John agreed. “Let us now search for proof.”
***
The party made their way deeper into the mountain fastness of Borbidon’s tomb with excruciating caution – like “a gaggle of chaste women through a feasting hall of drunken minstrels,” as John so aptly opined. Nearly an hour passed as they rummaged through an old storeroom and thoroughly searched a pocket within the stone that must have once served as a dining area. A stone table was still set with empty copper plates and pewter mugs.
In all, the complex thus far consisted of but three rooms – dinning area, storeroom, and the entrance chamber containing the dwem skeletons. Of horrors and treasure there were none. The morning was turning out to be unremarkable and somewhat anticlimactic. Unremarkable, that is, until Amelyssan’s elven perception noted the outline of a stone door made to look like the cavern wall.
Baden studied the portal intently after Amelyssan declared no magic was evident. The dwarf reached out a hand and pushed. It pivoted open easily. Beyond was another corridor – still of roughly worked stone – which ended at yet another door, this one of wood.
The party assembled around the newly discovered threshold, faces ruddy in the light of Kellus’ torch – for the priest had been forced to switch to more mundane illumination after exhausting his orisons early in their exploration. The door before them was but four feet high and three wide, the wood in amazing condition considering its age and reinforced with iron to prevent warping. There was an iron ring, no keyhole, and nary a seam around its perimeter. In all, Baden voiced, the door exhibited master craftsmanship.
“There is no magic here, either,” Amelyssan offered. “Here, step away. If the portal is unbarred and unlocked, I may be able to open it from a distance.”
Baden and Kellus retreated toward the mage. John slipped his rapier within his belt and readied his crossbow. Amelyssan produced a tiny brass key from a pouch at his belt and waved it toward the door as he murmured. The iron rung jerked outward from the elf’s arcane touch and the door swung open with a slight groan of protest.
Click. Hissing filled the air as an umber fume filtered through a heretofore-unseen crack in the ceiling.
“Trap!” Raylin spat.
“Gas!” Baden shouted.
“Aaargh!” John cried.
The party nearly fell over one another backpedaling toward the secret door as they exited the corridor. Yet the sound of released gas ended soon after it began.
Raylin, after a few heady moments, patted John on his shoulder. “Aaargh?” The ranger’s face split into a grin. “Tell me, southlander. Should you ever compose a song of our current endeavor, will you include your cry?” John was, for once, quiet.
“I must meditate,” Kellus announced without preamble.
The former priest strapped his shield to his back, sat down, and clasped his hands together. Old habits died hard. His companions busied themselves adjusting armor straps, cleaning weapons, and lighting a new torch. Vath maintained a vigilant watch upon the tunnel leading to the iron door. Outside, though muffled, they could hear the storm growing in intensity.
Finally, Kellus stood without announcement and strode down the corridor once more. He waved a hand toward the threshold before calling his companions to his side. “If there was poison, it is gone now. Perhaps it was weakened by the passing of years since the trap was first set.”
Vath, unbidden, passed quietly through the opening. The others shared a look before John casually remarked, “I like the half-troll scouting ahead for us.”
Raylin furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“Because if he is, then I am not.”
***
Amelyssan vomited. The elf drew a shaking hand across his mouth and leaned against the wall for support. The chamber told a terrible tale. There were no less than twenty skeletons scattered upon the flagstones. Some appeared male, some female, and still others – smaller than the rest – were undoubtedly children. All were elven.
Baden had located the seeing-holes in the opposite wall. Three sets of them spied upon the room from a secured alcove, allowing anyone within the adjoining chamber to watch what transpired upon those dark cobbles whereupon the party now stood.
And it was brutally clear just what had transpired - the long-dead elves had been forced to cannibalism. Amelyssan counted over thirty bones, snapped in two in order to suck marrow from them, intermingled with the skeletons. Most of the dead elves had broken fingers – whether from fighting one another or vainly attempting to dig through rock, Amelyssan was unsure.
The dwarf returned from the spying chamber. His voice was less gruff than normal. “Three stone chairs, pushed forward toward the holes. Two kegs, now empty, and a handful of drinking horns. A satchel filled with potions.” He tossed the rucksack to Raylin.
Raylin opened the bag. He grabbed one of the vials, unstoppered it, and waved it beneath his nose. “I have never smelled its like.”
Amelyssan extended a trembling hand. “I believe I know what they are. Here, give it to me.” The elf, too, sniffed the fluid. He swirled the vial and looked upon the sediment as it settled at the bottom of the crystal container. “Sustenance. One swallow and a man – or a dark dwarf – would be nourished for a handful of days.” He dropped the satchel to the stones with a grimace of disgust.
John’s face was uncharacteristically somber. “So the old tales are true, then? Dwem delight in watching elves fall upon one another. I have heard such yarns, yet thought them but tasteless fabrications.” The bard looked toward the seeing-holes. “The dwem must have sat there, perhaps for a tenday or so, and watched while drinking their mead and their potions.”
An uncomfortable silence fell as the party stood amongst the massacre. Amelyssan began to collect the bones into a single pile, his hands tentative in their movements, his manner exceedingly gentle. Soon his companions, all save Vath who continued to watch the outer hall through the doorway they had entered, bent to help him.
Finally, Amelyssan straightened. The task was complete. He murmured a soft benediction in the elvish tongue of his homeland, then stood – head bowed – for quite some time. When he again looked upward, the characteristic haughtiness in his eyes was clouded by tears.
Amelyssan walked from the chamber, his companions following in his wake, plunging the chamber once more into interminable darkness.
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