Part I:Plans in Motion
Late spring, year 383Summer was just around the corner, and the wooden walkways, dirt paths and paved streets of Waterlures were bustling with activity. There was much excitement and anticipation in the air after a rather bleak year and a harsh winter. Spring cleaning and other work had been postponed due to snow storms lasting all the way until mid-Felsite. Now, as snow gave way to greenery and spring flowers, the capybara folk and other citizens of Waterlures were hard at work. Old betattered clothing was sorted, spoiled food was taken to the middens outside the town walls, the sheep were shorn, and yarn was spun.
And so on.
But it was not only work that caused all the buzz. One reason was the arrival of the odd group of ten travelers during the last of the blizzards, seeking a new life in the town, where the Almighty Rabbit was revered above all, with some of the newcomers offering their arms to defend the town from its foes. It was a welcome gesture, though they would have to wait until such things were possible. For, you see, the citizens and leadership of Waterlures were traditional in that sense: each new arrival had to go through a two year trial period before they were granted writs of citizenship.
Yet, it was not these newcomers who caused the most commotion: it was the unexpected return of one of the Four who disappeared without a word—and practically no trace—over a decade ago.
The Assistant Sheriff Rin Fisthearts, a goblin and former miller, had finally returned to Waterlures.
But he came alone. And he was...different. No doubt it was due to what he had faced and gone through during the years he was away. Rin did not tell much else than that they had gone on a divine quest with Lòr Drinkbusts—the son of Edu and Kib who had been sent away to Morningwilt after being bitten by a werebeast. They had encountered many a necromancer and undead on their journeys, taking down as many as they could. But eventually Lòr, Suwu and Cañar had fallen one by one to the foul sorcerers and their cursed minions. Of Ova he said that the mandrill man had lived the last of his years peacefully, dying of old age.
And after the last of the companions—that being Cañar—had died, Rin had decided to return.
This was not true, but it was not exactly a lie either. Rin just left much untold, not wanting to sully the memory of Lòr or Cañar, who had been seduced by the Dark Gods.
And he said no word of his own fate: that he had drowned only to be raised from the dead as a Death Hunter.
Mayor Fecici's office“What did you say your name was again?” said the deep-voiced elf mayor as he went through a pile of papers on his desk.
“Jasmuk, Jasmuk Watercombats, sire,” the muscular old man replied with his eyes lowered, scratching his short white beard. “This is not my first time in Waterlures. In fact, I've been here several times. Surely you remember us meeting, mayor Fecici.”
“No. No, I don't,” Fecici said sourly, now with one of the papers in his hands. “That, of course, doesn't mean that we haven't met. I just happen to see an awful lot of people each day. Every day. Around the year. Hard to keep track of all these faces, names and what-not. So much to do, so much to rember, but so little time. That is the burden of being the most important person around. Being the mayor, that is.”
Fecici paused for a moment and began looking intently at the paper, muttering
“hmm” to himself. Jasmuk stood silent, waiting, understanding that it probably wouldn't be such a good idea to interrupt the elf.
“A-ha!” exclaimed the elf with a smug smile as he poked at the paper with his finger. “This is what I was looking for!” He then put the paper down, took on a matter-of-fact face, and turned his attention to the old man.
'That man is far too fit for one his age. It's not right. Not right at all,' he thought, comparing his wiry frame to the human's bulging arms. He coughed in his fist and said, “Ahem, yes. And you want to stay here and study?”
“Yes. At the House of Knowledge,” Jasmuk said, his eyes still lowered. “It is by far the greatest collection of scrolls and codices in the whole of Minbazkar. Why, I've been to Controlledseal and seen their grand library, and I just came from Inkedwhims. It—”
“Yes, yes,” Fecici interrupted annoyedly and waved his hand in a belittling manner. “It is good to have more of the likes of you around. Never enough knowledge and so on. I presume you know your way to the right place. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some much more important matters to attend to than this silliness. Ta-ta!”
With that the elf stood up and strode to the stairs, waving the paper in his hand. Jasmuk stood there, his mouth half open, eyes darting left to right as he wondered was that a yes or what. After deliberating for a moment, he came to the conclusion that it was not a yes, but, in fact, two yesses.
Galel and Osod had gone fishing while the others from their group helped with the spring cleaning. Hematite, and summer, was just a couple days away as the two sat on the old fishing pier, a light drizzle falling from the sky. Osod was humming an old song he knew, quite out of tune. The rain pattered rhythmically on his copper skullcap, which looked like it was too small for his head.
Galel kept glancing to his side, squinting his eyes inquisitevely. He was looking at the strange goblin who spoke little, sitting next to them with a fishing rod in his hands, also fishing.
“Say, you're the one all the fuss is about, huh?” Galel finally said to the goblin. He looked the goblin from head to toe, judgmentally. “You were on some kind of long adventure or something, I've understood. I was on one, too, you know?”
The goblin turned to look at the ostrich man, saying nothing, then turned his attention back to the fishing.
“Not much of a talker, eh?” Galel scoffed. “Well, suit yourself then. I've anyways got better things to do than talk to some sulking goblin, pssh... You depressed or what?”
“Leave him be, Galel,” Osod said to the ostrich man in his typical manner trying to calm things down.
Galel shifted his attention to the llama man and began in turn poking and jabbing at him, searching for a way to get into an argument. Rin didn't pay attention to the two. He didn't mind them at all, and, besides, he was thinking of his return to Waterlures.
It had been strange to come back several weeks ago. Walking down the paved road from the hilltop towards the Mill Gate. Seeing the old mill—his old home—standing there strong and proud, the blades turning slowly and groaning in the breeze... It was a sight he had missed.
He had entered the mill. The millstone was churning, like it used to, barrels full of spelt and quinoa waiting to be milled. Up the ladders he had climbed, checking the sacks of flour, taking some in his hand, letting it fall between his fingers back in to the sack. He had gone all the way up to his old room. Seeing his room, untouched, had brought so many memories back.
It had felt...odd.
Since Cañar had brought Rin back from the Other Side, he hadn't felt pretty much anything. Or even thought. It wasn't that he couldn't, he just didn't need to. No emotions, no thoughts. No need to speak.
But now, with him going through all his memories after the events of Ceilingyell, he sometimes felt...something? It wasn't the same as when still alive, but nevertheless he
felt. Remembering old sparring sessions with Sheriff Fayoba made him exhilarated. Thinking about when he used to pray to Githu—the god of death and murder—brought wonder into his undead and unfeeling heart. He felt delight when he remembered how he had used to love hoarding all manner of fine knick-knacks, hide them around the mill.
He had thought that the unliving did not feel or care. He had been wrong.
It made Rin smile. A barely visible smile, perhaps, but nevertheless a smile it was.
Early Hematite, year 383Astesh was in the wine cellar below the brewery with fellow capybara woman Fikod Ragacts, the fourteen year old daughter of Fikod Livingglazes the Dungeon Master. It was the beginning of Hematite and the summer, though the weather kept on being dour: it was raining constantly.
The raspberry wine was good and Astesh was starting to feel euphoric, so was Fikod—inebriation was kicking in for both of them.
“Ah, I feel sooo good!” Young Fikod exclaimed in delight. “I prefer this to Datan's mead, though it's nothing compared to soft wheat beer.”
“It certainly is good,” Astesh agreed, almost fumbling her mug. She still had difficulties holding onto things with her paws—her many wounds hadn't had time to heal properly yet. “I do like this place of yours, what you have built for yourselves, and now share with us... But, nevertheless, I can not shake off the feeling that all will not end well.”
Fikod looked at Astesh curiously, wondering. “What do you mean?” the young capybara woman asked.
“I was saddened to hear that the grand temple of Ôsed has stood unfinished for years upon years,” Astesh replied sadly, her heart feeling heavy. “It... It is practically overgrown now. The floor tiles were cracked with weeds pushing through. Moss is taking hold on the pillars. The walls look like they could come crumbling down any day now... Such neglect, nothing good will come of it. It makes my heart ache.”
“Oh, worry not of such things,” Fikod said, furrowing her brows slightly. It feeled a bit odd to be concerned by an unfinished temple when there were plenty of shrines dedicated to the Rabbit in Waterlures. “You are just being a worrywart. The first shrine ever to be built in Waterlures was for Ôsed, and it still stands proudly next to the waters, like the mountains raised by the Doe Goddess, Her sky stretching above it, the stars shining on it in the night.”
The words were not much of a relief for Astesh, but it still made her smile—at least for the moment.
Fishing was a good way to spend time in Waterlures. With the two year trial period before gaining the right to do proper work or join the militia, there was not much to do except help out with hauling this and that. And there is only so much you can carry piles of old bones or barrels of fish before getting bored. Even when you respect hard work.
So Tanzul and Dimbulb had joined Galel and went fishing for a change. It was surprisingly relaxing after a break for a couple of weeks—back at home in the North, in Brimstaff, Tanzul spent each and every day fishing, and cleaning what he caught until the setting of the sun. It wasn't exactly fun when that's all you did, but here it was somehow different and felt like the beginning of something new.
“There's that creep again,” Galel whispered to the two, nudging with his head towards Rin the goblin, who was fishing further off all alone. “Every time I come here, no matter how early or late, he's here already. Makes you wonder if he ever goes to sleep. Suspicious fellow. Possibly scheming something devious in that twisted goblin head of his. I wouldn't trust him... A foul necromancer, perhaps?”
“Oh? Who? What? Where?” Dimbulb said as he looked around, turning his head left to right, trying to see who Galel spoke of. Soon he understood that the ostrich man meant the nice, silent goblin who everyone in town was so excited about.
Rin turned to look at Dimbulb. Dimbulb waved at him and smiled a broad fake smile. The goblin raised his hand in response, then turned back to fishing.
“That's not nice, Galel,” Dimbulb said crossly to the ostrich man, frowning and crossing his hands in front of his chest. “Not nice at all. Calling him twisted. You're always mean to everyone. Even to your buddies. I don't like it. You were mean to me just yesterday. And I'm still angry at you.”
“Alright, alright. I'll let it be this time,” Galel said feigning submission with a roguish grin.
“You know, it's good to be fishing again,” Tanzul said, changing the subject before Galel could make up something to argue about. “It's been a nice couple of weeks after all that's happened. It sort of feels like home here. I think this is just what I needed.”
“Eh, so you're thinking we should stay?” Galel turned to the fox man, raising his brow.
“Mhm. I'd like to see where things go here,” Tanzul said with a smile. “I don't think I'm really cut out for that adventuring and hero stuff. It's felt like too heavy a burden at times, to try and be something I'm not, I guess. Here, for the first time in quite a while, I'm feeling optimistic of the future.”
“Yah, I feel the same,” Dimbulb joined in, sounding happy. “It's nice here. I like the work and the food is good. Coni said she liked it here, too. I think we should stay.”
“Pssh, you'll get bored long before we're granted citizenship,” Galel scoffed at the two, making a dismissive gesture. “Mark my words, before the two years is over, you'll be wanting—
begging—to head off on another adventure. To do all that hero business that you were so keen on.”
“Nah, I wouldn't count on it,” Tanzul said confidently. “I'm sure that staying here is the right thing to do. I'm absolutely positive about it.”
There was a slight problem one late spring morning: sheep, goats and yaks were running around all over the place. Someone had left the gate to the animal pen ajar in the evening. Now the livestock was scattered around, bleating and mooing, fleeing the capybara folk who chased after them to drag them back to the pens.
Coni had volunteered to help, and she was leading a yak calf to the pens. “Come now little one, you'll feel much better when you get to your friends,” she said to the confused little yak. “You are lucky, you know? You don't have to listen to all that silliness about romance and love or whatever nonsense that group of capybaras was fussing about. As if getting married with someone and make babies was the only thing in life that matters! They even asked me if I'm here to find a sweetheart, sheesh! They should think of something more practical.”
The yak squeaked and looked curiously at the hamster woman. Coni petted it and chuckled. “You don't understand a thing I'm saying, right...? Aw, you have such nice shaggy hair! You are quite amazing, little one.”
Maloy was scampering towards the refuse piles, carrying the enormous bones of a cave crocodile on his muscular shoulders. The small capybara folk who he passed, turned to look at him in awe and wonder, admiring his strength and great floppy nose (or possibly his flippers). He smiled and greeted politely each and everyone, though he was not entirely happy with his current situation. He had offered his spear to the leadership of the town, to help defend Waterlures, but such a thing was not possible, they had said.
It was a foolish tradition to require capable warriors to go through a two year period of waiting before accepting them. Now, if it would have been a matter of trust, it would be understandable, but it was apparently only because of tradition. Such a tradition might cost lives if the vile forces of darkness came during that time!
However, it was not his right to belittle the ways of others, and he would do his best to see the two years through respectfully and without complaint.
Mid-Hematite, year 383Idar the cheese maker was helping out with clearing the caverns, too. Old bones from all manner of critters were strewn about in the winding and twisting passages of the deeps, and they were being taken to the surface for reasons unknown to Idar. Why clean them from beyond the portion enclosed by the palisade? But it mattered not, for Idar was more than happy to do something and not just idle around.
The caverns were supposed to be safe and secure. Or so the town militia had said.
That was not the case.
“What the—!?” Idar yelled in surprise as she felt something grab her foot, almost tearing her sock away. She instinctively whirled around, her fist going for a punch, and saw a flapping wing and the ugly face of a giant bat.
THUMP! Her punch landed on the wing, which was wrapped around Idar's foot. With a shriek the bat let go, bit the dwarf in her thigh, its teeth tearing through cloak and silken hosen alike, digging into the dwarf's flesh.
“AARGH!” Idar screamed in pain and fell over, frightening the poor creature that wasn't expecting any resistance from its meal. In panic, the giant bat turned around its wings flapping and flew away with haste, its shrill shrieks echoing through the caves.
“Hey! Come back you bastard!” the dwarf yelled, shaking her crutch and fist at it from the ground. “Don't you dare flap away you, you overgrown leathery mouse-thing! Coma back and—
urgh!—fight!”
The bat didn't get far, however. There came a sudden click and a whir as it flew around a natural pillar, then a
WHOOMP! as a cage fell from above, trapping the freaked out bat in it. It shrieked and panicked even more, thrashing and throwing itself against the bars of the cage.
“Hah! Serves you right!” Idar exclaimed in triumph as she heard the clanging of the cage, realizing that the bat was trapped.
But at the same time she understood that she, too, was trapped, in a sense. Her leg hurt and she couldn't stand on it, not even with her crutch. She had to wait until someone would come and help her. Fortunately, it was bound to happen sooner rather than later—the caverns were still being cleaned and there was constant traffic to and fro.
After a longer wait than Idar had hoped for, help arrived.
Ririli Hailembraced—an elf dancer—was the first to hear her calls for help. It was a bit of an embarrassing situation for Idar, as she was not so fond of elves, and maybe she had said it one or two times too loudly since her arrival, but she soon got over it and felt grateful for the elf, who she afterwards regarded as nothing but a fine chap. And why wouldn't she? Ririli seemed to be a decent enough fellow, not a talkative one, but one who listened and could be trusted to do things properly.
The elf was quite the athletic one. He carried Idar with ease, moving with long strides, but gracefully and delicately. Idar looked at the elf, evaluating him, all the while having an internal dialogue about him.
'A very good man, this Ririli. I could very much come to like him, no matter what you have to say about elves. What? No! As a friend, of course—what else did you think? What? That's outrageous! Disgusting!' she scoffed at herself while being carried to the surface by the handsome elf.
Sibrek was coming from the caverns, walking dizzily past the poultry pen and mushroom plots below the Fruit of Letters. He held his paw to his head, which was swollen like a melon and felt like on fire. He couldn't remember exactly what happened, but he remembered a hiss, something stinging him here and there, him grabbing something scaly and flinging it away. After that he had blacked out for an unknown amount of time, until he woke up, lying in the dark, hurting all over and feeling like throwing up—which he did, and his fur and clothes were covered in vomit.
He was headed for the infirmary, Yawo's Clinic, as it was called. He was frightened and in shock still. It must have been a snake—a very large one—that had attacked him. He walked up the steep stairs, his legs all wobbly, and fell on a bed, feeling feverish, not noticing Idar who was sleeping restlessly on the other side of the infirmary.
It was Rin the goblin who came to diagnose Sibrek. A bite of a helmet snake was his conclusion—its venom could be lethal if not looked after. Sibrek would survive, but the poison had to be sucked out, the wound cleaned and dead tissue needed to be excised from around the fang marks.
So, Rin, with plenty of spare time, cleaned the wound and cut out the flesh that was beginning to develop rot. Then one of the Mestthosite monks, Vabôk the dwarf, came to evaluate the capybara man trader and dressed the wound.
A short rest was still needed until the fever was gone and Sibrek was good to go.
Early Malachite, year 383It was early summer and Istrul Wheelscrow was headed up to the Bell Tower. She was on lookout duty today, and she had been up since before the sun rose and swarms of pixies began fluttering over the Lakes of Saturninity. It was about a year now, when the goblins came, and Cusal, her father-in-law, had fallen. Last summer was a rough one for Istrul, having to take care of the children and comfort Oddom when he most needed it. Fortunately her husband recovered quickly, but for the last few days she had noticed Oddom being distracted and withdrawn, spending more time alone as the anniversary of Cusal's death drew near.
She sighed, thinking of her marriage. It was not one out of love—though she and Oddom had come to love each other—but a practical one. It had turned out to be a good decision from both of them. She was often filled with bliss and joy when with their children. But sometimes it bothered her that Oddom called their firstborn, Uvash, 'Little Baron'. And other folk had begun to use the name, too. The reasoning behind it was that it would “preserve the legacy of Kasat”, he said. A prime example of a foolish tradition— especially since Oddom wasn't even a real baron, for crying out loud! And a good thing that was, for Istrul had nothing good to say about those so-called dignified asses dressing up like clowns and pretending to be better than 'lowly peasants'. She really despised the nobility, ugh!
Finally Istrul reached the tower top and cleared her head of her thoughts and ramblings, focusing on her task to keep an eye out for any threats.
Keeping her family, and the rest of Waterlures, safe was what mattered.
Late Malachite, year 383Ònul Strickenrelics, the daughter of late Zuglar and Såkzul, was quite absorbed in the discussion she just had had with the hamster woman, Coni. She was delighted that the newcomer was capable of interesting and intellectualling stimulating topics. It was invigorating to have new faces around, someone who liked to take it easy and was a pleasure to speak with.
At first she had felt Coni was a bit insufferable with all her flattery and overtly friendliness, but she turned out to be alright. Perhaps at some point she might become more than a passing acquaintance?
“This quinoa beer is sure good,” Coni said to Ònul as she put down her mug on the barrel, smiling with beer foam on the corners of her mouth. “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Ònul. Maybe some day we'll have another chat?”
“I would very much like that,” Ònul said happily. “And I hope you'll eventually get your citizenship. May the Rabbit guide you day and night with her Light!”
“Thanks! May Jalew guide your dice,” Coni replied, heading out of the Fruit of Letters. At the door, she turned around to say, “Until next time! Take care!”
It was a rainy summer day—typical Waterlures weather—as Deler Slidbusts, the husband of Ònul Strickenrelics, lumbered his rather corpulent form towards the vineyards on the slopes next to the Mill Gate. Three dwarves were already there, tending to the vines. He hardly knew them or even remembered their names, so he just greeted them with a nod and a “g'day.”
Spring had been boring for him and he was irked that there was nothing really for him to do, since there was no need for milling. But that had changed during summer with all the cleaning, tending to the farm plots and all sorts of little things to keep both paws and mind busy. The return of Rin was something that hadn't moved him much. He remembered the goblin, but he had never got to know him.
It was, of course, surprising that he had returned, just when everyone had accepted that the Four wouldn't come back. Then everyone close to Rin—and the rest who left—had to go through the mixed bag of emotions and what-not once again. Oh well, such is life. It's never fair, but who cares? Deler, at least, was fine with it, and those who were not... Well, they'd better accept the facts of life sooner than later.
3rd of Galena, year 383Underground, below the Trade House, mining work was underway. The long discussed plans to carve and build sewers beneath Waterlures were put to motion, at last. Mayor Fecici had decided that now was the time, the time to remember Tekkud Bannerguise and make her dream come true—even though she was not alive. But, in truth, the main reason was that Mayor Fecici hoped the sewers would put an end to the horrid smells of rotting fish guts and scales strewn around the fisheries. Most likely the stench would not be rid of completely, but if the sewers would alleviate the situation even a bit, it would be worth the effort.
So Edëm the dwarf was tasked with mining duty. Eagerly he accepted the task, grabbing his old trusty pick, his beard all a-tinglin'—as he used to say—gleefully heading to strike the earth!
Oh, what satisfaction it gave him!
Late Galena, year 383Mame Fordedrises, a silver-haired elf, leaned against the trunk of a persimmon tree. He was taking shelter from the rain under its leaves. He was bored and a bit restless for being confined within the walls of Waterlures, away from nature. The shrine dedicated to Icemì Apedives between the persimmon tree and old oak was the closest you could get to a forest in town. The thought annoyed him. Of course, if he really wanted to nothing was stopping him from leaving—duty be damned!—but he had to admit that he actually liked this place. Despite its flaws.
He heard the slapping of wet footsteps approaching from the direction of the barracks, hurrying down the quartzite road. He turned to look and it was Asmel Earthenlures, the hoary marmot woman and Mestthosite monk.
“What's the rush? Something wrong?” Mame asked as Asmel zoomed past him.
Asmel slowed down, looked over her shoulder and yelled, “I need a drink! Until then, everything's wrong! Care to join?”
'You don't care, so don't ask,' Mame thought, but said, “Sure, why not? I'll be there in a moment—Fruit of Letters?”
Asmel nodded and continued to run towards the tavern.
Early Autumn, year 383Autumn had just arrived, and the rather portly crow man Meng Manywalled was leaning against a wall, his head a bit dizzy. He had just come up from the Fruit of Letters to the dormitory after a drink. He might have drunk a bit too much. His head was spinning.
'So strong this drink it was,' he thought and tried to clear his head by shaking it. It didn't help, but made the world spin even more.
'Why put so strong drink there where eveyone drink go? So odd, so stupid to do so. Why is the room spinning so much, so stupid—stop it!'He slumped onto one of the beds and began to snore.
Mid-Limestone, year 383A caravan from the Mountainhome came once again to Waterlures. Many wagons loaded with goods, drawn by yaks and reindeer, alongside pack animals with so heavy burdens that it was a wonder they could move, meandered down the quartzite road from the hilltop. As soon as the caravan had been sighted from the Bell Tower, the capybara folk and others rushed to the warehouses to bring their own goods for trade.
Tirist Brasshandles—the outpost liaison—was heading to meet the mayor of Waterlures. He hurried across the wooden walkway to the Enchanted Bridge as fast as his short legs could move him. It was no small feat for he was a very, very well-fed dwarf. The reason he tried to get inside as fast as he could was that it wasn't raining, but the clouds looked like it was going to rain soon. He really did not want to be caught in it and get his new fancy silken doublet with slashed sleeves or his felt flat cap wet—they had cost him a small fortune, his purse now with much less urists to clink. Just as he reached the door and stepped inside, a loud rumble came from the skies and rain began to pour in torrents.
'Hah, you didn't get me this time, Rabbit!' Tirist thought, feeling triumphant in the moment. But it didn't last for long. As he turned to look ahead of him, there were the stairs. The awful, steep, neverending stairs heading up, up, up to the mayor's office. Why, why didn't the rotund rodents move the mayor into the so-called Baronial Quarters? Now that was a proper place to conduct a meeting! Carved into the stone, veins of precious minerals in its engraved walls—not some bloody wooden tower!
He gathered himself, shook his head and slapped his cheeks before heading for the stairs, already exhausted and sweating with the very thought of climbing them.
“Congratulations are in order then,” Tirist said to mayor Fecici, who had just told him that he had been once again elected by the Citizens' Assembly. Ten years the elf had been mayor, and it seemed like that wouldn't change any time soon.
“No need for that, it was hardly unexpected,” Fecici said, looking out the window with his hands behind his back. “But let us return to the news you brought. I had hoped that things would've calmed down. Can you tell me more details of it?”
“Ahem. Well, there is not much more I can say,” Tirist said, twitching a bit nervously. “It was a surprise attack, with no warning. If our scouts hadn't been vigilant, things might have gone very differently. Thanks to them, we had just enough time to ready Inkedwhims for a siege, and bring most of the serfs from nearby hillocks to the safety of the Mountainhome.”
“I see. And you said it was the Cunning Witch and not the Hell of Miseries this time?” Fecici said as he sat down, putting his hands together with fingers tip-to-tip.
“Yes, indeed. Quite the surprise, really. It's been nearly a decade since they last came for Inkedwhims,” Tirist said, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “You do realize that Waterlures lies near the path their armies take? And if your defenses—which are quite meager, pardon me for saying—fail, if the goblin terror claims this place as their own and makes it their stronghold, it will bode ill for the whole of Ustuth Ïdath.”
“I am not stupid, Tirist. Of course I understand the gravity of the situation and my—
our—position,” Fecici said sharply and leaned back in his sturdy chair. “That is why the plans have been put in motion. I showed the letter from the good baron to some other, hmm, let's say important people in town. They came to accept that it was not my idea, and that it was something that isn't open for discussion, but is, in fact, an
order.”
“Oh? Well, that is good to hear,” Tirist said, quite surprised. He wasn't expecting this, but rather some sort of excuse said in honied words. “You'll be much safer once you have a place carved into the stone. That'll shield you better than praying to Mestthos that your rickety fences will hold. Now, if you only could do something about that awful stench of fish guts...”
“That is being taken care of, too,” Fecici said with a smug grin on his face. “Work on the sewers has actually begun, but the plans for the, hmm, stronghold aren't yet quite complete. You'll be pleased to know that it is dwarves who are working on them.”
“My, my, you do keep surprising me, Mister Lizardorgans,” the outpost liaison said, quite astonished that the leadership of Waterlures was actually obeying orders, not making excuses. Maybe things were changing for the better in this miserable, smelly lakeside slum?
The Trade House was a hive of activity: capybara people (and other citizens) brought all sorts of merchandise—crammed into bins or carried one at a time—for the dwarf traders to look at. Atír Archsinged, the broker of Waterlures, was in turn waiting for the dwarves to get their goods unloaded from the wagons. Atír wasn't exactly sure if he had ever seen them come in these numbers: five wagons and half a dozen or so pack animals! Still, he was not at all excited by the whole affair, not at all.
'Oh, why does it always have to be me? Why can't someone else do this?' He thought, wallowing in self-pity. Of course he knew very well that nobody else had as keen an eye for the value of even the most odd of goods. So, it was expected of him to be the one striking bargains. But it wasn't always like that. He wasn't a natural—he had
learned. And if he could do it, anyone could!
But, then again, what wouldn't he do for this loving community? He would do anything, even broker a deal when he'd rather be at home with his children and wife. He was far too busy these days—all the stonecutting and other work—and there were very few chances to say more than good night to loved ones. He knew sacrificing himself this way was foolish and unfair for his family, but he just couldn't bear the thought of not offering his help when needed.
Besides, helping brought him joy.
'Oh well, why deny it? Why not accept that I like both family and my work? He concluded his thoughts, just when the dwarves unloaded a curiously labeled barrel from one of the wagons. He immediately went to take a closer look.
“Gremlin tears? Did I read the label right?” Atír asked from the dwarf carrying it.
“Aye, it be that what it says, capybara man,” the dwarf said with a raspy voice. He put the barrel down, leaning his elbow on it, while he placed his other hand on his hip. He tapped the lid, and continued, “Quite the rarity these days. Not often we 'ave this for trade—them well-bred folks at Inkedwhims tend to empty our stocks faster than we can fill 'em.”
“Really? You must be joking. Why would anyone want to buy gremlin tears?” Atír inquired, scratching his head.
The dwarf looked around, then leaned closer to Atír and whispered, “They say it increases, ahem, the...er, the...y'know the
manly vigor.” The dwarf winked and made his eyebrows go up and down.
“Oh? Oh my,” Atír gasped in surprise. This had to be one of those dwarf things that he didn't quite understand. Such an odd thing for such a... purpose. “Well, I don't think I need such a thing... I mean, I
am the father of six, after all...”
Atír added the gremlin tears to the list of items to be bought. Not for himself, of course, but for someone else. There was bound to be someone who, ahem, had need for such things...
Istrul Wheelscrow was on her way to the Trade House. She intended to ask the dwarves if there was anything in particular they'd like to see—she had a feeling that there was something they forgot to bring over for trade.
As she walked the path going between the forges and kitchens, a shadow passed over her. She turned to look up: a flock of giant peach-faced lovebirds! Suddenly and unexpectedly, she felt a tingle, or rather,
the tingle, that could mean only one thing. It had to be that feeling that had touched many a citizen of Waterlures, the mysterious power or whatever that guided paws to create things of unimaginable beauty.
At first, she struggled against the feeling, but then let it take control of her, accepting her fate.
Off she headed, walking towards the old artisan district, up the slope and climbing the steep ladder-like stairs to the craft's shop under the homes of Ririli and Oddom the Manager.
She looked peculiarly secretive as she headed there.
The badger man Oko Laborpocket was soaking wet and very annoyed. The planks he was tearing were made slippery by the rain and it was hard to get a good grip on them. What was the point even? Why build something so that it'll just be taken down some day? He didn't quite get it. This was the old home of Zultan, that soap maker—or was he a bone carver? Oko didn't quite remember which, but many had been sad when he died a few years ago. His children, or were they his grandchildren, lived here, but they had to move away now! It wasn't nice.
But there was some very important plan to make a tunnel into the deeps of stone, to be some kind of...shelter? And for some reason the entry couldn't be anywhere else but here. Or so the wise dwarves—Oko didn't quite remember their names—had explained to him and other laborers.
He really didn't want to dismantle the house. He wanted to build! To craft! It had been quite some time since he last had the chance to work at the carpenter's or to carve something nice from stone. But no. This was more important, more urgent, the ones who make decisions had said. Oko had wanted to say no, he won't do it, but they had used so nice words, spoken so elegantly!
So Oko had said yes.
And now he was tearing down the work of others in the rain.
(Continued in next post...)
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Topic: Waterlures - A Capybara Man Fortress & Adventure [DF 0.47.05] (Read 74253 times)