So I was on a trip somewhat recently and spent a lot of it reading lovecraft and listening to DF talk. Unsurprisingly the two kinda intermingled and I got the idea for a lovecraftian story set in a df inspired world. When I say "lovecraftian" I mean his style, not his mythos. So, this story is the result of those ideas. It contains what I think are some rather neat ideas. Its not my best work, but I don't think it's too terrible either. It's been partially edited by only at a glance so expect the occasional error. Anyways, Here, for your enjoyment is:
The Shadow of Besmarkezat
The account I transcribe here is not one motivated by greed or pride, but by fear; fear of a darkness which even now seems to writhe within me and creep across my skin like something very much alive. It is a fear beyond rationality, beyond memory, a fear which clings to something primal within the very matter of my being. It is a fear which moves of it’s own accord, which clings to stone and fills the air with palpable dread. It is a fear which most would deem impossible, a fear so far beyond our shared experience as to be wholly alien; an emotion which sits heavy and terrible in the breast, like a cancerous polyp, and grows ever greater and more inexorable. Some who read this may know me and discount my testimony as paranoid fantasy but I can assure them, and any who read this, that my story is perfectly and horribly true.
I understand far too well the complacency which our civilization breeds, the self-assured confidence which our kingdom creates. Here in the White Kingdom, sheltered by the great mountains of the west, the barren glaciers of the south, the endless sea of the east and our mighty sister nation in the north, how could any harm possibly befall us? Here within the great stone walls of Nulcebora, which no army as ever penetrated, what could we possibly fear? And here, deep within the University, beyond the oaken groves and granite walls, hidden away within the depths of endless libraries, what could any rational man fear? To be fearful within these walls is childish, irrational, even repugnant; it is a notion which flies in the face of all reason. I know this feeling, this conviction of self-important immortality, all too well; it was not long ago that I shared these convictions. In part I would say these convictions even helped to lead me to my present state.
Many within the academic world may know me already, for my work at the university and my painstaking attempts to reconstruct the ancient history of our civilization. I took special interest in our closest neighbors, the dwarves, for their records extend farther and more completely then even our own. It was in pursuit of these records that I first heard the name Besmarkezat. Many of us know the dwarfs only by what they are now, the secretive mountain folk which inhabit the northern most arm of our protective western range. To many they are an uncivilized, violent race of degenerate, shrunken men with unbending greed and a penchant for alcohol. But their current existence, loathsome as it may be, is simply the end of a long decline, the remnants of a much greater society. At one time the Dwarven empire extended from the southern glacier to far beyond the Crimson empire in the north; the very ancient ruins and roadways which we reclaimed and rebuilt to form our kingdom are remains of this once great civilization. Unfortunately records of these times are scarce, even amongst the dwarves, and the ruins which remain have either been repurposed, destroyed or lost.
Naturally, when I heard rumors of a surviving ruin which dated back to the golden age of the dwarves, I immediately began arranging an expedition to find and examine it. I gathered two of my fellow alumni, an anthropologist and mythologist named Tiquo Luthradi and an archeologist and mechanical genius named Lecit Mebaskisnast, along with several students and a large contingent of soldiers as an escort and together we set off in search of our prize. We had very few leads and knew only that the ruin was supposed to reside in the southwest, past the most remote stretches of our empire and beyond even the seemingly endless icy wastes. Knowing that a unguided search of that great unsettled land to the south would be wholly dangerous and ultimately fruitless we decided to venture northward in search of one of the last mountain homes.
Our journey began in the early spring, as the winter snows melted in the distant mountains and filled the streams with their clear, freezing water. We followed the road known locally as the ‘”Ancient way”, a stony path erected upon the ruins of an ancient road which was supposedly used by the dwarves during their exodus from the south. It was a beautiful, serene journey, flanked on either side by great columns of Ash, Oak and Birch which seemed to hold aloft the pale blue sky of day and the incalculable glittering stars of night. It would take several days to reach Eson, the township farthest to the north, and what time was not used in travel or other labor was directed toward interrogating the local farmers and merchants. A great many had heard the rumors but none knew anymore then ourselves. This continued until a young boy, by who’s features I can only assume was the product of a dwarven-human coupling, managed to give us a name, Besmarkezat, to affix to our nebulous goal.
Reassured by the new information we continued north, passing through the hamlet of Eson to restock our supplies before heading into the open wilderness between The White Kingdom and The Crimson Empire.
The trek through the forest was made more difficult by virtue of knee deep mud and constant rain which wore away the few paths there were and left us wandering unsurely for nearly a week. Even while immersed in this slog the spirits of the men, myself included, remained high. We had a name to match to the legend and every step seemed to bring the ethereal ruins closer, as though they might condense out of the fog before us. What had been a rumor now seemed not only real but assured, it’s discovery an honor which the men had already excepted and made their own.
The arrival at Inod Lumash, the southern most mountain home, was a tense affair; dwarves are not known for their hospitality or their ample trust and our unscheduled arrival as an armed brigade of human soldiers did little to ingratiate ourselves. It took the better part of a day for Luthradi, the only one of our party who spoke fluent dwarvish, to negotiate for the privilege of allowing our party to camp nearby. For the next several days Luthradi would disappear from camp long before sunrise and reappear late at night, continuing negotiations for the right to enter the Mountain home. Inod Lumash was the oldest settlement still in use Luthradi explained, and it’s inhabitants guarded it’s secrets jealously; they had survived the centuries by virtue of clever engineering and would not causally allow outsiders the chance to plunder their designs. Negotiations continued for over a week before Luthradi returned with good news. By virtue of either his persuasive rhetoric or his sheer stubbornness, he couldn’t be sure which, they had agreed to allow him, myself, and Mebaskisnast into the fortress to speak with their king, Ast Rigothust
While it was a victory, it was less extraordinary then it sounds; our route to the king was under heavy guard and specially chosen by virtue of avoiding any of the secretive inner workings of the fortress’s defensive systems. Beyond this we were allowed to take nothing in or out unless specifically allowed and any sort of deviation from the established plan would be met with forcible removal. Forcible removal, Luthradi explained, more then likely referred to the forcible removal of parts of our anatomy from other parts of our anatomy by means of a sharp edge.
The next day found me and my fellows being funneled into the entrance of the mountain home; the entrance was far from elaborate and instead resembled a small natural cave onto the mouth of which heavy stone doors had been affixed. As the doors closed behind us and plunged us into darkness I felt a momentary pang of fear, the first I’d ever felt during our expedition. Torches were soon lit and the room swam with feeble light which flowed across the smoothed stone like twitching, unsure water. There were four within the room, myself, Luthradi, Mebaskisnast and our guide who introduced himself as Avus Mistemsigun. The room we were in, Mistemsigun explained, was flanked on either side by fortifications; behind each fortification waited a dwarf with a crossbow. He warned quite unsubtly that our presence, and our lives, were a privilege he could quite easily revoke.
Despite his numerous warnings and thinly disguised threats of violence Mistemsigun proved quite amiable in his capacity and allowed us to stop and examine dozens of engravings and architectural pieces; his orders it seemed were strict only with regard to the exact workings of the mechanical systems and the logistics of the fortress’s defense. Our route took us through several miles of tunnels and stairways, farther and deeper into the mountain then I had believed was possible. At nearly all times we were flanked on either side by a dozen or more armed dwarves, a precaution wholly unnecessary as even a single soldier would be more then enough to slaughter the lot of us. Before entering the throne room Mistemsigun warned us that our time was brief and our opportunity rare; we were to ask our questions as quickly and respectfully as possible and then leave. Thus forewarned he guided us through the unassuming stone doors and into throne room proper.
The king sat atop a simple yet perfectly carved throne with several armed dwarves on either side; great stone pillars stretched from the granite floor up to the unseen heights above and each footstep echoed at least a dozen times in that vast place.
The King himself was young, younger then Mistemsigun and younger even then most of his guards; I learned afterward that the former King had recently died and that the current ruler was his newly appointed successor. The king spoke only in dwarvish while Mistemsigun translated, explaining certain terms and mannerisms when needed. We began by asking several questions about the history of Inod Lumash, not our true interest but a necessary ploy in order cement ourselves as historians as opposed to simple treasure hunters or tomb robbers. Rigothust, in slow and careful tones, told of the mass exodus from the south, the abandoning of the area that was now the White Kingdom, the centuries long policy of isolation and the founding of this Mountain home as the first step in the return of their once great empire. There were many questions he refused to answer, queries about the defense or mechanisms of the fortress were clearly out of the question but so too was information about the extent of the fortress or the exact methods by which they survived within the earth. When asked why the dwarves abandoned their empire in the south the king answered only that they had exhausted the resources of their ancestral lands and had moved on to more fruitful areas.
Finally the name Besmarkezat was mentioned and took both the king and his translator noticeably by surprise; not the manner of surprise which connotes ignorance but the kind caused by the bold assertion of something generally deemed secret. Several moments passed before the king spoke again, this time even more carefully, his voice noticeably lowered; he did little more then repeat the oft-heard rumor which had lead us here to begin with and seemed genuinely uncomfortable doing even that. We pressed for details, a possible location or history, while feigning surprise that the ruin actually existed. Luthradi once told me that dwarvish was a language uniquely suited to it’s creators, a language which was easier growled then spoken; it was with these growling, careful tones that Rigothust spoke his reply.
“There is nothing for you in Besmarkezat.”
I wish now that I had taken this advice, I wish now that I had listened to the king’s warning, but how could I? How could I possibly turn down the chance to make the discovery of a lifetime? To uncover untold treasures and unearth hundreds, possibly thousands of years of history? To give up such an opportunity was unimaginable, unforgivable to myself, my position, my men and to every man who wished to learn of the past. I was bound irrevocably to my cause and would have continued my quest with or without the king’s permission. This desire, this self prophesized destiny, drove a hour long request for information of any kind about our goal. We proclaimed adamantly that we had no desire to damage or rob the ruins, only that we wished to study them and to glean what knowledge we could from their recorded history. It was only when we vowed to share this gathered information with the king before we shared it with our university that he finally recanted.
We were granted the right to enter the ruins on several conditions, including being accompanied by a collection of dwarven soldiers and to be guided by Mistemsigun rather then given the specific location of the ruins. We were under strict orders to remove or touch nothing without Mistemsigun’s express permission and it was made quite clear that any deviation from the established rules would be counted as an act of treason punishable by death. The severity of these conditions was curious though not insomuch as to be disconcerting, considering the lengths to which we had seen the dwarves go in service to their secrecy.
Despite our new stewards the men were anxious to continue; the path was now open and every imaginable treasure and grand discovery lay at it’s end.
Mistemsigun lead us south through the forest and back along the Ancient Way which we followed southeast through the entirety of the White kingdom. The journey took several weeks and afforded us ample time to bask in our own self-confidence; our arrogance and pride grew exponentially as we goaded ourselves on and by the time we reached the southern borders of the Kingdom we truly considered ourselves invincible. Perhaps it was this feeling that allowed us to ignore the subtle disturbances around us, perhaps we were simply blinded by our ambition; whatever the reason, the warnings went unheeded.
The settlement farthest to the south was a hamlet by the name of Shebingethac, a half frozen collection of perhaps two dozen buildings perched on a hillside just north of the glaciers. Despite it’s remoteness Shebingethac was one of the first settlements to be founded during the early days of the White Kingdom; in the past its mines supplied the Kingdom with raw ore and precious metals and had grown rich upon it’s trade. Now little remained except a cluster homes surrounded on all sides by the remnants of a prosperous past. The ruins of the settlement radiated out from the remaining buildings and progressed slowly from barely recognizable stones on the outer edge to fully intact but abandoned homes near the center. As we traveled the road toward the settlement I could not help but feel as though the city was sinking, crumbling away at its extremities as the forest encroached and engulfed what remained. Shebingethac, past and present, was slowly melting back into the wilderness to be forgotten.
The few homes which remained were relics of the past, constructed almost entirely of stone and weathered smooth by hundreds of years of exposure. They were squat, crude hovels with no more then a single room, little more then a man made cave. The men which lived within these homes seemed to have been formed from the bleak stone itself; they were gray, dull and unyielding, their minds as cruel and primitive as a stone ax, their eyes glazed and unseeing like the eyes of a steer. They looked upon our intrusion with the disinterest of one who knows nothing my change his fate; there was no fear in them, there was nothing at all. Despite the bravado our good fortune had instilled within us it was unanimously decided to make camp well beyond the outskirts of the town; none would admit to any fear of the empty eyed citizens, though many would profess disgust.
We continued south onto the glacier and from there I can not be certain. I suspect that Mistemsigun lead us on an intentionally convoluted path, often times taking quite arbitrary turns, in an attempt to confuse our sense of direction. Regardless of the success or failure of his efforts I shall not give any information pertaining to our path, for reasons I expect to become clear as I continue. Our journey through the wastes ended abruptly as the mountains once again burst forth from the ice and towered before us, stretching beyond our sight to both the north and south. Embedded within the stone of the nearest mountain side was the object of our search: the entrance to Besmarkezat. It resembled a grand temple in it’s architecture, a mix of immense stone pillars and flying buttresses which merged seamlessly into lavishly carved archways and twisting spires. The way they burst from the mountain gave the illusion of some greater, underlying structure, as though the mountain had sloughed down around part of the edifice and obscured it from view like amber encasing an insect.
It was an overwhelming sight to myself as well was my companions; we had assumed from the beginning that this ruin would be just that, a ruin, and yet we were presented with a feat of engineering and design that would rival even the grandest of structures in our empire. Despite untold ages weathering the abuse of the elements every surface seemed almost new; statues displayed unparalleled detail and finesse, capturing even the subtlest of expressions or details, edges were crisp and undamaged and the stone walkway was free of snow as though it had just recently been uncovered. Closer inspection revealed that the stone work was seamless, carved from the living rock where it stood; they had not build their grand designs upon the mountain but carved them from the mountain itself. It was as though Besmarkezat had somehow vanished from our world at the time of it’s abandonment and had only recently returned unblemished by the ravages of time. There was an oppressive silence which seemed to permeate the very air round us; the winds of the glacier were far behind and even our own breath seemed to vanish soundlessly, devoured by the eons worth of silence. We collectively held our voices at a barely audible whisper with no rational understanding as to why and walked with obsessive care not to kick a stone or otherwise make even the slightest disturbance.
The actual passage into the fortress proper was open, it’s massive stone doors laying impotently ajar as though casually opened and then forgotten. This area of the fortress, Mistemsigun explained, was the first to be created and was occupied during the excavation of the lower sections. The upper region spanned several stories and encompassed a barracks, dining hall, records room and several storage rooms before terminating in a sealed door at the bottom. The stone within was just as unblemished as the outer portions but all else had fallen into horrible disrepair. The dining room was mostly intact, its stone table and dinnerware remaining mostly untouched, though several pieces did lay broken where the wind must have blown them. The wooden pantries and utensils had turned gray and brittle, shattering like glass with a hollow crack as we attempted to examine them. The barracks fared even worst, it’s beds having already been reduced to broken, ashy ruin and the weapons which littered it floor had long since rusted away into nothing, leaving only a darkened brown smear upon the white stone.
The storage rooms revealed themselves to be similar in terms of preservation, many were so badly decayed that it was nigh impossible to guess what their original contents were. One of the few which remained intact seemed to be a makeshift mausoleum of sorts which was lined with over thirty stone sarcophagi. Mistemsigun denied us the privilege of opening one of these vessels, out of respect for the dead, but assured me that there would be nothing of any interest within. The dwarves buried here, he explained, were the workers which carved this section of the fortress and would have been entombed with nothing except the clothes on their backs; to be entombed at all, he added grimly, was a luxury which few early workers were afforded. The only remaining room was what I assume to be an archive of records, a squat room roughly five foot high and 10 by length and width filled almost entirely with engraved copper plates. With little else to examine my colleagues and I began to decipher the plates while the soldiers and our escort made camp within the empty storerooms.
The plates were badly corroded from their constant exposure and many were crumbling to nothing but others remained intact, protected by the tightly packed plates around them. Many were everyday recordings of stocks, production numbers, maintenance schedules and planned building expansions while others were seemingly unordered snippets of history; all were labeled with an indecipherable date system which rendered their true age unknown; the dates did however allow us to judge the relative time between two entries. Even with myself and several capable translators pooling our efforts it took the better part of three days to completely translate the legible plates and record their contents. While the complete history of Besmarkezat earliest days remained unfinished we were able to glean at least a partial understanding.
Besmarkezat was created relatively late within the timeframe of the ancient dwarven empire and, like Shebingethac, marked their farthest southern border. Originally its purpose was nothing but that of a outpost, more of a marker of the empire’s boundaries then a functioning fortress. It’s purpose changed when the miners discovered unusually rich deposits of precious metals and stones, drawing attention and new settlers to their humble outpost. For a time it seemed that the fortress flourished with very little effort, living solely upon the fruits of it’s natural wealth; the plates reveal that very little digging was ever needed during this period and the fortress remained relatively unchanged for what seems like a great deal of time. Eventually the wealth began to diminish and the fortress was obliged to expand once more. During this period the work orders grew increasingly unreasonable, desperate even, until they stopped all together. It’s possible that there were later work orders engraved upon the plates which were too corroded to decipher but such things are no more then guesswork.
Amongst the purely historical documents there were scraps of what appeared to be a personal journal or log of sorts kept by a foreman; it detailed the exploits of his workers and a strange series of events which had been escalating near the dates at which the work logs ended. It seemed that many of the miners had become unusually irritable and quick to turn violent, fist fights were common and as work continued they even began to attack each other with their pickaxes; there were no deaths but several were injured, some quite seriously. The foreman had postulated that the long hours and fear of losing their livelihood was what was driving his workers to such acts but later entries seem increasingly unsure. In the scattered bits which remain he makes mention of several anomalous occurrences such as warmth behind the stone and food staying unspoiled for much longer then it should; the entries end shortly after.
It was near the end of our third day within the fortress when the first signs of tension began to show. I was in the process of carrying several of the copper plates to the temporary study center we had erected in one of the storage rooms when I drawn away by the sound of heated arguing. Our escort of soldiers had been brought to protect us from various wildlife and the advances of thieves and bandits, within the safety of the fortress they had little to do. As they grew bored many resorted to activities such as sparring or gambling amongst themselves to while the time away; arguments did break out occasionally, as was to be expected with such pastimes. However, the argument which attracted my attention that day was unusual: it was too heated, too angry to have sprung from the ordinary vices they were indulging in. By the time I came upon the scene the men were already being drawn apart and separated by their respective allies and the simmering anger seemed to quickly subside.
But it was not the fact that there could have been physical confrontation which made me uneasy, rather it was the appearance of the two arguing men. A man in conflict may shout, growl, or snarl, may push and posture, puff his chest out and taunt but he will not do is remain quiet about his anger; no part of a man who is truly enraged will not convey this. And while these men seemed near animalistic in their rage their eyes were strangely dull and uninterested; even while they tore the air with their nails and bit wildly like a rabid beast their eyes remained ever unseeing and lifeless. I can not say why or how I chanced upon noticing this peculiar anomaly but, having seen it, I was filled with an intense dread of the two combatants; I fled the room and returned to my studies without a word.
After the transcription of the copper plates was complete it was decided that we would venture deeper into the fortress in search of more recent records and perhaps a clue to Besmarkezat’s ultimate fate. Gaining entry into the lower levels proved more difficult then expected; the passage had been sealed, it’s door barred from both sides and coated in thick plaster to the point of becoming air tight. It took several hours of work to strip the plaster alone and over a day’s worth of continuous work to force the door of it’s hinges and send it tumbling down into the darkness beyond. Rather then the mundane corridor we expected we found ourselves upon a narrow ledge, staring out into a great black expanse which extended beyond our sight in all directions. The ledge we stood upon was not a ledge at all, but the first step in on an expansive stone staircase which lead downward to points unknown.
The scale, the sheer brutal gigantism of the space, is something I can not adequately describe; to walk along the stairway was to slip out of reality, that which the torch illuminated as the entirety of existance, a tiny sphere of light drifting in a sea of crushing nothingness. There were no echoes, no breezes, no sounds whatsoever outside of the quiet shuffle of boots and the muted sound of breathing; the darkness was so old, so vast, so utterly alien that it seemed alive, writhing and devouring the light of the torches with greedy mindlessness. The stairway continued on, slowly descending at the rate of a step every dozen feet or so, for no less then an hour before it terminated in another platform. The platform was in the form of a great circle, 120 ft in diameter, and served as the nexus for dozens of elevated stone paths which branched off in all directions. The platform’s edges were serrated, like the edges of a gear, and it’s surface was beautifully and meticulously engraved. About it’s circumference ran a series of low troughs, roughly a foot and a half tall, filled with a jelly like substance; as we brought our torches close to examine it the substance ignited and the flame quickly spread throughout the trough. Mistemsigun identified the jelly as fire imp fat, a substance which would burn indefinitely without being consumed by the flame.
As we lit the adjacent troughs a sense of safety came over us; despite our precarious position, hanging above a pit of seemingly infinite darkness and depth, the light seemed to erect a protective barrier around our circular haven and anchored us to existence in that great vault of unreality. It was decided that the circular platform, dubbed Zustash Olon, would be used as the new campsite and staging ground from which we would explore the rest of the cavern. After several trips and several hours of work we had relocated the camp from the upper level barracks to the new position within the cavern without a hitch; content with our new arrangements we decided to rest till what one could consider the next day. There, beneath the earth, time ceased to act as one would expect; the concept of day and night became meaningless and time itself seemed to flow at an unsteady pace, faster to some, slower to others. I am unsure how long we rested there, upon that luminous raft adrift in a nighted sea, but it could not have been for more then a few restless hours.
It was decided that our party would split into two, with Luthradi and Mebaskisnast as well as the majority of the soldiers remaining at the camp while most of the students and I, accompanied by Mistemsigun, his dwarven entourage and the remainder of our soldiers explored the cavern. I could give countless logical explanations for our chose but they would be no more then thinly veiled lies to protect my ego; in truth we were divided as such because of the subconscious knowledge that the exploring party may never return. Our prolonged exposure to the darkness of the cavern only served to further cement it’s unnatural nature in our minds; it was a kind of darkness which you felt might swallow up the unwary, the kind of darkness which does not simply obscure but obliterates. These feelings grew only greater as we left our illuminated haven behind, it’s light withering away into nothing behind us much to quickly
We chose the path on the far right of Zustash Olon, a thin winding walkway which glided gently downward into the shadows below. After a short distance the pathway turned sharply to the left and continued downward for what I estimate to be roughly three miles before connecting to a stone wall and resuming it’s original heading. The stone wall was artificially smoothed but appeared to be natural, the far edge of the cavern I assume; it was engraved at irregular intervals with geometric patterns of great beauty and detail but of little historical significance. The rock face was not entirely uniform and occasionally opened into a small alcove which was sparsely furnished with low stone benches. The path continued for miles without any sign of change and it became a very real fear that we would be forced to return empty handed. After what I would estimate to be six hours we stopped for a short rest in one alcoves; while the students and soldiers relaxed Mistemsigun and I examined the engravings along the alcove’s walls.
The engravings were similar to those along the path’s walls, consisting entirely of interwoven geometrical figures, however these engravings were even more complex, detailed to a preternatural degree. It was only after several minutes of examination that I realized the designs held images; the interweaving shapes blended together in such a way as to form scenes depicting all manner of events. However, dependent on the angle one viewed the engraving, exactly what the shapes formed differed; a scene of war might be transformed to the image of a conquering king with only the slightest change in perspective. Each engraving had dozens of facets and the images they presented seemed to contort and reform as fluidly as smoke, fading into and out of existence with ease. Mistemsigun expressed astonisment equal to my own when I showed him my discovery and related childhood legends of ancient sculptures which seemed to move as though alive. Closer examination revealed that the images were related and, if one were to shift their position correctly, the events would play out sequentially.
Despite my intense facination with these new wonders I could not help but feel a sense of unease about their existence. The images they depicted and the detail with which they did was something that seemed inhuman, something no mortal creature would be capable of. They were objects that one would liken to holy relics, divine objects created by the gods and passed down to mortal hands To see them placed here so thoughtlessly compounded with the knowledge of their mundanity within this place filled me with a sense of revilement; it was as though some great blasphemy had taken place and we had unwittingly stumbled upon it. Mistemsigun however was completely entranced by the design and would have nothing to do with my fearful apprehension. To balk in the face of discovery is more foolhardy then any experiment gone awry, he said; after all, it only seemed divine because of it’s novelty and would cease to be so after the secrets of it’s creation were discovered. Eventually I had no recorse but to agree with his deductions and to disadvow my fearful superstition.
Sadly most of the engravings showed only scenes from everyday life or disjointed snippits of history which meant very little when viewed without context; they did however renew our desire to continue. We traveled no more then another mile before we came across one of the low troughs filled with imp fat. We ignited the fat and the fire rushed away along the serpentine trail of the trough, following the path until it vanished beyond a curve. We were prepared to continue on when a distant light appeared from within the incalculable darkness beyond the edge of our path; it hung motionless, a single star within an alien sky. Then, beside the first, appeared another pinprick of light, followed by another, and another until the cavernous space resembled an unknown sky. Great bands of fire appeared, coiling downward like serpents of flame, and the contents of immense hidden cauldrons burst alight and filled the cavern with a dim illumination. The trough, it seemed, had reignited an ancient system of similar troughs, torches and vessels which coiled about and were inlayed upon the walls of this massive place.
What the dim light illuminated, what the torches and spiraling troughs were inlayed upon, was a stalagtite of a size unimaginable within our concepts of science. It decended from darkness above and hung suspended, an inverted mountain mirroring the peaks above; it’s surface was coated in what appeared to be crystals of all multitude of size and hue. As we grew closer it became obvious that the crystals were not of natural origin, their configurations were too crisp, too geometrically perfect; in fact many of them were extremely out of place and belonged in entirely different strata. The only conclusion was that the crystals had been transported from parts unknown, cut, polished and then inlayed into the great inverted mountaintop by hand. To think that such a thing could be done, that somewhere within this seemingly infinite void lay crystals of such size as to allow it to be done, was as astounding as it was unsettling. How old, I wondered, was this place? How many generations had been extingushisted in the pursuit of this one grand, mad design? Was it possible that mortal hands could create such a thing, that mortal beings could summon the resolve to labor so long in service to an idea such as this? It was too old, too large, too inhuman to comprehend.
We continued along the path, traveling upwards now, until we were met with a bridge which extended back over the infinite pit and to the crystalline labyrinth beyond. As we grew ever closer I began to make out definite marks of civilization upon the crystal: doorways and windows glowered from every facet of the enormous jewels and the faint outlines of engravings could be seen even from a great distance. The crystals were of all varieties: polished malachite with gentle curling, flowing patterns, lapis lazuli of such brilliant color that it seemed iridescent, opal so smooth and prismatic that it seemed unreal, a bizarre collection of glimmering yellows, blues and greens seemingly bound in place by some unseen force. These crystals had been cut and shaped into the form of elaborate architecture: elegant multileveled homes and strangely coiled towers connected by countless arched pathways, bridges and aqueducts. The buildings were seated atop successively larger terraces which had been cut from the natural rock. The terraces were connected by strangely curling causeways which wrapped themselves around the outer edges of the settlement like fine irony hairs.
The entrance to the city was marked by a triumphal arch, carved of solid obsidian, which rose what I estimate to be 180 feet above the pathway; it’s surface was entirely covered in the same sort of amorphous engraving we had witnessed earlier. As we passed I could not help but look upon those engravings, for once I had seen their secret I could not return to my earlier ignorance. The image that I saw was one of war, of a great brutish dwarven soldier slaying what looked like a man, though the proportions were slightly off. The image was more detailed then the engravings we encountered before, detailed beyond the point that an image should have the capacity to be. Every possible detail was represented, every hair, every pulsing vein, every grain of dust and drop of blood within the air. It went beyond mere image, the sight of it had imbued not only visual stimulus buy auditory and tactile as well; I felt the coarse strength of the dwarven muscle, the chill of steel armor, the warmth of the freshly spilt blood, I could hear the ring of the ax, the deathly groan of the falling victim. I touched my face and felt the warm blood upon it, looked at my hand and saw the red liquid run through the creases of my skin.
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Topic: The Shadow of Besmarkezat: Lovecraft meets DF (Read 4734 times)