The spoilered version of the first of Datan's entries. Endnotes are present directly after the spoiler for the explaining of stuffs, shown in the entries by numbers in (parantheses).
27th Sandstone(1), 27, first arrival.
My name is Datan Eturtulon and this is the beginning of my chronicle. I'm writing this on the 27th of Sandstone in the 27th year since we started counting them. I've walked this world longer; perhaps eighty-eight years, but I am unsure. Until recently, I've lived in the mountainhomes for the entirety of my life, within the collective of dwarves known as Tustemerush(2). I write these facts upon this page because I can't think of anything else to scribe; tiredness seeps through my bones, but such is my simultaneous excitement that sleep evades me. It is all I can do to take up a quill and begin this work.
I am a doctor by trade, surgeon by speciality. The somewhat scholarly nature of my work has given me a better knowledge of literacy than most of my companions; for that reason, I feel compelled to put to words what happens to me and my new companions on this voyage, if only because I can. As for what "this voyage" is, it's simple. But momentous.
On this day, I have arrived at Eribrakas, the City of Glass itself, within Asto Thec(3).
I originally arrived here from the mountainhomes in Akrulbûnem. Back then, my excitement was considerable. Being a surgeon, my duties mostly had me at the gates of the city, tending to the returning wounded as fast as I was able. When all men were tended to, however, I was always content to wander the markets at the gates, looking over the numerous depots and tradesmen and stalls, watching their varied activities. And, on occasion, I would happen upon my favourite traders of all in my wanderings, proclaimed loudly both by the brightly painted red sign with “Eribrakas, The City of Glass” scrawled upon it and also the booming voice of the trader.
My aversion to dishonesty compels me to scribe the truth: the stall for Eribrakas was neither plentiful, nor crowded. Few goods, evidently, were traded therefrom. The smiling trader flourished his hands over a rather meagre selection; for a time, almost all of the exports from Eribrakas were trinkets of bone, and meagre bone at that. Consisting of amulets or earrings or other such things, formed of the remains of dogs and vultures, it was frankly unimpressive.
However, after a time, glass came to the stall, green and shining and plentiful. Bone exports still came quick, but among them there creeped musical instruments of glass, glinting green. Flutes and piccolos and harps. They were well-made and beautiful, and glass is not a common thing in Akrulbûnem, so their appearance garnered some attention, but as I say, it did not amount to a flood of any sort. Shortly after, gold jewellery appeared, of relatively average quality, but as is the way with gold it was quickly snapped up regardless by select, high-paying customers who had usually secured sales long in advance, so it never saw the stalls.That really was the extent of the tradesmen's wares; I could not help but feel pity for them.
This pity intensified when I talked to the head tradesman: he was a mountain of a man, with a smile of a size to rival a cave crocadile's. Unlike the latter, however, he was a kind dwarf, and seemed almost resigned to the fact that he was going to be near-unable to flog his wares. Instead, he was content to discuss the happenings upon his trips with the non-customers that wandered in, with a disarming innocence that did not fail to warm my heart. However, upon that warmth, my heart then switched quickly to a state of excitement, for the man's tales never failed to entertain.
From historical accounts of the city's short, bloody past, to riveting tales of the town locked in siege, to glorious descriptions of their arena innovations(4), every word had me hooked. And so it was not without sorrow that I returned to work one day from a short break, having just been at the stall to discover the man had passed in an unfortunate encounter with one of Asto Thec's enormous desert scorpions on a return journey.
However, his accounts never left my mind, and as emigration requests came through as usual, I found myself unable to stay my hand from signing the registry. I had to see for myself. I am not a young dwarf, but I am not yet an old one, and to die without seeing Eribrakas, for me, would be a terrible sorrow on my ghost. Besides, my work tired me with its repetition and simplicity. Eribrakas promised to be a new, exciting locale, a place where one could feel the world turning beneath one's feet for all the progress at work.
And so it was that I found myself participating in a long, distinctly unglorious voyage to the city. It was a merciless quest, unforgiving and cruel, leading us across the icy heart of the ÿithimicaca mountain range. Upon emerging from there, I was almost glad to be surrounded by ever-increasing heat – even more so as I looked about myself and spotted the sands approaching on the horizon. I knew, of course, of Eribrakas's situation upon the desert, and so I was filled with excitement as we approached our destination.
But it was not to be. We had yet to trek through these badlands, further on across a plain, over a rushing river, and then into the far harsher desert of Asto Thec itself. This last leg of the trip was by far the most arduous: seering temperatures, endless dunes, and frequently dropping to the sand at our feet and covering ourself in it as we struggled to hide from roaming Stalkôlestrans(5) and their fury. However, perseverance brought the goal, as it always does, and I soon spotted in the distance the squat, tough entrance to Eribrakas I had so often heard described, and my heart beat like a scampering rabbit's.
Truth be told, it was not a particularly magnificent sight. A hardy-looking building crouched stalwart in the sand, walls and flat roof constructed entirely of the shining green glass Eribrakas is known for, but dulled by the assaults of sand upon the structure. Drawbridges stood lowered, and as we approached we saw that they were in fact crossing a wide chasm surrounding the building, acting as a moat. However, while said moat was of fair width, the same could hardly be said for its depth. One could fall within it and suffer no more than a bruised foot. This concerned me slightly, as I was entirely used to the grand and complex defences of Akrulbûnem, but somehow, as we approached the drawbridges, the concern washed away. The glass of the bridge itself and the walled path leading up to it were stained with blood, but the building wore the stains like a soldier wears his scars; proud badges of honour, imposing and demonstrative of force.
The building itself was, as I say, low to the ground, crouched as though waiting for prey. To our right, we saw a dwarf clamber up some scaffolding and cross the narrow path it formed over the moat to the roof, evidently performing some sort of construction. Through the gates, many more dwarves could clearly be seen, busily hauling various items to and fro. Upon the other side of the building, another gate like the one we were entering was visible, this one guarded by two enormous black bears, muscles rippling beneath their fur, which was thick with sand as was to be expected, and one with a series of scars criss-crossing its body.
At the mouth of the path that led to the bridge, our feet heavy with exhaustion and sand, we came upon a rather thick-set, alert-looking woman standing at the ready. Her eyes scanned all around as she surveyed the area, and she held her crossbow with comfortable ease in her left hand. She looked up as we approached, and broke into a smile, pushing her cap out of her face with the stock of her weapon. Her clothes were worn, but not unreasonably so; a fur cloak covered most of her body, and looked sweltering in the heat. For some reason, she moved strangely; as though stiff in every joint and muscle in her body. I tried not to notice, but all the details are as clear to me as day.
I was meeting my first Eribrakan.
She took a quick look around, craning her neck with some difficulty, and then stowed her crossbow at her hip with a practiced one-handed tying movement using a length of cord. She then raised her now-free hand, tipped her cap at us, and then gave us what struck me as a very odd Tustemeri salute(6). The confusion on our faces must have been evident, and little Mistȇm even called out as he toddled over the sand, a young child brought with us: “huh?”
The woman blinked, confused herself, and then paused as she realised her mistake, before throwing her head back and laughing aloud.
“Ah! I'm sorry. I forgot.” Her voice rasped a little, as though she had trouble breathing, but she showed no discomfort. She looked down at the sand, brow furrowed and chewing her cheek for a moment, before snapping back up again and pulling the usual Tustemeri salute. Being dwarves of civilisation, we at once returned the gesture, a warmth in our hearts at the contact with friendly life after our long, lonely trek. Smiles broke out all around, and Id, a confident young woman and ever a talker, piped up.
“What was that? We probably ought to know, newcomers and all.”
The woman smiled her stiff smile. It almost looked as though she was forcing every pleasantry, but her eyes betrayed this, kind and caring. Clearly, she was suffering a more physiological problem than a social one.
“Eribrakan salute. It's a little different, but I guess it's bound to be, you being so far and all.”
“Huh. Why the change?” Id asked, stepping forward, interested despite her exhaustion and eager to get off on the right foot.
In a flash, the woman at the gate leaped forward, raising her hand to warn Id off. It was only now that I could see her right arm was not hanging loose, unused; her movements swept her cloak to the side momentarily, revealing the arm to be suspended from her opposite shoulder in a quick cast, cradling it to her chest. As best I could judge from the limited examination, it had been that way for some time. However, my brief moment of intrigue was cut off by her rasping tones.
“Hey, watch it! You don't want to step any closer.”
We were instantly alarmed, and at once I had half a mind to run for the dunes (not that I had anywhere to go). Her hand was snapped out in a clear “stop” signal at us, but after a moment I noticed she had made no movement to draw her weapon. The look in her eyes was not a threatening one, it was one of concern. Id noticed this, though taken aback by the sudden movement.
“Er, what's wrong?”
The woman relaxed her stance once again, the alarm dropping from her face. “Sorry about that.” She gestured over to the path leading up to the bridge, imposingly walled on either side. “Cage traps.”
We collectively blinked. The woman was obviously mad. We Akrulbûni(7) know cage traps. We know all traps. The mountainhomes are well-defended, after all. I looked over at the well-trodden path of sand that led up to the sturdy bridge ahead, and observed no such signs of traps, not at even the closest of examinations from my distance. No catches, no triggers, and certainly no cages. I looked back at the woman again, and she noted my disbelief.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot that too. Things are a little different around here than “back home”.” She reached into a leather bag she had lying on the ground behind her legs, which I hadn't noticed before, and pulled out a bunch of berries. “Watch.” She tossed the bunch into the path, and with a familiar clunk-slam noise, a large, translucent terrarium of that ubiquitous green glass popped up as if out of nowhere, containing the berries as well as any true threat. The shock must have shown on our faces; she grinned widely.
“That's why I'm here. Endok Udilråsh, captain of the guard in Eribrakas, the City of Glass.”
We were still dumbfounded at the cage display. We thought we'd seen it all. This would turn out to be a running theme. The captain just kept on grinning.
“That's the usual response. Alright, look, let's get you inside...”
She taught us the complicated step routine necessary for safely traversing the traps, assured as that we would soon know it instinctively, and then led our small group single-file across the glass bridge, providing running commentary.
“So, welcome to Eribrakas. As I say, my job is usually to head up the guard, but behaviour's not really a problem here as a rule, so my job's pretty lax. My main job nowadays is to welcome immigrants like you, help you find your way around, so you get a guided tour. You guys alright with that? No family to meet up with here?”
We all shook our heads.
“Didn't think so. No worries then.” She stopped, halfway across the bridge, and gestured down into the moat below. “So, you might be asking yourself, what's the point of this? A dry moat. Doesn't accomplish anything but stick a bad guy where you can't kill him. And you'd be right. It's useless.” It was hard to deny her. The faintly grassy sand below contained a multitude of broken and dropped bolts from crossbows, and a few skeletons of what looked like small birds, but little else.
“But!” She raised a finger. “This is just the beginning.” She turned around, pointing to her left. A mined-out tunnel led into the sand and out of view, further underground. “We're working on a magma system. It's taking a while to get all the pumps ready and so on, but we're getting there. Soon this moat will be anything but empty. A good sea of magma will prevent threats nicely.”
It wasn't hard to visualise. The idea of magma suited this place well. The setup was not one of particular elegance; there was a roughness to it, but an equal and imposing readiness at the same time, as though (unlike me, as I was fast discovering), this structure really had seen it all.
Upon crossing the bridge, she adjusted her cap again, before leaning against the wall of the gate, and reaching down to pet an animal on the ground. It took me a moment to realise it, but the creature was a dog, standing guard at the ready. Sandy and absolutely latticed from head to paw with scar tissue, it was scarcely recognisable, on top of being extraordinarily large and muscular. The beast noticed my gaze, and with a cool look in its eye, lifted it's head slightly, as if in a sort of nod. The movement exposed blood that covered its crushing jaws. It looked recent.
The captain caught my eye. “This is Lafóyane. Or just Lafó. Tough little thing.” She looked back down at the animal affectionately, and then back at me again. “Well, head on in.” She gestured into the fortress.
“No traps?” Id asked from my left, cautious.
“No traps.” The captain's eyes twinkled. “At least...not here!”
Relieved, but still somewhat wary, we stepped over the threshold. For the first time, I looked properly around the fortress's entrance. It is near indescribable, I cannot conceive how my quill can hope to capture the image. The structure itself was not amazing from an architectural perspective; a squat rectangle from within, with gates on all four sides, and the roof was only two-thirds finished. Every now and then a dwarf scampered across the glass above and laid down another block, gradually completing the structure.
The sand below was thick and compacted from being trod on so many times, and as dwarves bustled back and forth constantly, we saw why: there were two small farm plots here on the surface, the ones closest to us growing the same berries the captain had produced earlier, which I now saw to be strawberries, and the further farm, on the other side of the building, was growing a form of yellow grass I did not recognise.
To the left, a large depot stood, which I estimated to be for trade: it was unattended for the moment, but heavy-looking bins stood to attention within. And in the centre of the whole scenario, was quite possibly the most unassuming thing in the entire piece, and yet somehow the most imposing, the most stalwart: a single hatch nested in the ground, half covered in sand, popping up and down as dwarves crawled out of and into it continually.
“It's quite a beauty, eh?” Captain Udilråsh noted from the gate. It was true; The hatch was, oddly, a true work of art. Inlaid with an image I could not see from here, the hatch itself was of simple iron, which suited the surrounding temperament just fine, but spikes of ornamental rocks and metals. It truly was a very special piece of work. “Definitely not the most grand entrance. Nothing like the mountainhomes, I'm sure,” the captain interjected into my thoughts. My mind flashed back to the enormous bridges and gates of gold back home, and Id piped up.
“No kidding. Why such a small entrance for such a big place?”
The captain shrugged. “Well, back when I first arrived here, let's see...that must have been seven years ago now, none of this--” she waved her hand in the general direction of the structure all around “-- was here. It was just that hatch on the floor there. The idea was, by keeping the hatch low to the ground and inconspicuous, the fortress entrance would be almost impossible to spot. And it worked, too. Until we started building all this, the humans had no idea we were here, and they were the ones who mapped out Asto Thec in the first place!”
Id furrowed her brow. “Why the change, then?”
“Well, see. As you may have noticed, we have a bit of a goblin problem.” I involuntarily shuddered. That was a complete understatement. “So,” she continued, “That made trade very difficult. Don't get the wrong idea, Eribrakas is a totally independent city. We've never needed trade – ask our broker, he'll tell you how much that annoys the mountainhomes.” It made sense. We'd all seen the sparse stalls back home.
“But one of the biggest chips on Eribrakas's shoulder is that we've never been any sort of official branch of Tustemerush. We're just some city in the desert. And it can't be denied that that is entirely because of our lack of trade. So, we figure, why not make the city of glass into something? At least a county, or even just a barony. Now, the problem with that is, trade's tough when you've got the Stalkôlestrans hanging over your head constantly. Damn goblins...” She spat.
“We had to keep this hatch situation up. That way, their patrols usually lost track of us and their invaders could scarcely fit through the hatch, but it meant we had no way of accomodating trade caravans properly. I mean, those things are big. The tradesman usually had to just come in on camel-back and sell whatever they could carry that way.” The captain paused, reaching to her waist and producing a glass bottle of some sort, and took a swig of what I guessed to be wine. It then occured to me – it had been far too long since I'd had a drink.
“So to get around that,” She continued rasping, staring into the distance as she recalled: “we had to come up with a way that trade caravans could visit in their full capacity, while still being safe from anything that might turn up. We have other problems, too – not just goblins. A few months ago a minotaur turned up, killed one of ours. Real shame.” Her expression turned sour, and she took another draught of wine. “But you get used to that. Anyway, we got rid of that thing, but there could be more. And we also get scorpions occasionally, plus kobolds, and we have a local werewolf running around somewhere too. So obviously, we need a way to deal with that threat and also provide good trade. Our solution was to build this.” She gestured grandly at the surrounding glass structure.
“The city of glass finally has fitting gates. Vicious guard animals on every entrance. Drawbridges over a soon-to-be-magma moat. Traps on every gate. And soon, a complete roof!” She laughed, but something she said didn't quite ring correct. It took me a while to place it, but Ïteb, ever the voice of reason in our group's long trek, worked it out first.
“Wait a minute. Traps on every gate? A caravan couldn't possibly make it over a set of cage traps like that, no matter how good they were.” A man of mountainous muscle, he twiddled the braids in his beard, as was his habit, and laid his free arm around the waist of Id. She, in turn, nodded, looking incredibly scrawny next to her enormous husband.
“Exactly. What's going on there?”
The captain grinned. “You guys are sharp! You'll fit in well here.” She shouldered herself off of the gate wall, adjusted her crossbow on her waist for comfort, and then pointed to the southern gate. “Down south has a special arrangement. I mean, besides the two bears there.” She turned. “Hey, Olin!” At this, another rather large dwarf looked up from apparently filling a bag with the sand of the ground.
“Yeah?” Her voice was near-identical to the captain's. Rasping, tough tones.
“Do me a favour if you would. Could you show our new friends what the south gate has up its sleeve?” The woman did not respond, small, aquamarine eyes flicking over each one of our party in turn. Her look was not confrontational, but perhaps shy of friendly, too. It was more of a measuring gaze. Eventually, she responded.
“No problem.” With no further words on the subject, she collected a few more handfuls of sand and then disappeared down the hatch in the centre of the building. The captain walked us over to the south gate, sidestepping busy dwarves and farmers along the way. One of the bears there looked curiously over at us, and despite it's enormous size, it somehow looked slightly less imposing with that look in its eyes. The captain waved to the bear and snatched a morsel from the strawberry farm, tossing it to the beast. The animal gave a goofy grin and devoured the fruit at once, the picture of happiness. The image was oddly juxtaposed, however, with the blood that totally coated all four of its paws.
The captain settled next to the bear, and told us to stand carefully back from the entrance, before commenting on the sand collector we'd seen earlier. “Sorry about that look she gave you. You might get that a lot around here.
“What was it for?” Id asked, ever curious.
“She was sizing you up for a fight.” Ïteb bristled, and I took a step back, concerned. At first, the captain looked confused, and then she realised what she'd said, and laughed a grating laugh. “Oh, nothing like that! People pull something like that around here, I chain them up. No, like I said, we don't have people scrapping much around here. I meant in the arena.”
Our faces did not lose any concern. Back home, the arena was strictly for hardened soldiers and dedicated fighters.
“No, no. I'm sorry, things are a little different around here. Let me explain. See, the way things work is that the arena is in a totally different style than the old way you must still use in Akrulbûnem. The thing is, everybody here wants to fight in the arena, not just watch like you do. To gain five decent kills, ideally in the arena, will earn you a title, which is a great glory in itself. It guarantees your slab will be in the Hall of Heroes. But for fifty kills, or holding the position of commander, you gain your own tomb, which is a tremendous thing indeed. For a hundred, you get your very own glass statues within your tomb. And our sculptors are very, very good. However--” the captain stopped herself, clearly enjoying discussing the topic “-- I'm sure anyone in the fortress will explain it all to you in more detail. The point is, it's the greatest thing here. Every dwarven child aspires to be worthy of the Hall.”
I must have visibly blanched. My mind was still stuck on the mind-boggling figures. “One hundred kills...” I stammered, unbelieving.
“Ha!” The captain snorted. “You've got no idea. Our commander is holding down exactly fifty, as far as I remember – but he was getting a tomb anyway. But Ilral, man, you don't want to mess with him. Last time I checked, one hundred and twenty three kills to his name. And he's not that old, either.” I feel no shame to admit I nearly fainted at the thought. How could any one dwarf kill so many?
“Ilral? Hang on, I've heard of him.” Vucar, a fellow practicioner of the medical sciences that had travelled with us, and a man of thought and discussion, looked up. “He's a bookkeeper, right? Ilral Sôdthob. I wrote some letters to co-ordinate a splint order with him once.”
The captain nodded. “The very same. He's a local celebrity here. A really nice dwarf, he's a pleasure to be around, but by Etur, does he hate goblins. Loves nothing more than spearing them to death, I can tell you. Anyway, look, Olin should be about ready now.” She nodded towards the bare-looking entrance, which appeared as unremarkably flat and sandy between two walls as the other bridged entrance did. As she took another swig from her bottle, though, she was proven to be correct. A grating noise sounded from below in the hatch somewhere, and in a flash, what must have been nigh on a hundred spikes of ultra-sharp green glass flashed out of the sand as if from nowhere, impaling the air above with a viciousness unseen. Our entire group collectively jumped back, sans the captain.
Another grating sound, and the spikes hopped back into their original hiding places. The disturbed sand resettled, and you would never know they were there.
“As I say, all gates are defended.” The captain grinned, and then directed us back to that imposing hatch, such that we could enter the fortress.
Upon entry into the fortress proper, a few unremarkable scenes flashed by. A room full of levers in the sand, a very narrow staircase -- “Due to be upgraded soon” -- and many busy dwarves thumping up and down the stairs. Soon we came into a long, wide entrance corridor, which contained many, many traps; another complicated step routine had to be learned under the watchful eyes of glass statues bordering the end of the hall. We passed a closed door, which the captain noted to be the army's barracks, and then proceeded down a long staircase, down past another corridor which the captain didn't comment on, and then, suddenly, into the openness of a large underground room.
My eyes were not, and still are not, quite accustomed to the darkness. It took some time for my low-light vision to return, but my other senses were afire. The room was full of bustling dwarves carrying things back and forth; the sounds of laughter, drink and fresh food being eaten could be heard, along with the busy scurrying of industry. Smells mingled together, that of cooking, hard-working dwarves and livestock, and heavy footsteps rumbled off somewhere to the right, unseen.
“Welcome!” The captain's voice could be heard dimly over the ruckus, and she guided us each by hand over to the drinks storage. I found myself graced with a wonderful barrelful of plump helmet wine, which I gladly took long draughts of. I truly cannot convey by literature how wonderful the feeling is to be relieved of lack of drink after such a long stretch of suffering therefrom. Then, we were each handed a wonderful roast of tallow, although I am not sure what the tallow was of – it was a taste unlike any I had ever eaten before, but it was certainly delicious after constantly subsiding for months off of nothing but biscuits.
We ate our fill with our hunger replacing any ceremony on the spot, and then moved on, progressing deeper into the darkness, down another set of stairs into a far quieter area, where figures constantly dodged in and out, and nothing could be heard but the scuffling of feet and the moving of cargo as dwarves moved ceaselessly over the floor, pulling and pushing things this way and that. The captain noted quietly that this was the central stockpile area, and if we ever required anything, this is where we ought to come for it.
Then, down another set of stairs, dodging at least three dwarves heading up to the previous level, we found ourselves in a smaller, hotter room. Here, sparks and flames danced in several areas, and dwarves muttered utilitarian conversation around the sounds of clanging hammers on metal and nails in wood. “Workshops,” the captain proclaimed, and then carried on down to another level much like the one in which we ate, with the sounds of dwarves conversing filling the air once more.
This floor was apparently more important, as we were led by the captain down the length of a wide corridor rather than just passing on. To the left and right, smaller corridors led off, straight as an arrow, and rooms could be seen leading off of each.
“Each “cell” holds sixteen bedrooms,” the captain commented, gesturing down one of the corridors leading off the main one. “We just recently dug out a new pair of them, so we now have eight cells, which amounts to 128 beds. We haven't actually got all of them full of beds yet, we're working on that, but we definitely have plenty of room for you guys.” We were shown to the farthest pair of corridors on the floor, and then led down the one on the right. On both sides, open and narrow rooms were present, each a straight line of a chamber containing a chest, a cabinet, and a bed. They all looked comfortable enough. Ïteb, however, noticed something.
“Why wood chests and stone cabinets? Seems a little inconsistent.”
“Oh, yeah.” The captain stepped into one room and wrapped a knuckle on a chest of larch. “You'll fine stone ones too, there are gabbro and granite coffers floating around that we made ourselves here. The thing is, most of these chests weren't made by dwarves. They're elven. I don't know if you've ever seen elven soliders, but they're about as much good in a fight as a purring maggot. So when they used to trade here before we got our advanced defensive measures set up, they dropped like flies. We figured there was no point leaving their caravan goods to waste, and they tended to carry a lot of wooden wares, as elves do, including these chests. So, we set them up in the bedrooms. Hope you don't mind.”
“Not at all,” Ïteb shrugged, noncommital. Truth be told, none of us had seen much of the elves; they didn't usually like coming up into the mountainhomes, too far from the ground and trees. But it made sense. It wasn't as though they were going to come looking for a few wooden coffers, after all.
At this point, we were left to drop our bags we'd brought with us in a room of our choosing, but it was made clear that this was temporary, and that beds were plentiful, so we could always make a firmer choice later. I set my own bags down in the closest room, and though tired, returned at once to the captain, eager to continue the tour.
Once we had all reassembled, she carried on down the stairs, and we found ourselves in a vast corridor, stretching a long way down to the south. “This,” she explained, “Is the mausoleum.” The corridors were lined with doors, which presumably led off to various graves, and all were undistubed except one, through which dwarves continually wove in and out of. “That one,” she pointed at the door in question, “leads to the smelters and the caverns. We'll get there a little later.”
And without further ado, we pressed on. It is only now that I come to reflect; the doors in the mausoleum were truly numerous, and the gaps between them large, meaning large grave rooms. The dead here must number in hundreds, if not thousands. This fortress is only twenty years old or thereabouts, and I had heard it had a bloody past, but I truly had no idea...
Another staircase down, and we were brought to a rather small room. On all sides, tools of various types and odd tables and beds clustered around, and the stink of blood and gore pervaded with a nearly suffocating thickness. It took me a moment, but it eventually dawned on me what this floor was dedicated to. Vucar got to it a mere second later.
“Medical facilities.” He sounded shocked, but his suspicions were confirmed when a very busy-looking dwarf wearing an immaculately clean cloak stepped into view. He was unattractive, large and somewhat nervous-looking, and constantly wrung his hands within his gloves.
“You, and you.” He pointed to Vucar and me in turn. “Vucar the bone doctor and Datan the surgeon, yes?”
We both nodded.
“This is the hospital. I have much cleaning to do. Come back when you're ready to get started.” Without further ado, he gravitated towards a bucket of water and a bar of soap on a far wall, and set to vigorously cleaning a surgical table.
“Doctor Uzolakmam. Chief medical dwarf.” The captain explained. “Not the most sociable dwarf you'll ever meet, but meticulous in his work. He's a good friend of mine. You'll get used to him, trust me.” To this moment, I find that hard to believe.
With this short introduction concluded, we were off again, leaving the doctor to his work. As we approached the base of another staircase, the captain grew silent, and gestured for us to do the same. We were led into another floor, with a long, wide corridor, and several doors on both sides. There was a certain reverence that the captain displayed for this area, and that the room commanded, that I find hard to scribe. It was a room of respect, of mountains of respect given without reservation.
First we proceeded to the right, and we were shown a large room with several memorial slabs within it. At first, I was nonplussed, but then it dawned on me what I was looking at and I had to supress a gasp. This was the Hall of Heroes the captain had spoken of. Each slab, carved of heavy stone, carried an inscription of a hero's death, achievements and titles. It was a sight to behold. And suddenly, I understood the drive that that Olin dwarf earlier had had. How could anyone not want to be memorialised here? The dwarven graves at our feet commanded reverence, and it was received. The room was beautifully engraved on every surface, and the entire floor seemed to stand to attention in an eternal salute of honour.
The door was closed, and then we were led to the other side of the corridor, where we came upon many more doors of glass than had been on the other side. The importance in the air here was even higher than that that had been previously. The captain explained in a whisper that these were the rooms of the truly great, and each was graced with his own tomb of glass for eternity. We were allowed to peek dimly through the glass doors, but forbidden to open them. Each was of a fair size, and the occupied ones contained a tomb and a slab. The captain was obviously bursting to tell the story of each, but held herself back at once, not daring to violate the peace of those who were forever sleeping. Two were unoccupied but housed coffins, presumably empty. I took these to be the future tombs of those who had earned this high honour, but yet lived. One must have been the tomb of the famous Ilral, and I must admit, it was an awesome sight. His coffin gleamed in his sealed tomb, and two beautiful statues imposingly gazed down on either side.
After some admiration, we were led away, to leave the dead to their eternal rest once again. The silence over the group, however, took a long time to wear off. It was a truly awesome experience, and I shall never forget it. The mountainhomes have tombs of a certain magnificence, mausoleums of gold and platinum, but nothing quite like the simple, powerful majesty of stone and glass memorials lying in rest in Eribrakas.
The last couple floors, in comparison, were uneventful. We were shown the bedrooms of the nobility, including the captain's bedroom and the mayor's, which were spacious and comfortable as nobility warranted, and then the fortress prisons, which again, by the standards of prisons, were fair, and also unoccupied. The captain then noted that there was only one more floor on this staircase, and that led to the smelters, the underground farms and the rest of the caverns, and that these were sights for another day.
After this, we retired to our rooms. I finished off the remainder of the tallow roast, and was informed by the captain that it was in fact rendered from the fat of a giant cockatiel, which were apparently rather common in the surrouding area. On request, I was supplied with a quill of vulture feather, and that led me to begin scribing this, which leads us up to the present moment.
The day has been momentous, and exhausting. I do not plan to update this journal daily; such a thing would exhaust me completely, but I will be regular in my scribing, for I intend to record my life here well. But now, I must rest. I store this in my elven chest safely for next time, and bid you well, dear reader, until my next escapade is to be recorded.
May your sands be soft(8.),
Dr. Eturtulon
2: Tustemerush: This name is based on slang specific to Tustemeri (the demonym for dwarves of the civilisation of Tustemerush), and translates to “The Courteous Handles”. For more information, see the notes post following this one, in the section “Etymology of The Courteous Handles”.
3: Asto Thec and others: For comprehensive help with the geography of Minbazushal, see the post following the notes that go with this one, which will be general geography help to get things in perspective.
4: The arena: Arenas and fights within them are a long-standing tradition for Tustemeri, and Eribrakas made innovations in this area. For details, see the notes post, section Arena Culture.
5: Stalkôlestrans: The main enemy of Tustemerush, with a strong presence in Asto Thec.
6: Tustemeri salute: For the Tustemeri, saluting was the traditional way of greeting a stranger. Eribrakas developed a slightly different version.
7: Akrulbûni: Demonym for people from Akrulbûnem, the mountainhomes of Tustemerush.
8: Traditional Tustemeri salutation/farewell.
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Topic: Datan and the City of Glass - A DF Story (Posted-In-The-Right-Board Edition) (Read 5416 times)