strawberryJAMM
First Post
Ah! Good Point!.
Okay, I've posted it at my SkyDrive. It can be accessed here:
Wikellawyn.jpg - Windows Live SkyDrive
Last edited:
Supernatural Wood - Last Updated September 17th
Okay, I've posted it at my SkyDrive. It can be accessed here:
Wikellawyn.jpg - Windows Live SkyDrive
strawberryJAMM
First Post
{duplicate post}
Last edited:
GodOfCheese
First Post
Let's get a few things straight...
Dorin scowled at the empty garden where the Druid had been not a moment earlier. It was ringed with thick trees that grew at odd angles, forming the impression of a wall or rampart. Two paths of overgrown cobblestones led out through breaks in the trees. One led to the main thoroughfare, back the way they came, and ultimately out of town. The man’s eyes rested on it wearily for several seconds.
“I told you,” Jo said calmly. “Nobody goes to see Nicholas.”
Dorin frowned again. “Is it because he’s a jerk?”
Jo shrugged. “The nearest apothecary isn’t far away.” She stood and waited for them.
The traveler’s lips pressed tightly together. “I don’t think anyone else can help.”
Jo turned back to face him. “You misled me, and you misled the border guard. You aren’t here for alchemy at all.” Her face was stern, but not angry.
“Hey,” said Wik calmly but firmly. “He didn’t say he was here for alchemy. He said he was here for an alchemist. There’s a difference.”
Jo pointed her finger down at Wik, adding, “And you helped mislead us.”
Wik put her hands on her hips and leaned forward as if setting herself against the force of Jo’s stare. “Yes,” she said; her sweet voice defiant. “What of it?”
Jo blinked. “Nothing. Just making sure I understood .”
Wik held up one hand dismissively and turned deliberately away from her to face Dorin. “What do we do now?”
“We?” Dorin whispered briefly under his breath, not quite silently enough to prevent Wik from hearing. His eyes rested briefly on Wik’s amulet before snapping back to her face. “We…” he answered aloud. “We… I…”
Dorin’s gaze had not escaped Wik’s attention to her chest, but she said nothing. “Hey, I’m pledged to help those in need. As they say, the deed you do is the deed done you.” She smiled a smile that would light a room, if the room were small and they were in one. “You clearly need my help.”
Without waiting for a response, she looked up at the enormous woman. “How about you, Jo? Interested in helping Dorin out for awhile?”
Jo shrugged again. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
Wik wrinkled her nose and rolled her head in a kind of Better-than-nothing-I-guess expression. She turned back to Dorin and smiled again. “So you have help. What do we do now?”
Dorin said nothing, his expression betraying little. His eyes, however, moved busily as he considered his options. I knew it was a long shot, but it still hurts to come all this way only to fail.
After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Wik tilted her little head. “Is it possible that Nicholas is testing you somehow? Druids can be…” her lips and face wrinkled up, searching for the right words. Her eyes sparkled incongruously though. “…perverse, sometimes.”
Her smile returned. “I’ve heard of Druids testing people in strange ways. And nobody knows their true ways… it’s said no one can.”
“He’s certainly testing me,” Dorin replied acidly, his nostrils flared. “Testing my patience maybe.”
Jo, who had been watching their exchange without comment, spoke up. “What is your problem, exactly?”
Dorin’s eyes flicked to the giant warrioress and squinted as he tried to decide whether to be offended. He must have decided not to, for his eyes softened and he opened his mouth to speak.
“It’s… been going on for several years,” he began.
“Nobody knows exactly when it started, but at least two years ago, my people acquired an unending streak of…” he groped for words. “Bad luck.
“Horses would go lame or go ill. Or they trip over unlikely obstacles. Maintenance problems in the… the wagons. Supplies go bad before they should. People get hurt in freak accidents.
“Nobody has died yet, but it’s been getting worse. My...” he paused abruptly, his lips moving for a split second before continuing hastily and clumsily, “…first paternal man-cousin, once removed--”
So, Wik thought at this, his native tongue must have plenty of kinship terms. But she did not interrupt.
“--broke his leg when his horse had to jump a branch that fell right in front of him, only to land half in a deadfall. Were he less of a rider, he’d be dead now.” He quickly added, “The horse is recovering.”
Wik considered this, momentarily touched by Dorin’s obvious concern for the horse in addition to that of his relative. Jo’s expression was unreadable.
Dorin continued his story. “We held a… council of sorts. I was not there, mind you. I’m too young. But they decided that I must go out into the world and find help.”
He looked down bitterly as he continued. “We couldn’t solve the problem for ourselves, but too many of us are being hurt.” His jawline flexed uncomfortably. “So I had to leave home.”
Wik opened her mouth but was overspoken by Jo: “Where are you from, strange man?”
“That’s complicated,” Dorin replied; his expression guarded. He smiled weakly. “But that won’t inhibit me from completing my task. I’m well-prepared for this mission, even if it is a… a crapshoot. I know or have studied the customs and languages from most towns in the Plains of the T’yers, and much of the Empire to the East as well.”
Jo’s eyes narrowed but her voice was surprisingly quiet. “I wouldn’t throw that around if I were you.”
“Yeah, I know that you have no love of the Saldasha Empire,” Dorin began, but the axewoman interrupted him again.
“I don’t care myself,” Jo answered hastily. “But I’m not a Dwarf.”
“That much is certain,” Wik cackled mirthfully, looking up at the enormous woman.
“I’m saying be careful…” Jo continued sparingly. “They hate being ruled by the Elves.”
Dorin took a deep breath. “To be fair, you’d hate it too if you were in their position.” His voice acquired a scholarly tone. “The Dwarven Landhold ceded Millington to the Saldasha Empire a hundred years ago, by most accounts. None of us could have been alive then, but the Dwarves have long memories.
“I’m amazed they’re angry at the Empire and not the Landhold. As I understand it, it’s the Landhold’s edict that keeps them following Imperial rule. Like not logging the forest. If the Empire ruled Millington with an iron fist, you’d see more wizardry here.” Tightness at his jawline again.
“I see what you mean about having studied,” Wik offered. She smiled again, but her smile was short-lived when she changed the subject. “So why didn’t you mention any of this to me when we met up on the New Road? How did you know I couldn’t help you?”
Jo’s head swiveled to follow the conversation.
“Thank you for trying to help me. It’s… shameful… to ask for help from… outsiders though,” Dorin answered. “And I have to be careful whose debts I incur.”
Wik’s eyebrows go up, causing her nose to bob slightly. She wobbled her head in a what-do-you-mean-by-that expression, but evidently decided against probing this bizarre statement. In the midst of Jo’s predictable silence, Wik took it upon herself to move the conversation forward.
“Well,” she said determinedly. “Do you have any leads?”
Dorin sighed. “None,” he said dejectedly. “None, whatsoever. We don’t know exactly when the trouble started, or where. There’s no pattern to when it happens, or to whom or what. It’s… inconsistent.
“I came to Nicholas seeking advice on where and how I might even look for leads. My family… we’ve no idea how to approach a problem like this. I came seeking his…” his lips and nose twisted angrily at the last word: “wisdom.”
Wik took a deep breath. “Well, then since we’re here, we should stake out the Cathedral of Pelor. Even if the priests there can’t help, its beauty is famous. It’s not even my faith and I’d love to visit. Surely, you didn’t miss it on the way in…”
Dorin’s reply was rapid. “No, I doubt they can help.” He paused before continuing at a more normal speed. “Besides, I… don’t want to owe them any favors.”
Wik’s face wrinkled as her left eyebrow rose while her right dropped. She stared at Dorin with her head cocked. “The priests of Hai Pelor, the God of the Sun and Charity you avoid, but the mad Druid was okay?”
“I have my reasons,” Dorin replied with finality.
Wik sighed and shook her head. With a deep breath and a smile, she continued. “Okay, well as long as we’re here, what should we do?”
“Look,” Dorin began, a note of resignation in his voice, but Wik would not let him continue.
“What do you think, Jo?” she interrupted, turning her back on him abruptly.
Jo could not have hesitated more than a second. “I need a beer.”
Wik grinned broadly. “Yeah, that sounds like a fine suggestion. Coming, Dorin?”
Dorin scowled at the empty garden where the Druid had been not a moment earlier. It was ringed with thick trees that grew at odd angles, forming the impression of a wall or rampart. Two paths of overgrown cobblestones led out through breaks in the trees. One led to the main thoroughfare, back the way they came, and ultimately out of town. The man’s eyes rested on it wearily for several seconds.
“I told you,” Jo said calmly. “Nobody goes to see Nicholas.”
Dorin frowned again. “Is it because he’s a jerk?”
Jo shrugged. “The nearest apothecary isn’t far away.” She stood and waited for them.
The traveler’s lips pressed tightly together. “I don’t think anyone else can help.”
Jo turned back to face him. “You misled me, and you misled the border guard. You aren’t here for alchemy at all.” Her face was stern, but not angry.
“Hey,” said Wik calmly but firmly. “He didn’t say he was here for alchemy. He said he was here for an alchemist. There’s a difference.”
Jo pointed her finger down at Wik, adding, “And you helped mislead us.”
Wik put her hands on her hips and leaned forward as if setting herself against the force of Jo’s stare. “Yes,” she said; her sweet voice defiant. “What of it?”
Jo blinked. “Nothing. Just making sure I understood .”
Wik held up one hand dismissively and turned deliberately away from her to face Dorin. “What do we do now?”
“We?” Dorin whispered briefly under his breath, not quite silently enough to prevent Wik from hearing. His eyes rested briefly on Wik’s amulet before snapping back to her face. “We…” he answered aloud. “We… I…”
Dorin’s gaze had not escaped Wik’s attention to her chest, but she said nothing. “Hey, I’m pledged to help those in need. As they say, the deed you do is the deed done you.” She smiled a smile that would light a room, if the room were small and they were in one. “You clearly need my help.”
Without waiting for a response, she looked up at the enormous woman. “How about you, Jo? Interested in helping Dorin out for awhile?”
Jo shrugged again. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
Wik wrinkled her nose and rolled her head in a kind of Better-than-nothing-I-guess expression. She turned back to Dorin and smiled again. “So you have help. What do we do now?”
Dorin said nothing, his expression betraying little. His eyes, however, moved busily as he considered his options. I knew it was a long shot, but it still hurts to come all this way only to fail.
After a few seconds of uncomfortable silence, Wik tilted her little head. “Is it possible that Nicholas is testing you somehow? Druids can be…” her lips and face wrinkled up, searching for the right words. Her eyes sparkled incongruously though. “…perverse, sometimes.”
Her smile returned. “I’ve heard of Druids testing people in strange ways. And nobody knows their true ways… it’s said no one can.”
“He’s certainly testing me,” Dorin replied acidly, his nostrils flared. “Testing my patience maybe.”
Jo, who had been watching their exchange without comment, spoke up. “What is your problem, exactly?”
Dorin’s eyes flicked to the giant warrioress and squinted as he tried to decide whether to be offended. He must have decided not to, for his eyes softened and he opened his mouth to speak.
“It’s… been going on for several years,” he began.
“Nobody knows exactly when it started, but at least two years ago, my people acquired an unending streak of…” he groped for words. “Bad luck.
“Horses would go lame or go ill. Or they trip over unlikely obstacles. Maintenance problems in the… the wagons. Supplies go bad before they should. People get hurt in freak accidents.
“Nobody has died yet, but it’s been getting worse. My...” he paused abruptly, his lips moving for a split second before continuing hastily and clumsily, “…first paternal man-cousin, once removed--”
So, Wik thought at this, his native tongue must have plenty of kinship terms. But she did not interrupt.
“--broke his leg when his horse had to jump a branch that fell right in front of him, only to land half in a deadfall. Were he less of a rider, he’d be dead now.” He quickly added, “The horse is recovering.”
Wik considered this, momentarily touched by Dorin’s obvious concern for the horse in addition to that of his relative. Jo’s expression was unreadable.
Dorin continued his story. “We held a… council of sorts. I was not there, mind you. I’m too young. But they decided that I must go out into the world and find help.”
He looked down bitterly as he continued. “We couldn’t solve the problem for ourselves, but too many of us are being hurt.” His jawline flexed uncomfortably. “So I had to leave home.”
Wik opened her mouth but was overspoken by Jo: “Where are you from, strange man?”
“That’s complicated,” Dorin replied; his expression guarded. He smiled weakly. “But that won’t inhibit me from completing my task. I’m well-prepared for this mission, even if it is a… a crapshoot. I know or have studied the customs and languages from most towns in the Plains of the T’yers, and much of the Empire to the East as well.”
Jo’s eyes narrowed but her voice was surprisingly quiet. “I wouldn’t throw that around if I were you.”
“Yeah, I know that you have no love of the Saldasha Empire,” Dorin began, but the axewoman interrupted him again.
“I don’t care myself,” Jo answered hastily. “But I’m not a Dwarf.”
“That much is certain,” Wik cackled mirthfully, looking up at the enormous woman.
“I’m saying be careful…” Jo continued sparingly. “They hate being ruled by the Elves.”
Dorin took a deep breath. “To be fair, you’d hate it too if you were in their position.” His voice acquired a scholarly tone. “The Dwarven Landhold ceded Millington to the Saldasha Empire a hundred years ago, by most accounts. None of us could have been alive then, but the Dwarves have long memories.
“I’m amazed they’re angry at the Empire and not the Landhold. As I understand it, it’s the Landhold’s edict that keeps them following Imperial rule. Like not logging the forest. If the Empire ruled Millington with an iron fist, you’d see more wizardry here.” Tightness at his jawline again.
“I see what you mean about having studied,” Wik offered. She smiled again, but her smile was short-lived when she changed the subject. “So why didn’t you mention any of this to me when we met up on the New Road? How did you know I couldn’t help you?”
Jo’s head swiveled to follow the conversation.
“Thank you for trying to help me. It’s… shameful… to ask for help from… outsiders though,” Dorin answered. “And I have to be careful whose debts I incur.”
Wik’s eyebrows go up, causing her nose to bob slightly. She wobbled her head in a what-do-you-mean-by-that expression, but evidently decided against probing this bizarre statement. In the midst of Jo’s predictable silence, Wik took it upon herself to move the conversation forward.
“Well,” she said determinedly. “Do you have any leads?”
Dorin sighed. “None,” he said dejectedly. “None, whatsoever. We don’t know exactly when the trouble started, or where. There’s no pattern to when it happens, or to whom or what. It’s… inconsistent.
“I came to Nicholas seeking advice on where and how I might even look for leads. My family… we’ve no idea how to approach a problem like this. I came seeking his…” his lips and nose twisted angrily at the last word: “wisdom.”
Wik took a deep breath. “Well, then since we’re here, we should stake out the Cathedral of Pelor. Even if the priests there can’t help, its beauty is famous. It’s not even my faith and I’d love to visit. Surely, you didn’t miss it on the way in…”
Dorin’s reply was rapid. “No, I doubt they can help.” He paused before continuing at a more normal speed. “Besides, I… don’t want to owe them any favors.”
Wik’s face wrinkled as her left eyebrow rose while her right dropped. She stared at Dorin with her head cocked. “The priests of Hai Pelor, the God of the Sun and Charity you avoid, but the mad Druid was okay?”
“I have my reasons,” Dorin replied with finality.
Wik sighed and shook her head. With a deep breath and a smile, she continued. “Okay, well as long as we’re here, what should we do?”
“Look,” Dorin began, a note of resignation in his voice, but Wik would not let him continue.
“What do you think, Jo?” she interrupted, turning her back on him abruptly.
Jo could not have hesitated more than a second. “I need a beer.”
Wik grinned broadly. “Yeah, that sounds like a fine suggestion. Coming, Dorin?”
GodOfCheese
First Post
Finnord's Bar
Legend has it that the god Moradin forged the first dwarves from steel beaten from the very blood of the earth in the elder times, when all was fire. And when the sons of Moradin reached the skin of the world, sometime between then and the terrible War of the Gods, they discovered beer. They have been drunk ever since.
Finnord’s Bar was then a shrine to this well-known Dwarvish pastime. The ceiling was low by human standards, and built of large, unfinished timbers. Ruddy sunlight invaded through slits in the walls where massive stone pillars joined heavy logs. Smoke hung thick in the air, creating rusty, marbled veins where the sunset rays cut through.
The guttural syllables of enthusiastic Dwarven competed with pipe-smoke and beer-foam for dominance of the air. The Bar’s atmosphere was alive with the scents of tobacco, woodsmoke, sweat and beer hops.
Squat, broad-chinned women with foamy pitchers navigated the tight-quarters between the dozen or so sturdy-looking tables. Most were occupied; many to capacity, with bearded patrons of massive build. These dwarves were for the most part engaged in song.
Dorin squinted, listening to the singing. He couldn’t bring himself to call it music per se, but the often brutal-sounding Dwarvish language does lend itself well to some situations. “It sounds like they’re all singing the same song,” he said. “…but I don’t understand the words.”
Wik grinned, dominating her own little knee-height area of the room with appreciation. “They’re singing about how much they love to work. That…” she listened for a moment, “…that good work done makes you long for more.”
A few feet away, one of the singers clapped another heavily on the back. The recipient laughed throatily. They slammed their mugs together, and foam lashed out, spraying each in the face. The laughter continued, as did the song.
“This doesn’t sound like the song of people who are angry that the mill’s closed,” Dorin observed.
“No,” said Jo, who seemed unaffected by the laughter surrounding them. “Not everyone works for the J’Tegh mill, though.” She pronounced the mill’s name with obvious ease, but without stressing it.
Dorin seemed to accept this. “So this Jit-Teck--”
“Jih… Tegh,” Jo corrected sharply and slowly. She stressed the trailing sound of the dominant last syllable and made it a few more times. It sounded like she was trying to produce phlegm. “Don’t mispronounce a clan’s name,” she added. She did not elaborate, but a look of wariness crossed her face briefly.
The message was not lost on Dorin. “So this J’Tegh clan. They run the mill, right? Are any of them here?”
Jo looked around. From her vantage point, the hairy tops of many heads were visible. She shook her head after several moments. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t they wear colors or something?” Dorin asked, but then quickly answered himself: “I was told the kilts symbolized clan membership.” He turned away from them and scanned the room. “Bah, it’s too dark and smoky in here… I can’t make out any of the colors!”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,” said Wik. “Dwarves can see in the dark. But it’s not like how we see.” She searched for words for a moment but then gave up. “Something about the pattern of the kilt. They see the shape of the patterns, not… not what it looks like to us.” She shrugged.
Dorin nodded sagely to Wik, who just shrugged again. Does he know what I’m talking about, she thought, or is he just humoring me? Humans often think that because we’re smaller, we must be children. Others think we’re odd little geniuses. What does this one think?
“I don’t think we’re going to find one of them without getting a dwarf’s eye view,” said Dorin, his lips tight. “You speak their language, right Wik? Let’s ask them…”
Jo interrupted again. “I wouldn’t.” At Dorin’s insistent stare, she elaborated: “The other clans are afraid of being tainted by the haunting.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” said Dorin under his breath. “Do you know any of the clan members?”
She nodded, her straw-like hair bouncing into her eyes. As she drew the locks away from her face, she added, “But not enough that I could find them without better lighting.
“So we wait outside for them to come out,” prompted Wik.
“They’re not coming out sober,” replied Jo.
“So?” asked Dorin. “They should have plenty to say, then.”
“They anger easily when drunk,” added Jo.
Wik chuckled. “That’s the truth. And I have quite enough experience with angry, drunken dwarves. Let’s think of something else.”
Dorin scowled.
Jo abruptly strode into the crowd, her head turning left and right purposefully.
Dorin’s eyebrows knitted, which had a bizarre effect on his face. “Jo, what are you doing?”
Wik exchanged a glance with him and spoke up. “Hey, Dwarves are pretty insular. Perhaps I should…”
“Jo!” came a guttural voice, unseen. “Drink with us, you comely ogre!”
A chorus of laughter followed and several cries of “Yes! Drink!”
Dorin looked to Wik. She shrugged. “That was… unexpected,” he offered. “If Jo works for the establishment, wouldn’t they see her as a pawn of the Empire…?”
Wik looked out into the crowd, smiling. “I don’t know, but maybe they’re not as simple as you have them made out to be…”
Dorin scowled and joined her in dwarf-watching. “Nothing’s simple with a crowd.”
She looked at him. The dust on his face hid little: I’ve nothing against dwarves, except that they’ve plenty against me. Humans were as interesting as dwarves. Her smile didn’t fade as she turned back to the bar’s patrons.
There. Two tables away. His eyes whisk hurriedly away to contemplate his mug. But he doesn’t drink it. “I think we’re being watched,” Dorin intoned, just loudly enough for Wik to hear him over the many voices.
She seemed to have an answer for this. Her smile didn’t waver, but her voice was abrupt—a command. “Pick me up, Dorin. Carry me, so they can see me, and go to the bar.”
At Dorin’s hesitation, Wik fixed him with her gaze. “I’m not asking you to marry me. Just put me on your shoulder.” He lifted her up. “Not like an infant,” she clarified a second later, her smile widening. “I assure you I’m quite mature.”
“Sorry,” he muttered at her wink.
The crowd didn’t exactly part for them. The patrons did, however, shift their chairs out of the way to accommodate Dorin as he carried Wik to the bar. The stares of the dark eyes around them turned to nods of understanding. However, Dorin still perceived the weight of suspicious judgment upon them. Or, more likely, him.
---
Many of the patrons clapped Jo on the back as she approached the bar. The dwarf behind the counter said something neither Dorin nor Wik could quite make out before either could arrive. When they did, there was a small mug waiting. Jo was already drinking.
Wik abruptly took and downed the beer. Dorin shot her an odd look. “It was intended for me. It’s spice-beer.”
Dorin’s eyes went back to Jo, then back to the barman, who was not looking at him. “They don’t know her, of course… but they know you?” His eyes returned to Wik, full of questions. I know you came from the Waste, the surface above the Landhold. Is it you they know, or is it your people?
She grinned and shrugged, saying nothing. Her cheeks acquiring a rosy, good-natured hue. Dorin’s expression was easy to read: Noted for future reference.
“Jo, they obviously know you. Who can we talk to about this… haunting?” his voice had a strong undertow of resignation.
The woman reached out and punched the bartender obnoxiously in the shoulder as he passed, a feat only someone of her height could possibly have accomplished. He turned to face her, his graying eyebrows raised in amused surprise. Then he slapped her lightly on the shoulder in return; a compromise between the competing social expectations of hitting her and not touching a woman.
Jo’s voice was obnoxiously loud when she addressed the bartender. “Finnord!” She grinned toothily, to all appearances having transitioned from Town Guard to Local Drunk with a single mug.
Legend has it that the god Moradin forged the first dwarves from steel beaten from the very blood of the earth in the elder times, when all was fire. And when the sons of Moradin reached the skin of the world, sometime between then and the terrible War of the Gods, they discovered beer. They have been drunk ever since.
Finnord’s Bar was then a shrine to this well-known Dwarvish pastime. The ceiling was low by human standards, and built of large, unfinished timbers. Ruddy sunlight invaded through slits in the walls where massive stone pillars joined heavy logs. Smoke hung thick in the air, creating rusty, marbled veins where the sunset rays cut through.
The guttural syllables of enthusiastic Dwarven competed with pipe-smoke and beer-foam for dominance of the air. The Bar’s atmosphere was alive with the scents of tobacco, woodsmoke, sweat and beer hops.
Squat, broad-chinned women with foamy pitchers navigated the tight-quarters between the dozen or so sturdy-looking tables. Most were occupied; many to capacity, with bearded patrons of massive build. These dwarves were for the most part engaged in song.
Dorin squinted, listening to the singing. He couldn’t bring himself to call it music per se, but the often brutal-sounding Dwarvish language does lend itself well to some situations. “It sounds like they’re all singing the same song,” he said. “…but I don’t understand the words.”
Wik grinned, dominating her own little knee-height area of the room with appreciation. “They’re singing about how much they love to work. That…” she listened for a moment, “…that good work done makes you long for more.”
A few feet away, one of the singers clapped another heavily on the back. The recipient laughed throatily. They slammed their mugs together, and foam lashed out, spraying each in the face. The laughter continued, as did the song.
“This doesn’t sound like the song of people who are angry that the mill’s closed,” Dorin observed.
“No,” said Jo, who seemed unaffected by the laughter surrounding them. “Not everyone works for the J’Tegh mill, though.” She pronounced the mill’s name with obvious ease, but without stressing it.
Dorin seemed to accept this. “So this Jit-Teck--”
“Jih… Tegh,” Jo corrected sharply and slowly. She stressed the trailing sound of the dominant last syllable and made it a few more times. It sounded like she was trying to produce phlegm. “Don’t mispronounce a clan’s name,” she added. She did not elaborate, but a look of wariness crossed her face briefly.
The message was not lost on Dorin. “So this J’Tegh clan. They run the mill, right? Are any of them here?”
Jo looked around. From her vantage point, the hairy tops of many heads were visible. She shook her head after several moments. “I don’t know.”
“Don’t they wear colors or something?” Dorin asked, but then quickly answered himself: “I was told the kilts symbolized clan membership.” He turned away from them and scanned the room. “Bah, it’s too dark and smoky in here… I can’t make out any of the colors!”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter,” said Wik. “Dwarves can see in the dark. But it’s not like how we see.” She searched for words for a moment but then gave up. “Something about the pattern of the kilt. They see the shape of the patterns, not… not what it looks like to us.” She shrugged.
Dorin nodded sagely to Wik, who just shrugged again. Does he know what I’m talking about, she thought, or is he just humoring me? Humans often think that because we’re smaller, we must be children. Others think we’re odd little geniuses. What does this one think?
“I don’t think we’re going to find one of them without getting a dwarf’s eye view,” said Dorin, his lips tight. “You speak their language, right Wik? Let’s ask them…”
Jo interrupted again. “I wouldn’t.” At Dorin’s insistent stare, she elaborated: “The other clans are afraid of being tainted by the haunting.”
“Superstitious nonsense,” said Dorin under his breath. “Do you know any of the clan members?”
She nodded, her straw-like hair bouncing into her eyes. As she drew the locks away from her face, she added, “But not enough that I could find them without better lighting.
“So we wait outside for them to come out,” prompted Wik.
“They’re not coming out sober,” replied Jo.
“So?” asked Dorin. “They should have plenty to say, then.”
“They anger easily when drunk,” added Jo.
Wik chuckled. “That’s the truth. And I have quite enough experience with angry, drunken dwarves. Let’s think of something else.”
Dorin scowled.
Jo abruptly strode into the crowd, her head turning left and right purposefully.
Dorin’s eyebrows knitted, which had a bizarre effect on his face. “Jo, what are you doing?”
Wik exchanged a glance with him and spoke up. “Hey, Dwarves are pretty insular. Perhaps I should…”
“Jo!” came a guttural voice, unseen. “Drink with us, you comely ogre!”
A chorus of laughter followed and several cries of “Yes! Drink!”
Dorin looked to Wik. She shrugged. “That was… unexpected,” he offered. “If Jo works for the establishment, wouldn’t they see her as a pawn of the Empire…?”
Wik looked out into the crowd, smiling. “I don’t know, but maybe they’re not as simple as you have them made out to be…”
Dorin scowled and joined her in dwarf-watching. “Nothing’s simple with a crowd.”
She looked at him. The dust on his face hid little: I’ve nothing against dwarves, except that they’ve plenty against me. Humans were as interesting as dwarves. Her smile didn’t fade as she turned back to the bar’s patrons.
There. Two tables away. His eyes whisk hurriedly away to contemplate his mug. But he doesn’t drink it. “I think we’re being watched,” Dorin intoned, just loudly enough for Wik to hear him over the many voices.
She seemed to have an answer for this. Her smile didn’t waver, but her voice was abrupt—a command. “Pick me up, Dorin. Carry me, so they can see me, and go to the bar.”
At Dorin’s hesitation, Wik fixed him with her gaze. “I’m not asking you to marry me. Just put me on your shoulder.” He lifted her up. “Not like an infant,” she clarified a second later, her smile widening. “I assure you I’m quite mature.”
“Sorry,” he muttered at her wink.
The crowd didn’t exactly part for them. The patrons did, however, shift their chairs out of the way to accommodate Dorin as he carried Wik to the bar. The stares of the dark eyes around them turned to nods of understanding. However, Dorin still perceived the weight of suspicious judgment upon them. Or, more likely, him.
---
Many of the patrons clapped Jo on the back as she approached the bar. The dwarf behind the counter said something neither Dorin nor Wik could quite make out before either could arrive. When they did, there was a small mug waiting. Jo was already drinking.
Wik abruptly took and downed the beer. Dorin shot her an odd look. “It was intended for me. It’s spice-beer.”
Dorin’s eyes went back to Jo, then back to the barman, who was not looking at him. “They don’t know her, of course… but they know you?” His eyes returned to Wik, full of questions. I know you came from the Waste, the surface above the Landhold. Is it you they know, or is it your people?
She grinned and shrugged, saying nothing. Her cheeks acquiring a rosy, good-natured hue. Dorin’s expression was easy to read: Noted for future reference.
“Jo, they obviously know you. Who can we talk to about this… haunting?” his voice had a strong undertow of resignation.
The woman reached out and punched the bartender obnoxiously in the shoulder as he passed, a feat only someone of her height could possibly have accomplished. He turned to face her, his graying eyebrows raised in amused surprise. Then he slapped her lightly on the shoulder in return; a compromise between the competing social expectations of hitting her and not touching a woman.
Jo’s voice was obnoxiously loud when she addressed the bartender. “Finnord!” She grinned toothily, to all appearances having transitioned from Town Guard to Local Drunk with a single mug.
Last edited:
GodOfCheese
First Post
Heegan
Jo gave Finnord several names. The barkeep shook his head several times before pointing.
The dwarf’s name was Heegan, and he was sitting at a tiny table away from the tap. He didn’t sing. He didn’t even seem aware of anything outside his beer. The other patrons seemed to be keeping their distance from him, lest his misery infect them.
Unfortunately he didn’t seem to know anything of investigative value either. The mill had closed not but three days ago and with luck would reopen tomorrow morning. He feared the mill would stay closed if it couldn’t keep up with the rate of incoming timber. Although this was the third incident this summer, he wasn’t aware of any pattern in the hauntings.
It was Dorin’s impression that the dwarf was uncomfortably sober and probably couldn’t afford to drink enough. But there was that feeling again, of being watched. He fought the urge to look out into the crowd. It never works, remember? Just be aware of it and focus on the task at hand. If it makes a difference, it’s better to trick the watcher into showing himself than to give yourself away trying to find him.
“So what happens?” Wik asked curiously. To reach the table, she was standing on a chair not meant for someone of her small gnomish stature. “You know. When it happens?”
The dwarf took an over-long drink. Stalling, thought Dorin.
“I was there last time. We were using the cut-off blade first, which isn’t usual because it’s dangerous.” He paused to drink again.
Before Dorin could prompt him to move forward with the story, Wik took the bait. “Dangerous, how?”
“We usually rip the logs and then cut off the ends*. But sometimes we have to cut off the ends first, usually because something’s wrong with the wood.” He shrugged—a human expression borrowed by dwarves that shows off their enormous shoulders. “When the wood is wrong, the cut can go wrong. Pieces fly out very fast, and men can die from it.
“So we cut off the ends when we see problems that will affect the rip-cut.” He held his left hand, fingers straight up, and hit his right against it, fingers held horizontally. When his right hand reached his left, he folded his fingers in as if they were being sliced off.
“So what happened?” Dorin prompted.
Heegan squinted at Dorin and huffed. “The wood started to bleed is what happened.”
“Bleed, how?” Wik followed up. “Like, tree sap shooting out, or…?”
“Like, blood!” the Dwarf replied loudly, his voice sharp with frustration. He pinched at a scab on the back of his hand for emphasis. “Like this stuff. I know trees, and this was not sap!” He wiped the back of his hand on his shirt and stared at them.
Dorin noted that the other patrons were subtly shifting away.
Wik watched Heegan in rapt fascination. “Tell me more!” she pleaded excitedly, drawing a look of surprise from Dorin.
“I knew something was amiss when we started crosscutting. It was the way the blade shrieked when it went in.” He must have noticed the blank looks from his three listeners. “We have the best blades in Millington,” he added with guarded pride. “…and we keep them clean and well-oiled. They just don’t make that sound unless something’s wrong.
“But the blade was lined up just right. It was the timber. The wood was screaming at us, I know now.
“Then, when we were about half way through the rip cut, there was blood all down the line where the blade had been. When we see blood, everyone checks to make sure he still has all his fingers. But nobody was hurt then.”
He looked to his drink, but didn’t touch it. “We… we thought it was sap then too at first.”
Heegan continued to face his mug, but his eyes weren’t focused on it. “But it pumped and ran when we kept cutting. Sap doesn’t do that. It was red, too, when we saw it later in the light. Too red for a log that’s spent weeks in riverwater.”
Dorin thought of a few questions, but then reconsidered. His answers are disorganized, he thought. Humor him and it may make more sense.
The dwarf’s fingers turned the mug idly by its rim now as he spoke. “It… it was slick. Some of the guys slipped in it before we realized. We sprinkled sawdust on it. That helped at first, but it was still coming.
“After a minute or so, the blood got sticky like glue. It drew sawdust and gummed up the blade.” Then, hastily: “Hey, even our blade gets gummed up sometimes.”
Wik hadn’t blinked yet, or so it seemed to Dorin. “So what did you do?” she added.
“We did what we always do,” Heegan replied calmly. “We cleaned it.”
Dorin squinted. The smoke was starting to get to him. “It didn’t occur to you to call the guard?”
Heegan squinted back at him, and then just shook his head. “We didn’t know it was blood yet. We thought we were just unlucky.
“But everyone who tried to clean the blade was cut that night,” he continued. “…and badly, too. It was like a curse!”
Dorin tilted his head to view Heegan from a slightly different angle, growing increasingly interested. “Sounds intriguing, but I still don’t understand why you’d close the mill over this.”
Heegan drank, or pretended to do so. “The wood didn’t stop bleeding.”
Wik’s eyes actually managed to get bigger. “No!”
The dwarf nodded. “It’s true,” he said. “When we pulled the half-cut rounds out, they dripped. But when we set them down, they made a pool. Most of the wood we cut was soaked in blood by the time we saw it. It’s ruined.
“By this time we knew it was the haunting. Eyleck went for the Clan Elders. We had to give it up.”
“Why?” Dorin asked, appearing confused. “Yes, I know it ruined what you’d already cut, but what --other than the expense-- stopped you from throwing out that wood and starting over?”
Heegan nodded solemly. “The elders said that all the wood we cut would bleed until at least the next morning. So we cleaned up and went home. Or here.” He saluted with his dry-looking mug.
“And it’s been three days?” Jo asked bluntly.
The Dwarf nodded, his jaw set firmly before he spoke. “Still bleeding, last time we checked.”
Dorin rubbed his bare jaw, considering.
Wik, on the other hand, was bent at the waist, leaning over the table. Her eyes were white with enthusiasm. “Didn’t Moradin’s clergy do anything to help you?” Her little elbows supported her as she stood upon her chair, but it didn’t stop her hands from waving outward, like a shrug: a faux gesture of hopelessness.
Dorin stopped moving. She already knows the answer.
Jo said nothing.
Heegan put the mug down firmly enough to draw the attention of a few patrons. The mug did not break, but nor was anyone surprised. Dwarves are not known for their gentleness with drinkware, and no barkeep would assume otherwise.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, and raised his arms flamboyantly over his head. “By the time they got there, there was nothing they could do!” He growled briefly, looking out into the crowd. “Maybe if they had been there before it started, but we didn’t know when it was going to happen again!”
The dwarf’s eyes fell upon the table as he scowled. “And they can’t be there all the time, waiting for the next time. We’re done for… obviously being punished, but for what? We’ve done nothing wrong!”
The four of them were silent for a time, and Heegan continued to stare at the wooden surface before him. Wik never looked away.
Presently, the dwarf looked up at her and his eyes searched her momentarily.
“Can you help us, good gnome?” He asked hesitantly. “You and your minions?”
Wik smiled a huge, twinkling smile.
---
* If you know something of medieval log mills and feel like Heegan is utterly ignorant of how logs are really milled, I must apologize on his behalf, since I am utterly ignorant of how logs are really milled. Corrective comments appreciated
Jo gave Finnord several names. The barkeep shook his head several times before pointing.
The dwarf’s name was Heegan, and he was sitting at a tiny table away from the tap. He didn’t sing. He didn’t even seem aware of anything outside his beer. The other patrons seemed to be keeping their distance from him, lest his misery infect them.
Unfortunately he didn’t seem to know anything of investigative value either. The mill had closed not but three days ago and with luck would reopen tomorrow morning. He feared the mill would stay closed if it couldn’t keep up with the rate of incoming timber. Although this was the third incident this summer, he wasn’t aware of any pattern in the hauntings.
It was Dorin’s impression that the dwarf was uncomfortably sober and probably couldn’t afford to drink enough. But there was that feeling again, of being watched. He fought the urge to look out into the crowd. It never works, remember? Just be aware of it and focus on the task at hand. If it makes a difference, it’s better to trick the watcher into showing himself than to give yourself away trying to find him.
“So what happens?” Wik asked curiously. To reach the table, she was standing on a chair not meant for someone of her small gnomish stature. “You know. When it happens?”
The dwarf took an over-long drink. Stalling, thought Dorin.
“I was there last time. We were using the cut-off blade first, which isn’t usual because it’s dangerous.” He paused to drink again.
Before Dorin could prompt him to move forward with the story, Wik took the bait. “Dangerous, how?”
“We usually rip the logs and then cut off the ends*. But sometimes we have to cut off the ends first, usually because something’s wrong with the wood.” He shrugged—a human expression borrowed by dwarves that shows off their enormous shoulders. “When the wood is wrong, the cut can go wrong. Pieces fly out very fast, and men can die from it.
“So we cut off the ends when we see problems that will affect the rip-cut.” He held his left hand, fingers straight up, and hit his right against it, fingers held horizontally. When his right hand reached his left, he folded his fingers in as if they were being sliced off.
“So what happened?” Dorin prompted.
Heegan squinted at Dorin and huffed. “The wood started to bleed is what happened.”
“Bleed, how?” Wik followed up. “Like, tree sap shooting out, or…?”
“Like, blood!” the Dwarf replied loudly, his voice sharp with frustration. He pinched at a scab on the back of his hand for emphasis. “Like this stuff. I know trees, and this was not sap!” He wiped the back of his hand on his shirt and stared at them.
Dorin noted that the other patrons were subtly shifting away.
Wik watched Heegan in rapt fascination. “Tell me more!” she pleaded excitedly, drawing a look of surprise from Dorin.
“I knew something was amiss when we started crosscutting. It was the way the blade shrieked when it went in.” He must have noticed the blank looks from his three listeners. “We have the best blades in Millington,” he added with guarded pride. “…and we keep them clean and well-oiled. They just don’t make that sound unless something’s wrong.
“But the blade was lined up just right. It was the timber. The wood was screaming at us, I know now.
“Then, when we were about half way through the rip cut, there was blood all down the line where the blade had been. When we see blood, everyone checks to make sure he still has all his fingers. But nobody was hurt then.”
He looked to his drink, but didn’t touch it. “We… we thought it was sap then too at first.”
Heegan continued to face his mug, but his eyes weren’t focused on it. “But it pumped and ran when we kept cutting. Sap doesn’t do that. It was red, too, when we saw it later in the light. Too red for a log that’s spent weeks in riverwater.”
Dorin thought of a few questions, but then reconsidered. His answers are disorganized, he thought. Humor him and it may make more sense.
The dwarf’s fingers turned the mug idly by its rim now as he spoke. “It… it was slick. Some of the guys slipped in it before we realized. We sprinkled sawdust on it. That helped at first, but it was still coming.
“After a minute or so, the blood got sticky like glue. It drew sawdust and gummed up the blade.” Then, hastily: “Hey, even our blade gets gummed up sometimes.”
Wik hadn’t blinked yet, or so it seemed to Dorin. “So what did you do?” she added.
“We did what we always do,” Heegan replied calmly. “We cleaned it.”
Dorin squinted. The smoke was starting to get to him. “It didn’t occur to you to call the guard?”
Heegan squinted back at him, and then just shook his head. “We didn’t know it was blood yet. We thought we were just unlucky.
“But everyone who tried to clean the blade was cut that night,” he continued. “…and badly, too. It was like a curse!”
Dorin tilted his head to view Heegan from a slightly different angle, growing increasingly interested. “Sounds intriguing, but I still don’t understand why you’d close the mill over this.”
Heegan drank, or pretended to do so. “The wood didn’t stop bleeding.”
Wik’s eyes actually managed to get bigger. “No!”
The dwarf nodded. “It’s true,” he said. “When we pulled the half-cut rounds out, they dripped. But when we set them down, they made a pool. Most of the wood we cut was soaked in blood by the time we saw it. It’s ruined.
“By this time we knew it was the haunting. Eyleck went for the Clan Elders. We had to give it up.”
“Why?” Dorin asked, appearing confused. “Yes, I know it ruined what you’d already cut, but what --other than the expense-- stopped you from throwing out that wood and starting over?”
Heegan nodded solemly. “The elders said that all the wood we cut would bleed until at least the next morning. So we cleaned up and went home. Or here.” He saluted with his dry-looking mug.
“And it’s been three days?” Jo asked bluntly.
The Dwarf nodded, his jaw set firmly before he spoke. “Still bleeding, last time we checked.”
Dorin rubbed his bare jaw, considering.
Wik, on the other hand, was bent at the waist, leaning over the table. Her eyes were white with enthusiasm. “Didn’t Moradin’s clergy do anything to help you?” Her little elbows supported her as she stood upon her chair, but it didn’t stop her hands from waving outward, like a shrug: a faux gesture of hopelessness.
Dorin stopped moving. She already knows the answer.
Jo said nothing.
Heegan put the mug down firmly enough to draw the attention of a few patrons. The mug did not break, but nor was anyone surprised. Dwarves are not known for their gentleness with drinkware, and no barkeep would assume otherwise.
“Bah!” he exclaimed, and raised his arms flamboyantly over his head. “By the time they got there, there was nothing they could do!” He growled briefly, looking out into the crowd. “Maybe if they had been there before it started, but we didn’t know when it was going to happen again!”
The dwarf’s eyes fell upon the table as he scowled. “And they can’t be there all the time, waiting for the next time. We’re done for… obviously being punished, but for what? We’ve done nothing wrong!”
The four of them were silent for a time, and Heegan continued to stare at the wooden surface before him. Wik never looked away.
Presently, the dwarf looked up at her and his eyes searched her momentarily.
“Can you help us, good gnome?” He asked hesitantly. “You and your minions?”
Wik smiled a huge, twinkling smile.
---
* If you know something of medieval log mills and feel like Heegan is utterly ignorant of how logs are really milled, I must apologize on his behalf, since I am utterly ignorant of how logs are really milled. Corrective comments appreciated
GodOfCheese
First Post
The Mill
At night, the J’Tegh mill looked little different than any other well-to-do building. It was of stone, and its windsails were sufficiently high off the ground that you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking for them. From the road, the place’s only real features were its double doors, which were tall enough to admit a man standing in a horse’s saddle, and wide enough for a carriage or cart. There were two sets of doors on opposing sides of the square structure.
On the inside, it was cold, despite the warm air outside, and much darker, as if it were gathering the night into itself. The smell of nameless lubricating oils, old sweat, and the sawdust of decades washed out the nighttime smells they carried in with them in an instant. The sound of the sails turning loudly overhead echoed within the place.
By the light of three torches, they could see a spindle turning in the center of the room, attached to a large set of gears that appeared to be disconnected from anything else. Nearby were two massive, circular saw-blades, which gleamed brightly, as if newly-forged. These were set into different parts of a long, low table spanning the room, from the entry doors to a second set of doors on the far side.
Woodchips and sawdust softened the edges and corners of the room. Conspicuous reddish-brown stains were evident in various places on the floor and table. Only the one on the table seemed particularly large, which they found strange until Jo pointed out that the cut wood was not stored here.
“No windows?” asked Dorin, in the same tone of voice he might use to inquire as to the missing eyes on a horse he was being offered for sale.
Wik gestured around with her torch. “They don’t need them,” she said. “They can see in the dark, remember?”
He nodded before looking appraisingly at the floor. “Be careful kicking up sawdust,” he said suddenly, holding his torch a little higher. “Everything in this room can burn.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Including us.”
Wik exhaled, holding her torch up a little higher.
The man went on. “Jo, aren’t you going to get into trouble? Impersonating a town guard to get us in here?”
“Not if we can save the mill,” replied the enormous woman calmly. She shined her torch around, inspecting the walls and the stained floor casually. Her back was to Dorin, but he thought he caught the hint of a smile in her voice.
Ahhh, so she wants to be a hero, he thought. But he said nothing.
Wik’s expression was blank. She took in her surroundings with a kind of over-the-top alertness that could make a bear self-conscious. The little gnome looked quite professional, but at the same time out of place.
“What are we looking for?” asked Jo.
Wik answered without turning from her search. “Your guess is as good as mine. Something that might tie the haunting spirit to this place.”
“Spirit?” Jo fingered the handle to her axe, as if verifying it was still there.
“Spirits of the dead like to linger in places they loved in life,” Wik muttered absently. “Or where they died before their time.” Then quickly: “So I’ve read, mind you.”
“Jo,” Dorin asked, “has anyone ever died here?”
Wik continued to look energetically around the chamber. One of the long walls that didn’t have doors on it had dozens of bizarre tools hanging from heavy nails. Each nail held a tool (or several of the same kind), and they were spaced out across the wall.
“No, not here,” replied Jo evenly. “Not recently at least.” Her fingertips fidgeted with her axe-handle. “I’d have remembered the funeral.” Nobody said anything, so she added: “Dying on the job? I don’t think there’s a more honorable way for a dwarf to go out. Well, aside from dying defending his home I guess.”
“Hmmm. Could it be a hoax?” asked Wik. She didn’t sound convinced.
“How would you fake bleeding wood?” Jo replied incredulously. “And why would they want to shut their own mill down?”
Dorin’s answer was immediate. “Perhaps someone else wanted to shut it down for them? I can imagine a few ways. Especially if magic was involved.”
Jo cocked an eyebrow at the word “magic”, but said nothing.
Dorin looked to Wik. “Can you sense any magic?”
She touched her amulet and concentrated. “It is present,” she said calmly, looking around slowly. After a few seconds, she walked slowly to the center of the room. “These,” she said, pointing to the saw-blades.
“Could the bleeding be an illusion?” mused Dorin.
But Wik shook her head. “Transmutation… it looks like a distant derivation of the Knock spell… probably to make it more effective at cutting wood.”
Dorin grinned in a kind of “gotcha” way. “So that’s why their temple didn’t get involved!” He looked at his companions, neither of whom had anything to say, so he continued. “That spell would be illegal to cast in town. Hypocrites!”
He chuckled, but trailed off quickly. “It doesn’t tell us much about the haunting though…”
Wik crouched to inspect something on the floor. She was on the opposite wall from the tools, where apparently most of the wood chips and sawdust had been swept.
“How about dwarves who worked here but died tragically in other ways?”
All was silent for a moment, save for the turning of the mechanism over their heads by the sails outside. Dorin looked up at Jo.
“Not a clue.” She replied.
His eyes didn’t leave her. Hers, in response, narrowed. “What?” she replied defensively. “The shifts at the mills change every few months at holidays. Then most of them go off to cut timber for a season or two. Some don’t come back.”
“So generations of dwarves could potentially be haunting this place?” Dorin seemed less than enthusiastic. Jo didn’t look much better. “Wik, if that’s the case, what do we do about it?”
“Help them pass on,” added Wik absently.
Dorin noticed. “What do you have?”
“I don’t know. Bloody wood in a pile of clean shavings?”
The wood, on inspection, was a piece of grey bark about as long as a man’s forearm and about a hand’s width. The chunk was rough, with deep grooves and crevices. Its edges were perfectly smooth – the saw’s work – and the cross-section there was deep and black, like mahogany. Threadlike veins of red ran through it in parallel.
When she picked it up, there was a red, still-moist mark beneath it on the stone floor, as if it had been stamped with it.
Wik’s hand was damp and crimson when she held up the object for inspection. She had set her torch down on a patch of bare floor nearby. The flickering, orange light of it made her nose look like a lantern. “Maybe I’m imagining things. It feels cold to the touch.”
“Of course it’s cold,” Dorin replied. “It’s been sitting on a stone floor for who knows how long.”
“No, cold.” She blew on her fingertips. Vapor issued, drawing Dorin’s rapt attention. She began to move the chip between her hands as one might a glowing ember.
“What do we do?” asked Jo. “Burn it?”
“Not in here, we don’t!” Dorin exclaimed emphatically. “Wik?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. I could try channeling it, maybe?”
“What, let it possess you?” Dorin seemed shocked.
“No, the other way around. Like casting out the dead or healing… push Ehlonna’s gift… the power of life… into the chip and see if it drives out the spirit.” She closed her eyes abruptly, concentrating. The unicorn at her breast glowed subtly.
Dorin backed quickly away from her. He held out his torch to warn Jo back as well. The man held his other hand at chest height, palm out, as if preparing to catch something thrown at him.
Jo threw her torch down to the stone. She drew her axe outright and held its massive bulk before her in both hands. Seeing this, Dorin stepped forward, not quite interposing between the two women but certainly giving the warrior a bit more space. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Wik’s eyes went wide and she took in breath sharply. Her lips looked blue. A second later, the whole room grew uncomfortably cold.
A low groan echoed through the mill, like a tree creaking in a gale. It seemed to flow all around the chamber.
Jo whirled to follow the sound, casting bizarre shadows as she did. Her axe flashed, reflecting the torchlight from the floor as she moved. Though visibly shaken, her voice was completely calm: “Stay behind me, strange man.”
“Ever fought a ghost?” he asked nervously, gripping his torch in both hands.
“No.”
Dorin blanched. It is not comforting to see an amazingly tall person look frightened, especially if she is carrying an axe taller than you are. “Wik, you still with us?” he asked.
The gnome’s teeth chattered. She looked petrified with shock.
Then the wind came up, and with it the groaning sound. Small tools flew off the table. Particles of dust were cast into the air, though strangely the sawdust pile was unchanged.
“What do we do?” Jo yelled frantically.
“Wik, can you find it?” Dorin asked suddenly. “Where is it? What does it look like?”
This seemed to revive her. “Not yet—give me a breath.” She whispered a spell and her amulet flared white. The light radiated outward through the bark, cutting a swath through the dust.
Detect Undead, noted Dorin reflexively.
Where the light touched the stone walls of the mill, the three intruders saw eerily-lit grass instead. Not even the cobblestones outside, but the sparse grass of a dense forest, tousled by the unnatural breeze that circled the room. It was as if they were standing in a vast forest, its canopy blotting out the moon, and Wik’s amulet provided patchy moonlight, illuminating the floor as it moved.
“That’s… not how this is supposed to work,” muttered Wik to nobody in particular.
An awl flew past her ear and embedded itself in the mortar behind her.
“Where is it?” called Jo urgently over the wind.
Wik shined her magic about. The results were the same on all the walls: a forest scene, reacting to the wind. “I don’t know! It seems everywhere!”
A heavy metal file whipped over Dorin’s head. Jo deflected it with her axe.
“This is bad,” Jo said calmly, to no one in particular.
Dorin looked at Wik, and then yelled “Out! Go!”
The wind picked up and began to savage their clothes. They ran to the door. Jo wrenched it open and the travelers ran eagerly through it. Once through, the warrior heaved the door closed behind them. Behind them, the three heard the wind die away inside the building.
“What the hells was that?” asked Jo exasperatedly.
At night, the J’Tegh mill looked little different than any other well-to-do building. It was of stone, and its windsails were sufficiently high off the ground that you wouldn’t see them unless you were looking for them. From the road, the place’s only real features were its double doors, which were tall enough to admit a man standing in a horse’s saddle, and wide enough for a carriage or cart. There were two sets of doors on opposing sides of the square structure.
On the inside, it was cold, despite the warm air outside, and much darker, as if it were gathering the night into itself. The smell of nameless lubricating oils, old sweat, and the sawdust of decades washed out the nighttime smells they carried in with them in an instant. The sound of the sails turning loudly overhead echoed within the place.
By the light of three torches, they could see a spindle turning in the center of the room, attached to a large set of gears that appeared to be disconnected from anything else. Nearby were two massive, circular saw-blades, which gleamed brightly, as if newly-forged. These were set into different parts of a long, low table spanning the room, from the entry doors to a second set of doors on the far side.
Woodchips and sawdust softened the edges and corners of the room. Conspicuous reddish-brown stains were evident in various places on the floor and table. Only the one on the table seemed particularly large, which they found strange until Jo pointed out that the cut wood was not stored here.
“No windows?” asked Dorin, in the same tone of voice he might use to inquire as to the missing eyes on a horse he was being offered for sale.
Wik gestured around with her torch. “They don’t need them,” she said. “They can see in the dark, remember?”
He nodded before looking appraisingly at the floor. “Be careful kicking up sawdust,” he said suddenly, holding his torch a little higher. “Everything in this room can burn.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “Including us.”
Wik exhaled, holding her torch up a little higher.
The man went on. “Jo, aren’t you going to get into trouble? Impersonating a town guard to get us in here?”
“Not if we can save the mill,” replied the enormous woman calmly. She shined her torch around, inspecting the walls and the stained floor casually. Her back was to Dorin, but he thought he caught the hint of a smile in her voice.
Ahhh, so she wants to be a hero, he thought. But he said nothing.
Wik’s expression was blank. She took in her surroundings with a kind of over-the-top alertness that could make a bear self-conscious. The little gnome looked quite professional, but at the same time out of place.
“What are we looking for?” asked Jo.
Wik answered without turning from her search. “Your guess is as good as mine. Something that might tie the haunting spirit to this place.”
“Spirit?” Jo fingered the handle to her axe, as if verifying it was still there.
“Spirits of the dead like to linger in places they loved in life,” Wik muttered absently. “Or where they died before their time.” Then quickly: “So I’ve read, mind you.”
“Jo,” Dorin asked, “has anyone ever died here?”
Wik continued to look energetically around the chamber. One of the long walls that didn’t have doors on it had dozens of bizarre tools hanging from heavy nails. Each nail held a tool (or several of the same kind), and they were spaced out across the wall.
“No, not here,” replied Jo evenly. “Not recently at least.” Her fingertips fidgeted with her axe-handle. “I’d have remembered the funeral.” Nobody said anything, so she added: “Dying on the job? I don’t think there’s a more honorable way for a dwarf to go out. Well, aside from dying defending his home I guess.”
“Hmmm. Could it be a hoax?” asked Wik. She didn’t sound convinced.
“How would you fake bleeding wood?” Jo replied incredulously. “And why would they want to shut their own mill down?”
Dorin’s answer was immediate. “Perhaps someone else wanted to shut it down for them? I can imagine a few ways. Especially if magic was involved.”
Jo cocked an eyebrow at the word “magic”, but said nothing.
Dorin looked to Wik. “Can you sense any magic?”
She touched her amulet and concentrated. “It is present,” she said calmly, looking around slowly. After a few seconds, she walked slowly to the center of the room. “These,” she said, pointing to the saw-blades.
“Could the bleeding be an illusion?” mused Dorin.
But Wik shook her head. “Transmutation… it looks like a distant derivation of the Knock spell… probably to make it more effective at cutting wood.”
Dorin grinned in a kind of “gotcha” way. “So that’s why their temple didn’t get involved!” He looked at his companions, neither of whom had anything to say, so he continued. “That spell would be illegal to cast in town. Hypocrites!”
He chuckled, but trailed off quickly. “It doesn’t tell us much about the haunting though…”
Wik crouched to inspect something on the floor. She was on the opposite wall from the tools, where apparently most of the wood chips and sawdust had been swept.
“How about dwarves who worked here but died tragically in other ways?”
All was silent for a moment, save for the turning of the mechanism over their heads by the sails outside. Dorin looked up at Jo.
“Not a clue.” She replied.
His eyes didn’t leave her. Hers, in response, narrowed. “What?” she replied defensively. “The shifts at the mills change every few months at holidays. Then most of them go off to cut timber for a season or two. Some don’t come back.”
“So generations of dwarves could potentially be haunting this place?” Dorin seemed less than enthusiastic. Jo didn’t look much better. “Wik, if that’s the case, what do we do about it?”
“Help them pass on,” added Wik absently.
Dorin noticed. “What do you have?”
“I don’t know. Bloody wood in a pile of clean shavings?”
The wood, on inspection, was a piece of grey bark about as long as a man’s forearm and about a hand’s width. The chunk was rough, with deep grooves and crevices. Its edges were perfectly smooth – the saw’s work – and the cross-section there was deep and black, like mahogany. Threadlike veins of red ran through it in parallel.
When she picked it up, there was a red, still-moist mark beneath it on the stone floor, as if it had been stamped with it.
Wik’s hand was damp and crimson when she held up the object for inspection. She had set her torch down on a patch of bare floor nearby. The flickering, orange light of it made her nose look like a lantern. “Maybe I’m imagining things. It feels cold to the touch.”
“Of course it’s cold,” Dorin replied. “It’s been sitting on a stone floor for who knows how long.”
“No, cold.” She blew on her fingertips. Vapor issued, drawing Dorin’s rapt attention. She began to move the chip between her hands as one might a glowing ember.
“What do we do?” asked Jo. “Burn it?”
“Not in here, we don’t!” Dorin exclaimed emphatically. “Wik?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. I could try channeling it, maybe?”
“What, let it possess you?” Dorin seemed shocked.
“No, the other way around. Like casting out the dead or healing… push Ehlonna’s gift… the power of life… into the chip and see if it drives out the spirit.” She closed her eyes abruptly, concentrating. The unicorn at her breast glowed subtly.
Dorin backed quickly away from her. He held out his torch to warn Jo back as well. The man held his other hand at chest height, palm out, as if preparing to catch something thrown at him.
Jo threw her torch down to the stone. She drew her axe outright and held its massive bulk before her in both hands. Seeing this, Dorin stepped forward, not quite interposing between the two women but certainly giving the warrior a bit more space. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.
Wik’s eyes went wide and she took in breath sharply. Her lips looked blue. A second later, the whole room grew uncomfortably cold.
A low groan echoed through the mill, like a tree creaking in a gale. It seemed to flow all around the chamber.
Jo whirled to follow the sound, casting bizarre shadows as she did. Her axe flashed, reflecting the torchlight from the floor as she moved. Though visibly shaken, her voice was completely calm: “Stay behind me, strange man.”
“Ever fought a ghost?” he asked nervously, gripping his torch in both hands.
“No.”
Dorin blanched. It is not comforting to see an amazingly tall person look frightened, especially if she is carrying an axe taller than you are. “Wik, you still with us?” he asked.
The gnome’s teeth chattered. She looked petrified with shock.
Then the wind came up, and with it the groaning sound. Small tools flew off the table. Particles of dust were cast into the air, though strangely the sawdust pile was unchanged.
“What do we do?” Jo yelled frantically.
“Wik, can you find it?” Dorin asked suddenly. “Where is it? What does it look like?”
This seemed to revive her. “Not yet—give me a breath.” She whispered a spell and her amulet flared white. The light radiated outward through the bark, cutting a swath through the dust.
Detect Undead, noted Dorin reflexively.
Where the light touched the stone walls of the mill, the three intruders saw eerily-lit grass instead. Not even the cobblestones outside, but the sparse grass of a dense forest, tousled by the unnatural breeze that circled the room. It was as if they were standing in a vast forest, its canopy blotting out the moon, and Wik’s amulet provided patchy moonlight, illuminating the floor as it moved.
“That’s… not how this is supposed to work,” muttered Wik to nobody in particular.
An awl flew past her ear and embedded itself in the mortar behind her.
“Where is it?” called Jo urgently over the wind.
Wik shined her magic about. The results were the same on all the walls: a forest scene, reacting to the wind. “I don’t know! It seems everywhere!”
A heavy metal file whipped over Dorin’s head. Jo deflected it with her axe.
“This is bad,” Jo said calmly, to no one in particular.
Dorin looked at Wik, and then yelled “Out! Go!”
The wind picked up and began to savage their clothes. They ran to the door. Jo wrenched it open and the travelers ran eagerly through it. Once through, the warrior heaved the door closed behind them. Behind them, the three heard the wind die away inside the building.
“What the hells was that?” asked Jo exasperatedly.
strawberryJAMM
First Post
So awesome Cheese. I love reliving this from the perspective of the story you're creating.
GodOfCheese
First Post
What the Hells it Was
There they lingered, upon the weed-flecked cobblestone street, surrounded by the warm night winds, the creaking of the windsails, and the logs stirring in the T’yers. And the deafening sound of their hearts beating.
“What the hells was that?” asked Jo again.
Wik took a deep breath. “A powerful presence,” she said ambiguously, her brows crinkled.
Candlelight kindled in a window nearby, catching Dorin’s eye. “Let’s get out of here before the real...” he took a breath. “…before the other guards show up.”
Jo, visibly shaken, took care to put her axe away as she stood. She turned to help Dorin up, but he waved her off. Wik rolled lightly to her feet.
“Where to, Jo?” asked Dorin with controlled excitement. His eyes were on the window.
She followed his eyes and said simply, “Away.” A hazy silhouette appeared briefly in the window. “Now,” she added.
---
“I don’t understand,” Jo asked calmly, once they were further down the main road. “What happened to you, exactly?”
Wik sighed. “Whatever that was in the room with us, its presence was overwhelmingly strong. I was… lost for a moment.” She shrugged. “You know how sometimes you look up at the sky and the sun dazzles you? Same thing. I was dazzled.”
Jo looked away with a scowl. “So the ghost of this dead dwarf is… what? The king of all dead dwarves?”
“I seriously doubt that ghost was anyone we’ve ever met,” Dorin replied, rubbing his hand against his jaw. His eyes were distant. “Really, if that ghost’s presence was enough to overwhelm you, we’re not dealing with anyone normal. We’re talking about a seriously destructive being.”
Wik seemed to consider this, saying nothing. They walked in silence for a time before she piped up. “This might rule out any run-of-the-mill exorcism. Even if I could perform one.”
Dorin grinned for a moment. “Run of the mill?”
Wik smiled broadly. “…even if I could perform one, yes.”
Jo seemed unaffected by Wik’s levity. “So what does that mean? That the mill is unsalvageable? The J’Tegh clan is going to be pretty ticked off.”
Dorin sighed and nodded as they rounded a corner. It was late, but not so late that they were the only ones on the street. There were still plenty of dwarves staggering about in search of their homes. Many of them didn’t look like they’d make it, even with help.
“We should probably think about where we’re sleeping tonight,” he said, looking around at the others on the road. “I’m told the inns in this town never close, but they might yet fill up.”
“I’d rather sleep under the stars,” said Wik just ahead of a deep breath. “It’s not going to rain, after all.”
Jo watched this exchange, adding nothing.
Wik smiled brilliantly. “Seriously though, I can think of plenty of places I could just sack out. We’ve got our travelling gear, Dorin, why pay for an inn?”
Dorin’s face was that of someone who was looking for a polite way out. “Aren’t you worried about being robbed?”
She looked at Jo. “Should I be?”
Jo shrugged.
“Then I won’t.” She looked somewhat intense. “Come on, Dorin. I know you’ve slept on the roadside… what’s the difference?”
“Hey, after so many days on the road, I…”
Wik’s voice dropped to a low whisper, just loud enough for the two of them to hear. “We’re being followed. Don’t freak out.”
Dorin blinked. Jo caught herself reaching for her axe, then scratched her shoulder with that hand instead.
“Uhh, seriously though, maybe we should hit an inn?” He was clearly thinking his options through.
Jo made an elaborate show of stretching her arms. She stopped, turned around, and seemed ready to do a full callisthenic routine on the street before they beckoned her on.
Dorin’s eyes fastened on Wik’s as he whispered, “Nicholas’s grove!”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go.”
---
Their followers were a pair of dwarves who staggered around from alleyway to alleyway, but hustled to catch up in the street when Wik and the two humans rushed ahead. The dwarves wore stiff, tough-looking kilts and were not masters of surveillance. Each wore a heavy hammer on his belt, a common enough tool around Millington that seemed likely intended as a weapon, possibly with Wik, Dorin, and Jo in mind. None of them wanted to find out and risk the town guard’s involvement to boot.
Nicholas’s Grove appeared much more beautiful in moonlight than it was in the daytime. It looked strangely cleaner, and more of the flowers were noticeably in bloom. The druid was not there… either he wasn’t back yet from his mad errand, or he had already been and gone again on some other unfathomable business.
“Think we lost them?” asked Dorin, breathing heavily. The trio had dodged down several alleyways on the noisy pretense of being lost or, at times, drunk, before coming here. They learned in the process that Jo, for all her unsubtle appearances, was quite capable of helping them carry out that ruse.
“I doubt it,” replied the gnome. She was winded—her little legs had to sprint sometimes to keep up with the two humans. Wik bent over, her scarlet face puffing, and put her palms on her knees for support.
“Why are they following us?” asked Jo, seemingly unaffected by all the running. “Are you sure they were following us?”
“Must be the J’Tegh clan,” muttered Dorin between breaths. “Spotted us in the mill and want… wanted to keep their secret.”
Jo shook her head. “No… different clan.”
Dorin’s brows raised. “Whose clan?”
“I don’t know. The kilts just looked different from Heegan’s.”
A noise outside the grove sent all three of them onto the ground, low as could be, for cover. The sound of branches bending and underbrush being slowly crushed drifted over them. It seemed distant, but from their vantage it was hard to tell.
“Dorin,” Wik whispered breathily, “I must… amend… my previous statement.” She managed a deep breath. “I’m certain we haven’t lost them.”
The flicker of a smile crossed the man’s face. He looked to Jo.
Her axe was out, if not exactly at the ready given her prone posture. The woman’s face looked serious, almost businesslike. Her eyes did not meet his when she spoke. “If we have to fight them, we should do it here,” she said calmly.
She has her game face on, Dorin realized. She might as well be wearing war-paint. But a fight here will still draw the guard.
Wik whispered, “I don’t know that we… have to fight. If they’re not of the J’Tegh clan, they may be here to talk.”
“No way their business with us is unrelated to the mill,” Dorin said flatly. “And they’re not friendly or they’d have called out to us. That is, unless their contact with us should be kept secret from the locals. I don’t know why that would be, but I doubt it’s honorable.”
“Jo,” Wik asked, “is there another way out of here?” Her breathing was under control again, but she did not look eager to get on the move just yet.
Jo just shook her head. “We’d have to climb Nicholas’s tree-fence.”
Dorin shook his head too. “They’d see us. They’re staying out of the grove, at least for now, but they aren’t going anywhere and I think they can see both paths out.”
Wik cocked a curious eye at Dorin. “That makes sense—they don’t know if we’re invited guests, or if Nicholas is home. They would hesitate to enter his grove without at least warning him, and they probably view this as a magical place, best avoided anyway. But how did you know they’re staying out?”
He rose to a crouch. Jo did the same. Wik remained on the ground. “I’ll tell you later,” the man said. “Even if we can get out of here, we have to assume they’ll tail us once we leave.” His eyes scanned the dark, branchy perimeter as he backed slowly toward Nicholas’s shack.
It was in this way that he inadvertently found the way out.
There they lingered, upon the weed-flecked cobblestone street, surrounded by the warm night winds, the creaking of the windsails, and the logs stirring in the T’yers. And the deafening sound of their hearts beating.
“What the hells was that?” asked Jo again.
Wik took a deep breath. “A powerful presence,” she said ambiguously, her brows crinkled.
Candlelight kindled in a window nearby, catching Dorin’s eye. “Let’s get out of here before the real...” he took a breath. “…before the other guards show up.”
Jo, visibly shaken, took care to put her axe away as she stood. She turned to help Dorin up, but he waved her off. Wik rolled lightly to her feet.
“Where to, Jo?” asked Dorin with controlled excitement. His eyes were on the window.
She followed his eyes and said simply, “Away.” A hazy silhouette appeared briefly in the window. “Now,” she added.
---
“I don’t understand,” Jo asked calmly, once they were further down the main road. “What happened to you, exactly?”
Wik sighed. “Whatever that was in the room with us, its presence was overwhelmingly strong. I was… lost for a moment.” She shrugged. “You know how sometimes you look up at the sky and the sun dazzles you? Same thing. I was dazzled.”
Jo looked away with a scowl. “So the ghost of this dead dwarf is… what? The king of all dead dwarves?”
“I seriously doubt that ghost was anyone we’ve ever met,” Dorin replied, rubbing his hand against his jaw. His eyes were distant. “Really, if that ghost’s presence was enough to overwhelm you, we’re not dealing with anyone normal. We’re talking about a seriously destructive being.”
Wik seemed to consider this, saying nothing. They walked in silence for a time before she piped up. “This might rule out any run-of-the-mill exorcism. Even if I could perform one.”
Dorin grinned for a moment. “Run of the mill?”
Wik smiled broadly. “…even if I could perform one, yes.”
Jo seemed unaffected by Wik’s levity. “So what does that mean? That the mill is unsalvageable? The J’Tegh clan is going to be pretty ticked off.”
Dorin sighed and nodded as they rounded a corner. It was late, but not so late that they were the only ones on the street. There were still plenty of dwarves staggering about in search of their homes. Many of them didn’t look like they’d make it, even with help.
“We should probably think about where we’re sleeping tonight,” he said, looking around at the others on the road. “I’m told the inns in this town never close, but they might yet fill up.”
“I’d rather sleep under the stars,” said Wik just ahead of a deep breath. “It’s not going to rain, after all.”
Jo watched this exchange, adding nothing.
Wik smiled brilliantly. “Seriously though, I can think of plenty of places I could just sack out. We’ve got our travelling gear, Dorin, why pay for an inn?”
Dorin’s face was that of someone who was looking for a polite way out. “Aren’t you worried about being robbed?”
She looked at Jo. “Should I be?”
Jo shrugged.
“Then I won’t.” She looked somewhat intense. “Come on, Dorin. I know you’ve slept on the roadside… what’s the difference?”
“Hey, after so many days on the road, I…”
Wik’s voice dropped to a low whisper, just loud enough for the two of them to hear. “We’re being followed. Don’t freak out.”
Dorin blinked. Jo caught herself reaching for her axe, then scratched her shoulder with that hand instead.
“Uhh, seriously though, maybe we should hit an inn?” He was clearly thinking his options through.
Jo made an elaborate show of stretching her arms. She stopped, turned around, and seemed ready to do a full callisthenic routine on the street before they beckoned her on.
Dorin’s eyes fastened on Wik’s as he whispered, “Nicholas’s grove!”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s go.”
---
Their followers were a pair of dwarves who staggered around from alleyway to alleyway, but hustled to catch up in the street when Wik and the two humans rushed ahead. The dwarves wore stiff, tough-looking kilts and were not masters of surveillance. Each wore a heavy hammer on his belt, a common enough tool around Millington that seemed likely intended as a weapon, possibly with Wik, Dorin, and Jo in mind. None of them wanted to find out and risk the town guard’s involvement to boot.
Nicholas’s Grove appeared much more beautiful in moonlight than it was in the daytime. It looked strangely cleaner, and more of the flowers were noticeably in bloom. The druid was not there… either he wasn’t back yet from his mad errand, or he had already been and gone again on some other unfathomable business.
“Think we lost them?” asked Dorin, breathing heavily. The trio had dodged down several alleyways on the noisy pretense of being lost or, at times, drunk, before coming here. They learned in the process that Jo, for all her unsubtle appearances, was quite capable of helping them carry out that ruse.
“I doubt it,” replied the gnome. She was winded—her little legs had to sprint sometimes to keep up with the two humans. Wik bent over, her scarlet face puffing, and put her palms on her knees for support.
“Why are they following us?” asked Jo, seemingly unaffected by all the running. “Are you sure they were following us?”
“Must be the J’Tegh clan,” muttered Dorin between breaths. “Spotted us in the mill and want… wanted to keep their secret.”
Jo shook her head. “No… different clan.”
Dorin’s brows raised. “Whose clan?”
“I don’t know. The kilts just looked different from Heegan’s.”
A noise outside the grove sent all three of them onto the ground, low as could be, for cover. The sound of branches bending and underbrush being slowly crushed drifted over them. It seemed distant, but from their vantage it was hard to tell.
“Dorin,” Wik whispered breathily, “I must… amend… my previous statement.” She managed a deep breath. “I’m certain we haven’t lost them.”
The flicker of a smile crossed the man’s face. He looked to Jo.
Her axe was out, if not exactly at the ready given her prone posture. The woman’s face looked serious, almost businesslike. Her eyes did not meet his when she spoke. “If we have to fight them, we should do it here,” she said calmly.
She has her game face on, Dorin realized. She might as well be wearing war-paint. But a fight here will still draw the guard.
Wik whispered, “I don’t know that we… have to fight. If they’re not of the J’Tegh clan, they may be here to talk.”
“No way their business with us is unrelated to the mill,” Dorin said flatly. “And they’re not friendly or they’d have called out to us. That is, unless their contact with us should be kept secret from the locals. I don’t know why that would be, but I doubt it’s honorable.”
“Jo,” Wik asked, “is there another way out of here?” Her breathing was under control again, but she did not look eager to get on the move just yet.
Jo just shook her head. “We’d have to climb Nicholas’s tree-fence.”
Dorin shook his head too. “They’d see us. They’re staying out of the grove, at least for now, but they aren’t going anywhere and I think they can see both paths out.”
Wik cocked a curious eye at Dorin. “That makes sense—they don’t know if we’re invited guests, or if Nicholas is home. They would hesitate to enter his grove without at least warning him, and they probably view this as a magical place, best avoided anyway. But how did you know they’re staying out?”
He rose to a crouch. Jo did the same. Wik remained on the ground. “I’ll tell you later,” the man said. “Even if we can get out of here, we have to assume they’ll tail us once we leave.” His eyes scanned the dark, branchy perimeter as he backed slowly toward Nicholas’s shack.
It was in this way that he inadvertently found the way out.
GodOfCheese
First Post
“I’m surprised you didn’t crack your head open!” Wik scolded as they descended the cold tunnel down under Nicholas’s grove. She kept her voice down, but the natural stone of the shaft’s walls echoed.
She and Dorin each cringed with every step. The stairwell they were taking was ill-maintained and each stair seemed to have its own individualized creaking sound. It was as if they were really marching down a ghastly and cavernous xylophone with mismatched bars.
Behind and above them, Jo pulled the trapdoor shut, separating them from the surface. Surprisingly, the heavy door was not loud. Unfortunately, there was no lock either.
Dorin looked back at Wik, his eyes incredulous. “Hey, you saw it. The trapdoor was hidden—plants had grown over it even. We’re lucky I found it!”
Jo snickered.
“Okay, we’re lucky I tripped over it. Can we move on?”
---
“I’m confused now,” Jo said after closing the trapdoor. “Why does Nicholas have a… a dungeon in his backyard?” She hustled down the stairs to catch up with Dorin, who had the torch. The steps creaked loudly with her every footfall, but she paid them no mind.
Wik’s eyebrows knit. “Good question,” she said. “If it makes you feel better, I can rule that out though. It smells more natural than that.” She took a deep breath. “More like a cave or a deep tunnel with an opening to the outside air.”
The shaft with the stairs opened out into a cave. The air was slightly moist and the distant sound of moving water was just barely audible. Beneath their feet was a dusty mixture of stones. Nearby, a solitary brick sat upon the dust.
Dorin pointed to this and shrugged. Wik just shrugged back. Jo did nothing.
They walked quietly in the darkness; their footsteps marked by the soft crunch of sand and stones. Dorin, torch in hand, led them toward the water sounds, around natural columns and stalagmites. They walked for less than a minute before they found the body.
It was human, face-down, half-buried in sand, and covered in dust. The corpse’s legs vanished into a sheer wall that protruded diagonally from the sand. Wik inspected the body closely. “Very old… almost mummified,” she pronounced.
Jo said nothing, but held her axe a little closer to her body. “I’ve heard that terrible evils lay beneath the ground. Do you think Nicholas built that trapdoor to keep them in, or us out?”
Dorin scowled. “I don’t know about terrible evils…” he stepped gingerly around the body and brushed dust off the wall, revealing masonry. “That’s what I thought. These are ruins.”
“Millington’s supposedly built atop the ruins of a long-dead city,” he explained. “Lore has it that in the time of the War of the Gods, the inhabitants were annihilated in a catastrophe of fire. The place burned to ashes and was swallowed up by the earth.”
He waved his torch in the direction they’d been walking as he continued. “Supposedly, the only remains of this city are their great canals, which to this day prevent Millington from flooding.” By torchlight, his eyes glittered enthusiastically as he looked at Jo. “You’re from here, right? Have you not heard these tales?”
Jo shook her head, looking put off. “I’d heard that there were canals beneath the city, but nothing of a graveyard of ancient blasphemers.” She strained her eyes to see beyond the circle of torchlight. “Ugh. Do you think we’re disturbing them?”
Dorin laughed quietly. “I doubt it. They’ve been dead at least a thousand years.” He paused. “Tunnels like this must riddle the ground beneath the town,” he mused.
“Who are you?” asked Wik suddenly.
Dorin whirled toward her in surprise. Jo looked confused.
“No, seriously. Dorin, who are you? You know way too much to have gotten it through study, and you’re too smart to wander around the Lawless Lands with naught but a dagger.” He opened his mouth but she kept talking. “You said you’re looking for help, but you’re being so careful who you accept it from... I’ve never seen someone so paranoid out walking with so few provisions either, unless he’s running from something.”
She pointed her tiny finger at him. “If what you’re searching for is so important that you can’t tell us, then can’t you at least tell us where you’re from?”
She and Dorin each cringed with every step. The stairwell they were taking was ill-maintained and each stair seemed to have its own individualized creaking sound. It was as if they were really marching down a ghastly and cavernous xylophone with mismatched bars.
Behind and above them, Jo pulled the trapdoor shut, separating them from the surface. Surprisingly, the heavy door was not loud. Unfortunately, there was no lock either.
Dorin looked back at Wik, his eyes incredulous. “Hey, you saw it. The trapdoor was hidden—plants had grown over it even. We’re lucky I found it!”
Jo snickered.
“Okay, we’re lucky I tripped over it. Can we move on?”
---
“I’m confused now,” Jo said after closing the trapdoor. “Why does Nicholas have a… a dungeon in his backyard?” She hustled down the stairs to catch up with Dorin, who had the torch. The steps creaked loudly with her every footfall, but she paid them no mind.
Wik’s eyebrows knit. “Good question,” she said. “If it makes you feel better, I can rule that out though. It smells more natural than that.” She took a deep breath. “More like a cave or a deep tunnel with an opening to the outside air.”
The shaft with the stairs opened out into a cave. The air was slightly moist and the distant sound of moving water was just barely audible. Beneath their feet was a dusty mixture of stones. Nearby, a solitary brick sat upon the dust.
Dorin pointed to this and shrugged. Wik just shrugged back. Jo did nothing.
They walked quietly in the darkness; their footsteps marked by the soft crunch of sand and stones. Dorin, torch in hand, led them toward the water sounds, around natural columns and stalagmites. They walked for less than a minute before they found the body.
It was human, face-down, half-buried in sand, and covered in dust. The corpse’s legs vanished into a sheer wall that protruded diagonally from the sand. Wik inspected the body closely. “Very old… almost mummified,” she pronounced.
Jo said nothing, but held her axe a little closer to her body. “I’ve heard that terrible evils lay beneath the ground. Do you think Nicholas built that trapdoor to keep them in, or us out?”
Dorin scowled. “I don’t know about terrible evils…” he stepped gingerly around the body and brushed dust off the wall, revealing masonry. “That’s what I thought. These are ruins.”
“Millington’s supposedly built atop the ruins of a long-dead city,” he explained. “Lore has it that in the time of the War of the Gods, the inhabitants were annihilated in a catastrophe of fire. The place burned to ashes and was swallowed up by the earth.”
He waved his torch in the direction they’d been walking as he continued. “Supposedly, the only remains of this city are their great canals, which to this day prevent Millington from flooding.” By torchlight, his eyes glittered enthusiastically as he looked at Jo. “You’re from here, right? Have you not heard these tales?”
Jo shook her head, looking put off. “I’d heard that there were canals beneath the city, but nothing of a graveyard of ancient blasphemers.” She strained her eyes to see beyond the circle of torchlight. “Ugh. Do you think we’re disturbing them?”
Dorin laughed quietly. “I doubt it. They’ve been dead at least a thousand years.” He paused. “Tunnels like this must riddle the ground beneath the town,” he mused.
“Who are you?” asked Wik suddenly.
Dorin whirled toward her in surprise. Jo looked confused.
“No, seriously. Dorin, who are you? You know way too much to have gotten it through study, and you’re too smart to wander around the Lawless Lands with naught but a dagger.” He opened his mouth but she kept talking. “You said you’re looking for help, but you’re being so careful who you accept it from... I’ve never seen someone so paranoid out walking with so few provisions either, unless he’s running from something.”
She pointed her tiny finger at him. “If what you’re searching for is so important that you can’t tell us, then can’t you at least tell us where you’re from?”
GodOfCheese
First Post
(removed)
Last edited:
