The events of the 11th of Obsidian
Aryn's hair, limp and blond and patchy to begin with, was now streaked with gray at the temples and down through his beard. He'd given up looking in the mirror for more than the most cursory of primping in the morning, his taller, lanky frame taken to the occasional twitch and tic. Today, Aryn stood at the edge of workman's access to the quarry, staring down. Beside him was Glacies, uncomfortable as always in his bosses presence.
"What do you hear down there," He asked, his gaze never wavering.
"Nothing, sir. Just you."
"That's right. Where are the miners."
"...Rice's crew..." He said after a moments pause, "Are starting the construction of the quarry's walls that you asked. They gave some complaint that it was unneeded. Rice, however, rallied to your cause. He's yet to leave Lucy's bedside and thinks that it will help protect more civilians."
Aryn took a deep breath, and exhaled it slowly. "That's fine. And not what I asked. Where. Are. The. Miners."
"...They're in the union hall, sir. partying."
"How long have they been in there."
"Days. I tried to get in to get them working, but Archin is terrifying. Have you seen her lately?"
"No I haven't."
Glacies shuddered. "She's all muscles and brawn and mud thanks to her non-stop mining work. As she threw me out of the union hall, she started laughing and said 'Tell Aryn we'll work on our time. It's past due we take a vacation'. It's a real problem... we'll probably need to negotiate. I'll talk with Duke Bomrek-"
"A problem! WE have a problem?" Aryn wheeled on him, his voice echoing off the pit below. A gust of wind blew the hair out of his face, and caused his coat to flap behind him like great black wings, and he stalked forward to tower over Glacies. "I have a problem! My problem is everyone, everyone thinks they know what is best around here! They run their damned mouths and scheme and plot against me, against our fortress, against us as Dwarves. What have they accomplished? Nothing! I've raised this place from the ground, I spit onto the sand and created walls and rooms, I pissed out life! for every one of these ungrateful leeches.
"I don't give orders for no good reason. They can question this project while they're in the dark, the only light the sparks coming from their picks." Aryn grabbed Glacies by the front of his shirt, pushing him towards the edge of the cliff. His eyes were wide, and rimmed with red, his cheeks shaking with rage. "Do you know the life span of the average expeditionary crew? Three years! Three years and they're turned into carpfeed or their slaughtered like cattle by the treasonous greenskins.
"Now get back to the union hall, and get Archin and her lackeys back in the fucking mines!"
Aryn tossed him towards the keep, and with some fancy footwork Glacies kept his balance, staggering a few steps forward. He hurried off, grinding his teeth in anger at the treatment, and making a mental note to play with the stocks, to remove the better dishes from Aryn's food schedule. Aryn turned to to stare at the wastes, the red sands that stretched before him, seemingly infinitely. He wanted to scream, his rage and stress nearly boiling over.
Instead, he bit his tongue until it bled. He let it build up in his mouth, a part of him savoring the coppery taste, before spitting it out. Soon the sands at his feet were a little redder than before.
***
Bertrand was down in his workshop, having finally begun to use the space once again. His original studies were tossed into the magma cleanser, the place full of broken tables and jars and scraps of old coffins. Sand still littered the ground.
A cold sweat had built on Bertrand's forehead and he felt it was due to the nasty black color the skin around his pierced palm had turned. Carefully he peeled the bandage off and picked up a pair of small steel scissors. These were used to cut away the necrotic tissue which he tossed into a small bin beside the work table. More salve was applied, and fresh bandages were wrapped around his palm. With that finished he allowed himself to exhale, and dab at the sweat on his liver spotted forehead.
With his hand treated, he was able to set to work on the real reason he had come to the lab. He slowly made his way to a cabinet and opened it up, pulling a small ceramic bowl from it, along with a glass mug. These he set on the table by the torch light. Sand was scooped up from the ground near where one of the coffins had once laid and dumped into the mug, swirled around until it had dissolved into the water within.
Bertrand smiled wide as he looked at the small blades of grass poking up from the sandy soil in the bowl. A little chill went up his spine, and he brushed them upright with the flat of his hand before pouring the solution over top them. He waited until the water had soaked in fully before the the bowl was placed back in the cabinet.
This was working better than he'd hoped, and was such an unexpected surprise. Had he not been shot by that crossbowman, he wouldn't have needed to search this haunted room for salve. And had he not searched for the salve, he wouldn't have seen the little bits of life peeking out from the cracks in the stone floor. And had he not seen those, well...
He took a last look around the room, paranoia always gripping him as he left the room these days. But with everything seemingly in order, Bertrand snuffed the lamps and left. Smiling, despite the pain in his palm.
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Topic: Migrursut: What Comes After The World Ends? [Epilogue] (A Community Fort) (Read 389401 times)