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[Broseph Stalin]

“Three Quivers.” Said Ashmon glancing at the paper before immediately returning his attention to the cougar he was wrestling.

“It says Tree Cwivers.” Dumat said.

“The managers illiterate.” Explained Ashmon  locking his legs around the cougars left rear leg.

“He probably shouldn't be a manager then” Dumat pointed out.

“He was one of the original seven.” Ashmon retorted stretching the cougar.

“But he's miserably unqualified.” Said Dumat. “And so am I! I'm not a leatherworker, I've never held a needle and thread.”

“Still!” Ashmon yelled over the cougars incessant howls. “It's got the Baroness's stamp on it. If you don't complete the work order you'll be jailed.”
“Well how do I start?” Asked Dumat.
“First you need leather.” Ashmon arched his back and with a loud pop the cougar fell still.

Ashmon slung the cougar over his shoulders and with heavy steps led Dumat back to the Enclave and to the Butchers shop. The dwarf stationed at it was soaked in blood and caked with dirt. Ashmon laid the cougar on the table and the butcher wordlessly and with apparent skill processed it into it's component pieces.  Ashmon took the skin over to the tannery and while that piece was being tanned the tanner handed him a few pieces of leather and then it was off to the leatherworks. There were several workshops but they were in use. Dwarves worked tirelessly making leather armor for the militia to wear under their metal armor. The sight of the empty leatherworks was paralyzing. The table was covered in delicate instruments and tools hanging from hooks and tucked into drawers, and sitting about in precarious orders silently judging her inexperience. Dumat laid the leather on the station and stared blankly at it.

“Now make it into a quiver.” Ashmon instructed.
“How?” Dumat asked.
“I don't know.” Ashmon said. “Quivers carry bolts so make something that carries bolts and that will be a quiver.”

“That makes sense I suppose.” Dumat said with a sigh.

She'd seen quivers before. They were tubes that bolts got put into, hunters and marksdwarves carried them. So she endeavored to create a leather tube. The workshop had many tools and no doubt there was a correct way to make a quiver but she didn't fully understand what the tools did or what actually went into leathercraft. Cautiously treading new ground she opted to ignore the more complicated tools and focus on creating a utilitarian product. She recognized shears and knew their purpose so she started by cutting a piece of leather to approximately quiver size.

'Leather tube' she thought. She rolled the leather into a tube shape and pinched it together with her fingers. She realized that she didn't have a needle so she released the tube, for a moment she lamented not measuring how tightly she'd rolled it but then remembered it didn't really matter. She'd never used a needle but she knew what they were supposed to look like so she took the straightest one and after almost a minute of doing ran a piece of thread through it.
Her first stitch was awkward, the leather was very tough, and by the time she forced the needle through the two sides of the leather were no longer straight and her thumb was directly in the path of the needle. Her second stitch was a bit more experienced and though a bit of slippage occurred it was more or less fine she only pricked herself half as bady. The third stitch was a little better and a little more even and she hardly pricked herself at all. By the time she'd done her last stitch she had the technique down and on several occasions completed a stitch without pricking herself. It was a bit rough but she had successfully created a leather tube. She cut the excess from her first bad stitch and quickly fastened it to the bottom pricking herself less than seven times.

“It's done.” She said.

“Are you sure?” Ashmon asked.

“Yes, It's a quiver.” She said.

“Are you sure?” Ashmon asked.

[Broseph Stalin]

Hauling was physically demanding but this delicate work was mentally exhausting. She focused so intently that her head began to throb and her eyes began to ache. The quiver was stained red with her blood in places and between cramping and pricking her fingers suggested rather vehemently that she give up. Her product was so much less than she envisioned, while it could technically hold bolts the stitching was too weak to last for very long and if loaded in full there was a non-negligible chance that the bottom would fall out.

“This is my best.” Dumat said.

“That's sad.” Replied Ashmon.
She grew frustrated with the general unhelpfulness of Ashmon and everyone else in the fortress. Of the terrible food and the terrible people with their terrible lies and their terrible work. She stabbed angrilly into the next piece of leather and with a ragged motion stabbed back through. And with a long ugly swipe she hacked a piece of leather with a sharp tool and fastened the new piece to the bottom.  Soon she had finished another leather tube far less sturdy than the first.
“That's two.” She said.

“Are you sure?” Asked Ashmon.

“Yes.” She replied.
 
One day a hunter would wear that quiver on his back and he would never care that a tired, hungry, dwarfette had quite literally poured blood and sweat into it's manufacture. He would never care that her muscles ached from a long day of hauling stone or that she was distracted by concerns for her ill husband. He would never care that she had never worked leather prior and had tried her very best. He would just think how terrible his quiver was. But if nobody cared about the pain she'd suffered maybe it truly didn't matter? Maybe momentary suffering was just a rough chapter in an overall happy story?

“I can't do this,” Dumat said.

“Sure you can,” Ashmon replied. “Just not very well.”

“This isn't how crafting works.” Dumat insisted. “I can't just reverse engineer a quiver from memory.”
Ashmon stared vacantly.
She thought for a minute about how to phrase it in a way he would understand. “You wear togas on your body right?”

“Of course!” Said Ashmon gleefully.

“And togas are made from cloth right?”

“Yes!” Ashmon exclaimed happily. 

“So if I made something out of cloth that you could wear on your body it would be a toga?”

“NO!” Ashmon screamed a deep rumbling scream that shook the caverns. “No!No!No!No!” He yelled with fury in his eyes.

“Shhhh! Calm down, calm down Ashmon!” Dumat tried desperately to placate him.

“That's not how togas work!” He shouted.

“And it's not how quivers work either.” Dumat said.

“Oh, that makes sense.”  Ashmon smiled as wide as he had been and showed no indication that he had been shrieking in fury a moment earlier.

“So...” She chose her words very carefully. “If I had to make a toga but I'd never done it before how would I start?”

“By looking at a toga.” Ashmon replied.

“That's a good place to start, find me the best quiver you can.”  Ashmon ran off to the stockpiles and began rummaging through bins.  Dumat had never made, held, or even really looked closely at a quiver, figuring out what a quiver looked like seemed to be a good starting point. When Ashmon came back he was holding a magnificent quiver made of the finest leather and stitched together with care. It was  fairly flat, almost like a leather plank with rounded edges, and the bottom tapered into a triangular shape. Designed to be worn like a belt and secure bolts near the hip it combined form and function. The leather was very soft but incredibly tough, it's gentle ruggedness gave it character. And so too did the bone worked into it's side, it's pure milky white color was lovely but that did not detract from the menace of it's spikes. The beautiful crystal glass gems were clear as a mountain stream and they sparkled like the stars in the sky., but their splendor didn't conceal the cold hardness natural to their kind. The silk that adorned it were elegant and yet she had no doubt that even a troll would be unable to tear a sheet of it. She understood now that a quiver was equal parts work of art and instrument of death. She had her model.

“Well I have to check my room for undead hands.” Asmon said. “I'll see you you tommorrow Dumplin.”
“Dumat.” She said.
“You're welcome.” He replied.

It was very late now. Asen had surely been carried back to the dormitory by now and was probably fast asleep. She had made a point to carry him to dinner every night but by morning he would be able to walk himself to the dining hall for breakfast. She had a lot of work to do if this last quiver was going to be one worth making. If Ashmon was to believe she had a few days to dally with the work order before she was carted off for disobeying it, she would make use of every minute. She took a piece of charcoal from the workshop table, flipped her work order over, and began a list of things she would need.

[MightyDorf]

Sweet !

[Broseph Stalin]

Dumat woke up early and went to work immediately. Her first two quivers were disgraceful. She rushed in determined to work on the fly. This time her approach would be steady and thorough. She vowed to do no actual leatherwork today, instead she would plan, plan, and plan once more.

She rummaged through the trash for a few pieces of scrap wood and began using them to mark the measurements of the the model quiver. She took precise records of it's length and width, the angles it tapered at, the actual amount of decoration, and the distance between each of the fastenings.

Then it was time for professional consultation. found the most leathery looking woman she could and asked for advice about leathercraft. The woman ,who was called Gosmer, was on break but she had few friends and was happy to have someone interested in talking to her. She described each tool and it's purpose and taught Dumat all about different qualities of leather. She taught her how to render it rigid or pliable in different areas and when either would be appropriate. Anything that could be taught in an afternoon was and by the end of it Dumat had a good idea of how to start her final quiver.

But that wouldn't be enough. After all, why would a baroness specially commission quivers if not for a hunt? A big lavish hunt for fox or stag, a hunt attended by lords and ladies of the land. And at that hunt she would distribute the quivers surely saving the best for herself.

“My baroness, what a fine quiver that is.” They would say.
“Yes,” she would reply. “It is a masterwork by Dumat Stakepondered, a recent migrant to the fort.”
“Wonderful.” They would say. “You must be very glad that Dumat Stakepondered is in your fort.”
“Yes,” she would agree. “I've seen fit to give she and her husband their own room with a nice display stand and no other stinky, snorey, dirty dwarves to steal all the beds and make her sleep on the floor.”
“Will you ever make her carry giant boulders up a giant crowded staircase with a rickety wheelbarrow?” They would ask.
“Of course not.” She would reply.

And then everything would be perfect. She tracked down a bonecarver and had him explain the ins and outs of his craft. He taught her the different types of tools and their uses. He showed her all the basic techniques to shape bone and how to affix them to leather. Before she was done listening he'd taught her everything there was to know about the properties of different types of bones and which ones would look best affixed to leather.  When that was done she found a clothier and sat down while he laid out the bullet points of the trade. He showed her all the tricks to stitching evenly and how to avoid pricking her fingers. He went over and how to hide a stitch and how to make them solid. He showed her all the different kinds of needles and taught her when to use each one. By now it was very late but she had one final job to do. She found the friendly jeweler and he was eager to offer his advice. He showed her how to cut and affix gems. He showed her the different cuts and styles of cabochon and the different tools he used.

By the time she was done her work order was covered in notes, her head swam with details, and her set of makeshift tools had grown very large. Tomorrow she would begin her masterwork.

[Broseph Stalin]

By the time the sun rose Dumat had been hard at work for an hour. There was a lot of work to do if her final quiver was going to make up for the haphazard craftsmanship of other two. Resource acquisition was her first task.


The Bookkeeper ,she'd gathered, kept obsessive records of every piece of glass, bone, silk, and stray leaf in the fortress. She had been allotted three pieces of leather and nothing else to complete the task, unauthorized use of fortress supplies may get her in trouble. If she was going to do it right she was going to have to acquire all the materials herself.

“-Silk
-Glass
-Bone”
So went her supply list. Silk was first. She watched the collectors and observed their technique. It was fairly simple, all she had to do was take a pair of sticks and try to collect the web as intact as possible. After a bit of doing she twisted the web into a single thread and with instructions from weavers and some alone time with an unattended bench she had created a serviceable strip of cloth.

Glass would be more difficult. She couldn't use an axe so she found a dead tree. Her experiences hauling stone up the grand staircase had rendered her quite strong and with a good push and a good pull the tree came down with a loud crack. She found the wood furnace unattended and burned it into charcoal. She wasn't allowed to use any bags so she collected sand in her pockets and some in her stretched out shirt then hauled it down to the glass furnace spilling most of it and ultimately making a second trip. With the tools available and the advice she was offered she successfully made a chunk of raw glass. She took it and put it with the silk in the work shop.

 The last ingredient for her masterpiece was bone. Getting bone that wasn't already parceled out to the professional bonecarvers , meant finding and killing an animal. Ashmon would gladly handle this for her but Feb One-Eye informed her that he was resting in the hospital. As an alternative to safety or prompt treatment Ashmon ,Feb explained, had a standing monthly appointments with the hospital to have his dozens of accrued bites, scratches, and stab wounds professionally washed. She would have to get the bones by herself.

She'd closely watched Ashmon during his multiple altercations and surmised a few things. First, that striking the first blow was important. Even though it had a knife the drow had no chance to strike at him because Ashmon's first blow won him the initiative. Second, that the use of distance was imperative. When he strangled the wolf he kept his body too close for it to gain leverage and kept far back enough to prevent it from biting. Third, that wrestling could end a fight very quickly. The cougar despite being much stronger than Ashmon wasn't able to prevent having it's neck snapped.

And so Dumat Stakepondered became a hunter. But first she had to learn to hunt. She spent the early morning hours stalking the hunters as they pursued their quarry. She watched the way they stepped, they gently tested the ground with their lead foot and if it proved sturdy they planted the ball of their foot and slowly shifted their weight forward. Once their lead foot became their plant foot they tested the ground with their other foot and began again.

   It required a great degree of technique, caution,  and patience to avoid stepping on any of the twigs, pinecones, or unsteady rocks that littered the ground while trying to navigate dense forest. The most skilled of the others moved only slightly slower than a normal walking speed preforming the entire process in a second. She mimicked them as best she could and when she felt ready she began her own hunt. 

   She stalked through the forest searching for something she could take down. She eventually stumbled upon a stag but without a crossbow she had to get close enough to bring it down with her bare hands. The stag however, was better at spotting than she was at sneaking and before she got within striking distance it bounded off over the hills.

   She continued her hunt and as time went on she was very happy to have missed the deer. While it's bones and fine horns would serve her purposes she realized exactly how hard it would be to beat a deer to death with her bare hands. She could have been injured or killed if the beast had turned on her. She focused on smaller game now, using her sharp eyes to spot pawprints and droppings. Soon she found her prey. The small brown rabbit sat in a small green clearing absently nibbling at some clover.

   She approached slowly, it's only blindspot was directly behind it so she maneuvered all the way around. Getting closer and closer to the ground she stepped then crawled then stopped and stared dead on. One quick lunge would overpower the hare but when she prepared to attack she froze, there in the corner of her eye was a kobold creeping towards the fortress.

   She prepared to yell for the guard but stopped herself. If she could apprehend the thief she would be a hero. If she returned to the Baroness with a chained kobold thief and her three new quivers she would be given a room on the spot! She may even be granted a title of nobility, she couldn't expect to be made a duchess or a lady but surely the fortress would gleefully vote a hero for mayor.

   She picked up a rock of good weight and moved carefully behind the kobold. If she could just knock the kobold down and get it's weapon away then she could take it back to the fortress alive for trial. She would testify about how she briefly interrupted her important work for the fortress to protect the safety of her new home. She steadied herself.

“One quick blow” she thought. “Just like Ashmon.”

with a swift motion she lashed out with all her might and squarely struck the air where the kobolds head used to be.

“I'm not Ashmon.” She remembered.
She pondered that fact while a copper dagger tore into her stomach.

[Broseph Stalin]

“Hello Dumat.” said a friendly voice.
Her eyes were already open but she was possessed of consciousness only by the most liberal definitions.
“Asen?” She asked the nearby blurs.   

“Yes.” He replied. “We're in the hospital. You've been up here for three days now.”

Dumat began to remember her expedition to catch a rabbit. She'd stupidly tried to apprehend a Kobold thief and was predictably stabbed.

“I'm glad you came to visit.” She said weakly.

“I didn't really.” He said.

She looked over and saw her husband lying back with his arm bandaged.

“I had a minor accident.” He explained. “I heard you were in a fight with a Kobold.”

She looked at her stomach. A long ugly scar ran diagonally along her abdomen. Judging by the size of the wound organs had inevitably been pierced.

“Just a nick.” She lied.  “I just thought I could spend a day or two relaxing.”

“I'm glad you're in better health than I.” He said. “They'll have to stitch me up before I regain full control of my arm.”

“That's awful.” She said struggling to maintain consciousness. “What happened?” She asked.

“Sparring accident,” he replied. “They haven't issued me armor yet.”

“What?” Dumat asked.

[Broseph Stalin]

“I'm in the militia now.” Asen said. “After they finished processing all the migrants they sought me out personally. I'll probably never see any action but if I work my way up to captain we get a proper room.”

“You aren't very strong and you have trouble breathing.” Dumat pointed out. “This isn't a very good idea.”

“I'm as strong as anyone else in the squad.” Asen said. “We're the fifth melee squadron. All the veteran warriors are in the first corps, the skilled soldiers are in the guard, the experienced fighters are in the second squad and anyone whose ever held a blade is in the third squad. The fourth squad is just people who don't have real jobs and by the time someone's assigned to the fifth squad it's usually because they're crippled. I don't need help getting up the stairs so I'm a shoe-in for the captains position.”

“I'm still concerned.” Dumat said. “I think you should seek discharge.”

“It'll be fine Dumat.” Asen insisted. We just patrol the fortress so people feel safer and the guard doesn't have to stop training. I'll spend a few days a month walking in circles and for all the trouble we'll be guaranteed a room of our own when the militia captain steps down.”

Dumat realized the battle was futile. “Please,” she begged. “Ask Ashmon to train you. His advice might save your life.”

Asen smiled. “There's no need Dumat but if it will make you happy I'll find Ashmon and I won't go on patrol until he trains me.”

Dumat calmed down. “Thank you.” She said.

They talked for a bit about nothing important until a grime covered dwarf pushed the door open. He wordlessly kicked Dumats bed.
“You aren't awaiting any treatments.” He informed her. “Back to work.” He ordered.

The Arrowstockades medical system was apparently not particularly big on aftercare. She wasn't offered a crutch or help getting up or even a kind word. She struggled to her feet and tried to conceal the pain in her eyes while she went to find Ashmon.

[Broseph Stalin]

So if you've been following the story you probably noticed the updates suddenly stopped. I wrote about fifty pages over one lazy weekend and parceled them out several times a day. Now that it's back to work for me I'll be updating more conservatively, once a day probably, and I'll continue that until I reach the end of the story. I've also divided it up into chapters to make it a little easier to read. Just to reiterate, the updates will continue.

[CaptainLambcake]

i love it

[laularukyrumo]

I cried a little when she got stabbed. No lie.

You offer a truly personal look into the life of a migrant. In Dumat's honor, I'm going to play a fortress without changing labors. Ever. Let them do the job they were trained to do, and make it work.

[Broseph Stalin]

Now that Ashmon was free to help finding bones was fairly simple. He wandered out into the woods and came back a few minutes later with a dead beaver plucked fresh from the river. When it was processed Dumat had her bones and her material list was finished. Her time in the hospital meant she didn't have as much time to work as she'd hoped but she should still have a day to work.

   Forming the body of the quiver wasn't easy but she had obsessed over the design day and night and had a pretty good idea of where to start. She wrapped the leather around a plank of wood and sewed it together with one of the heavier threads available on the table. She went on softening dying  polishing and painting in certain places until it looked like a proper quiver.  When she was satisfied she used the specialized tools to carve simple designs into the straps and central to the side that would face the body she added an image of a great steeloak, the symbol of the dwarven civilization. 

   The beavers bones were delicate but when polished they had a nice shine.  She spent hours shaping the bones into desirable forms trying to replicate the elegant and feminine curves of the bonework on the model quiver. She made a few mistakes but she was quick to correct them and shape down other pieces to make it all symmetrical. She took some of the scrap material  and created cameo cut bone cabochons mixing techniques that Dastot the Jewler and  Sulus the bonecarver showed her. When she was done her fingers ached and her hands were covered in fine white powder.  She surveyed her work and was rather pleased with the symmetry and evenness of the bands and spikes. Her images of the Baroness laboring to create the settlement may have been a bit but she should find it flattering nonetheless.
   The silk gave her a bit more trouble. She stitched and stitched and managed to affix a pre-cut piece of cloth to the quiver. She made a few simple designs and shapes and when she was satisfied she worked more into the fittings. The silk thread was used to reinforce the stitching and make the quiver more comfortable on it's user.
   With great care she cut the green glass into a few rough gems and then proceeded to cut them down. She experimented with a few different cuts making a few pear and trillon cuts until deciding cushion cuts looked the best and set them all over with a few of her odd cuts in strategic positions. When she'd finished she took a big piece and created a nice cameo cut referencing Feb One-Eye's appointment to Captain of the Guard.

   Her hands badly cramped and her eyes sore from focus she held up the quiver with tears in her eyes. The stitching wasn't perfect and keen eyes may detect some discrepancy in the sizes of the gems and designs. Compared to the model it looked like something a child made but many of the artisans of Arrowstockades had done nothing but practice their respective crafts for over one hundred years. It wasn't a masterwork but it was hers. She'd made every piece herself and the baroness should appreciate that.

[Broseph Stalin]

Dumat caught a glimpse of her own reflection in a puddle and discovered that she had at some unknown point joined the ranks of the filthy, dirt-caked dwarves that populated Arrowstockades. She was clearly in no condition to deliver the quivers to the baroness so she went down to the river and washed. Her clothes had become filthy as well but rather than wash them Ashmon informed her she qualified for a new set.
   She went through the various bins to find something she could wear but ran into a few problems. As it turned out the bins were not labled with convenience in mind. “Finished Goods- Stockpile 27” was as descriptive as they came. It prevented her from rooting around in a bin filled with gems or spools of cloth but “Finished Goods” didn't distinguish between pants and shirts or shirts and golden scepters or golden scepters and iron chains. She picked out a few pieces she liked and thought about what would work best.

Her job was fairly rugged so leather seemed like a logical choice. But the weather was bitter in the winter so she considered taking something wool. The summers were scorching so a good suit of cotton clothes would may be nice. But cotton might not be tough enough for her work, silk seemed like a nice compromise. In the end she decided on a fancy silk shirt dyed blue and green in different places, a pair of blue pants made from lightweight cotton, a vest made from lamellar leather, a pair of boots fashioned from sturdy, ivory decorated, leather, and a warm pair of woolen socks. The gloves Ashmon gave her were the only thing she didn't replace as they seemed to be holding up just fine and seemed to be as tough as anything available. She almost felt guilty about taking such fine things from the pile but Ashmon informed her that there was no shortage of exceptional clothing and that taking the best for yourself was more or less standard policy. And besides, she thought, it wasn't like she hadn't earned a little opulence.
   When she was clean and well dressed she began practicing. She'd learned a lot about the importance of patience and care and if she was going to meet a baroness she wasn't going to do it without a plan of attack. She would bow first, or maybe prostrate herself? And then she would introduce herself as Dumat Stakepondered (hopefully ending all of this Dumplin business) with the quivers extended in her arms.  She would address the Baroness as “Your Highness” or perhaps just as “Baroness” she didn't quite know how titles worked but she consulted the guard to the Nobles quarters and he said either would work. She would present the quivers and thank her for the honor of receiving the assignment.
    When she was finally ready she rubbed a bit of rose oil behind her ears and went to find Feb to arrange the meeting. The guard wouldn't let her passed without permission and Feb seemed like the best candidate to deliver that.
“Hello,” she said. “I've made three quivers.”

He didn't turn toward her. “Knock em' in a bin.”  He replied.

“These are from a special order.” She explained.

“Knock em in a bin.” He repeated.

“These are for the baroness.” She clarified.

“Eh?” He finally turned and looked her over with his good eye. “What's yer name?”

“Dumat Stakepondered.” She said.

“No jobs for any Dumat or for any Stakepondered.” He said flipping through a small leather bound booklet.

“Dumplin Lakewanders.” She said with a sigh.

“Oh, Oh!” He said with understanding. He pointed to the stockpile “Knock em in a bin.”

Dumat tried to think of how she could be clearer. “The Baroness ordered me to make three quivers. These quivers are for her. If you could take me to see her I'll give them to her.”

“Well the quivers aren't for her.”  Feb said.

“What?” Dumat asked.

[Broseph Stalin]

“She doesn't want the quivers.” Said Feb. “She just wanted someone to make them. The manager assigned the job to you so the professionals wouldn't have to stop working on armor.”

“If she doesn't want them why did I make them?”  Dumat asked stupefied.

“She just wanted them made.” He shrugged. “Maybe she just feels better knowing we've got them.”

“I've  spent a week working on this order, the Baroness has to know that I did this!” She yelled. Feb just snarled at her. She made a note to adjust her tone when addressing the One-Eyed War-God of Arrowstockades.

“Wait,” he paused and flipped back through the list. “One week?”

“Yes.” She said. “I've worked very hard. Please, just let her see the good quiver once and let her know I made it.”

“One week?” He flipped through the list a bit more. “You had six days.” Feb said. He waved Ashmon over and spoke. “Dumplin Lakewanders you are in breach of a production order issued lawfully by the Manager of this fortress on the orders of our Baroness and I am hereby placing you under arrest.”

“What?” Dumat asked.

[Broseph Stalin]

This is the end of Chapter II. Chapter III, Dumplin Lakewanders and the Dwarven Justice System is next and after that I have the story more or less plotted out now. Unless something inspires me to change the direction of the story after that comes Dumplin Lakewanders and the Hairless Baboons and then the final chapter Dumplin Lakewanders and the Worst Dwarf In the World.

[Broseph Stalin]

Dumat was not offered a clearer explanation she was instead escorted down to the black stone corridor and lead through the iron decorated doors by Ashmon. Down the hall there were dozens of doors and faint yells came from behind each when the door audibly opened. She begged and plead and ranted to Ashmon to release her.

“I was in the hospital!” She exclaimed still keeping close to Ashmon. She wasn't shackled for the journey and she didn't need to be.  She was quite aware that he could easily outrun and overpower her and there was no need to exacerbate the trouble she was in.

“You didn't need to fight any Kobolds,” Ashmon said. “You made two quivers in a few minutes, you could have made the last one that first night and gone back to hauling.”

“I wanted to make it special!” She plead.

“You made it late.” Ashmon shrugged. “The crime is on the books, you've been sentenced to thirty days and even Feb can't change that.”

“Well who can!?” She ask-laimed.

“Not me.” Ashmon shrugged again. He stopped at one of the doors and unlocked it revealing an iron cage as large as the room. He motioned for her to enter it and locked the cage behind her.  “I'm sorry Dumplin I think you'll just have to serve your sentence.”

“Dumat!” She yelled.

“Bless you.” He said shutting the door.

And so Dumat was confined to a cage in a  pitch black room.
   She counted the days by the brief moments when the door would open and a dwarf would come to replace the empty water bucket and the empty food bowl with full ones. Sitting and waiting gave way to thinking which gave way to more thinking.
   Arrowstockades was not as advertised. The rules were arbitrary and the customs were insane. The work was still just as hard and the food was still just as bad. The medical care was appalling and the justice system was broken. Neither the dining hall nor the dormitories could accommodate the needs of the fortress and the military was a band of unwashed thugs.
   But she would not be broken. This period of incarceration was just a break from hauling. In fact it would probably be good for her to have a bit of rest while her wounds healed. In thirty days she would be released and she would emerge a completely healed woman prepared to take on whatever came next.