The hum of chattering dwarves clustered in the Watering Hole melded into a monotone buzzing inside the mind of Dundale Stoutfoot. So much had happened all in one day, how could any dwarf keep his head? He gazed into his mug of mushroom ale, mesmerized by the amber-brown liquid rippling to the rhythm of stomping feet nearby.
He'd been so close to death. One delay, one backtrack, and it would have been him melted into acid or torn asunder by the pilfered rifles. It could have been him, not those brave fighters that threw everything in their power to stop the prison break. His hands still trembled with the idea, even with the comfort of inebriation.
Those conversations with the Pillar Born were now his last. All hope of further knowledge was stolen away. And yet, Dundale knew that wasn't the only reason his heart felt so heavy. He frowned and took another swig of his drink to keep such non-dwarven ideas at bay. No, it was the fact that he had no need to hold onto Lord Megad's gold pin now that his duties were moot. That was it, definitely…
"Reports of the prisoners have surfaced!" An Incher announced to the bar's crowded interior, barging in from the batwing doors. Most didn't stop their own conversations for the news, and a few groaned. Dundale couldn't help but focus on the report, but he made sure not to turn his head.
The Incher tried to gain attention again. "Periscopes have spotted them just above where they were last seen. They simply ascended to the surface straight up from where they vanished from!"
"And what of it?" An armored warrior chucked his empty goblet at the speaker. "If you think for one bloody moment that any dwarf would give chase to those creatures, think again."
An assenting voice cried, "Haven't we been through enough?"
"An expedition to the Marked surface is far too costly. No fool would attempt it."
Dundale added his two cents to the mix, "Especially seeing how well the last venture to the surface went." His grandfather had died in that quest before Dundale or his older siblings had even been born. Come to think of it, his addled brain suddenly jumped to an odd conclusion, maybe that's why father is so firmly in the Preservation Sect. He sipped more ale thoughtfully.
"So," the poor Incher gulped, "what do we do? Surely they'd want to destroy us for all the things we did to them."
"I think Sir GoldShoulder Gear-Guard can answer that better than any of us could." The warrior grimaced at Dundale.
Dundale paused, trying to keep up a composed face despite the wooziness from his drinking. "The Pillar-Born prisoners wanted to leave as soon as they arrived, and now they have left. They should be satisfied. Besides, how would they destroy us? Reports of the skirmish they had in the workshop and their obedience to the Long Lords upon first arrival indicates that they do not have the world-ending capabilities of their deityhood as of yet. They barely got out of there alive, as the reports and footage says. Or so I am told."
"So, we might be safe?"
"From most of them. That red-skinned one might hold a grudge." Dundale shrugged. "But I believe there's nothing they can do to us and nothing we can do to them. Consider them like a hive of growling wasps in an inaccessible cavern. They tend to their home and we tend to ours without risking an encounter for as long as possible."
"But one had a Silver Flame." One dwarf grumbled. "What if that is a sign that they near ascension?"
This sparked immediate debate.
"Fat chance in the hells that it was actually silver!" A stout dwarf shouted, slamming his mug on his table.
"Maybe the cameras skewed the color. It had to be golden. There's no such thing as a silver flame." An older dwarf said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
"Witnesses swear it, but I think it's a load of maggot dung." Another shook his head.
"What would silver even indicate? Draoi's Foundation is always golden!" Another incher yelled, taking a long swig from his mug before continuing. "Illusion magic, it is. It was used to make us overthink this whole thing."
"But it was used while the prisoner had on the suppressor cuffs." The older pointed out.
"Says who?!"
Dundale drained his cup and slid off his chair. It was time to retire for the night, before this shouting match intensified into a bar brawl. However, his first step was blocked by a fellow guard. The blonde dwarf, a Footer like himself, held out a radio and said in a conciliatory voice, "Your name was mentioned on the waves."
"Wurmdring?" Dundale asked quietly.
"If only." He shook his head.
Something had happened with the immaculately ranked Fanged Guard in a skirmish that had taken place in the workshop earlier, but rumors and stories were being quickly suppressed by high ranking officers. Word had it that Wurmdring had been escorted to the Long Lord's throne room and was being kept there for some purpose. The few witnesses of Wurmdring's fight had all been sworn into secrecy, or more like those who found him in the aftermath were... There had been no survivors besides the elder vampire. Dundale had a bad feeling about the whole thing and wanted little to do with it.
Dundale took up the radio and announced while holding the call button down, "Go for Dundale Stoutfoot."
"Oh great, there you are," a slimy, too-cheery voice crackled back. A disgusted shudder ran down his spine as he realized the owner of the voice was Heathford Heavyhouse.
Heathford was in the upper leadership of the guards, reporting directly to Wurmdring Gleamhilt, and most dwarves whispered behind his back that he didn't deserve the promotion to immortality. Some rumors said that Heathford had been selected as the lesser of evils from an unsavory stock of vampire prospects. Those who worked directly with him begged to differ with the lesser part.
Dundale fought to keep his tone professional over the public line. "What can I do for you, sir?"
"Report to the Long Lord's throne room, Stoutfoot. You should have been summoned earlier, but things have been a little distracted." Heathford hummed.
"Copy." He handed back the radio and made for the exit. He knew such a meeting would have to take place, but the way Heathford phrased it made Dundale feel uneasy. After waving a small farewell at the blonde dwarf, he pushed through the bat wing door and into the hallway.
On his way over, Dundale witnessed a strange occurrence. Two Second Footers were wrestling with a single Footer, with the shorter beard wearing the stone-gray uniform of a sanitation worker.
The dwarf ducked away from the two older enforcers and gasped, "Please, I have a child at home with another on the way! I can't go to that cursed place!"
"You are a sanitation worker and will do your duty!" One of the enforcers grunted.
"All dwarves who step foot in that workshop die! Please, sirs, I'll scrub the prisoner's waste buckets, I'll clear the sewers, or even donate my blood twice a day for a month, anything but the workshop!"
Dundale silently agreed with the pleading dwarf, even as his feet carried him past the confrontation. Ketbram Surestone, one of the few survivors of his original crew, had begun acting borderline insane and had refused to touch his tools. Not many other survivors were faring much better. Dundale took a roundabout route, avoiding the workshop by several tunnels. Surely that place was cursed, best to just seal it off permanently.
Once the throne room was reached, Dundale's stomach churned. Heathford was waiting for him. Like all Fanged Guards, his grey beard was grown to brush the floor and decorated with some gold and gems. Though, his beard was barely thick enough to hold many decorations, so he compensated by having what could hold onto his hair be delicately carved and engraved trinkets. His gleaming red eyes sank into his greyed head, shaped by a crooked smile that not even the most naive person would trust. Heathford gave a lazy salute and clasped his hands together in front of him.
"Greetings, Stoutfoot. I trust you already have an idea of what you're in for?" Heathford asked, that insufferable smile still plastered on his wrinkled face.
If only he had the length of beard to sass back, he would. Instead, he answered flatly, "Business with Long Lord Megad, I presume?"
The vampire's eyes lingered on the gold clip on his uniform's shoulder with bald envy. "Of course, beardling. I believe I heard the guards say that you can go right in. Here, let me get the door for you."
Caution morphed into full-blown suspicion at the kindly offer from a superior. Something wrong was at play, and Dundale was being roped into it by this bearded leech. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do to avoid the direct order. He reluctantly followed the Fanged Guard into the antichamber, passed the guards, and tried to open the door. Heathford purred "allow me" and pulled it open.
The guards behind them seemed to hesitate, clearly wanting to intervene but keeping their mouths shut at the sight of the high ranked-vampire. Dundale heard a conversation going on in the throne room already and stopped in place. He shouldn't be here.
Heathford shoved the Gear Guard in with his pointed nails and spoke through the conversation as if he owned the place, "Stoutfoot is here, just as requested, my lords."
Long Lord Lagoma snapped, "Has your brain withered away with the rest of your flesh, Heavyhouse? You were told to bring in our next appointment when we had concluded!" His long, skeletal fingers combed through part of his gloriously long beard as he sat on his throne.
All three of the Long Lords had assembled and Wurmdring Gleamhilt knelt before them on the iron grate, helmet removed and looking only into the swirling blood pool beneath. The sight of one of the most respected vampires brought to his knees made Dundale's heart sink. What had happened in the latest fight, and why was everything being so quiet? Then rationality took over. The second he knew, his secrecy would have to be enforced too.
Dundale hastily bowed, letting his beard scrape the ground in utter subservience. "Please forgive us, my lords."
"Oh dear, I must have misheard. Come then, my impatient usurper." Heathford answered in a slimy tone and grabbed Dundale's shoulder roughly. The fanged maggot dung had known exactly what he was doing with this stunt. Dundale had half a mind to slap his hand away.
"Stay your hand, Heavyhouse," Long Lord Megad spoke calmly. This earned him a glare from his younger brother Lagoma. "This will simply save me time and explanations. That is, if Telegad agrees to my reasoning." His pointed smile targeted the mentioned lord in the center.
"Of course." Heathford released his pinch and bowed deeply. Dundale followed suit, though he avoided looking at the conniving vampire too directly.
Long Lord Lagoma jerked his head violently at the center lord. "Surely you cannot agree to his insane suggestion! Rules are rules! If we made exceptions to every rule we create, then order would dissolve within the generation. I do not wish ill on Wurmdring and do not doubt his service, but we must hold to our standards or doom ourselves to relativism!"
"It is because of Wurmdring's quick thinking and skirting of the rules that he came back to us alive and with a wounded phantom of an enemy limping away. Or would you have preferred his death and countless others?" Lord Megad countered.
"Do not argue 'what if's, brother," said Lord Lagoma.
Long Lord Telegad's attention lingered on Dundale for a moment, then he asked Lord Megad, "Why do you wish to continue this debate with an audience of a mere Footer?"
The ancient leader smiled gently in the non-vampire's direction. "I have come to recognize a valuable asset to my plans."
"The son of Geldheart?"
"And grandson to Klepsom." Lord Megad added. "That connection alone should tell you enough."
Dundale felt his face redden. He couldn't believe his own ears at the immensely high praise. He heard Heathford force out a choked cough. Obviously he had hoped to get Dundale into a dressing down, to gloat over an underling's pain. Once Dundale's shock wore off, he'd have a private gloat about the whole thing.
"Unconventional, but you're old enough to decide for yourself." Lord Telegad mused.
"Thank you for the faith, dear brother," smirked Lord Megad playfully.
The mediating lord reflected back the mirth, and for a second Dundale was reminded that under all of the grandeur of age and power, they were just a trio of brothers at the core. He found himself smiling along.
Lord Lagoma shook his head and beard again. "My argument still stands."
"And I suggest we do not go public, but sequester Wurmdring into my personal study. The rules will be upheld," Lord Megad said in the younger's direction, "but our greatest warrior will not receive public punishment for saving our dwarves' lives. And in keeping to the isolation, we save ourselves from answering the most obvious questions until I and my researchers have gained enough information."
Lord Telegad tapped his fingernails on his armrest, red eyes examining the room instead of those occupying it. After a long moment, he hissed, "Our Long Rest approaches far too soon. Wurmdring was supposed to be our overseer while we rest in our coffins. This change has corrupted our plans. In conceding to your suggestion, Megad, you must take up the approval process of a replacement Fanged Guard as overseer. You must also assure us that Wurmdring is properly secured in his rest and will be monitored. You have mere days to learn as much as you can."
Lord Megad smiled and nodded graciously. "Your terms are accepted."
Lord Lagoma sank into his throne slightly, though wasn't overly irritated.
The mediating vampire lord looked over once again at the interrupting two, eyes narrowing slightly. "Very well. This meeting is adjourned."
Rising to his feet, Lord Megad descended from his towering throne. For some reason, only one attending new vampire came to his side to hold as much of the beard off the ground. What he couldn't manage, Megad waved his finger about and summoned a touch of Foundation to aid. The ancient leader then tapped Wurmdring's shoulder and said something quietly to the Fanged Guard.
As the lord approached Dundale, Heathford raised his head and said, "Gracious Lord, I have many a suggestion to help you on the appointment of the overseer-"
"In due time, Heathford," Lord Megad waved a hand. "Thank you for delivering Dundale Stoutfoot. I shall approach you as my time allows."
"Of course, Magnificent One," he groveled and bowed deeply.
Dundale fought to hide any outward sign of disgust towards the superior. Instead, he quietly confirmed that he would follow along. He waited several paces behind the lord before following. Curiosity made him check to see if Wurmdring was coming, and he stopped in place. The old vampire's eyes glowed an eerie gold. Dundale couldn't help but stare in shock. Wurmdring, helmet back on his head and following after, noticed the look and averted his eyes, though bared his fangs in a grimace.
The Gear Guard quickly turned around and followed after his lord, letting his mind scramble for explanations for the sight. Now the treatment of the warrior general made sense. It would be impossible for any dwarf to overlook those strange eyes. With all the bizarre things that had happened since those Pillar-Born and Outworlders arrived, most normal dwarves would be inclined to think the worst of any change.
Once inside Lord Megad's private chambers, the decorated depictions of the surface world once again drew Dundale's attention to the foreign beauty. He dragged his eyes away from the sight and prepared to hand over his pin, feeling its glittering beauty for the last time.
Wurmdring stayed far behind, closing the chamber's door and lingering by it like a lowly Incher guard. His scowl hadn't faded, and his eyes lingered on the ground and other unoccupied areas of the room.
Long Lord Megad led the way into his adjoining room and private library. His attending vampire gathered the long beard and settled into a parade rest as his lord halted. The ancient leader ran his skeletal fingers over the old leather of his collection and mused, "Tell me, Dundale Stoutfoot my child, how the surface world has been described by our now escaped prisoners."
He took in a deep breath and answered as if reading from a carefully rehearsed book of notes, "The surface above us is currently uninhabitable. Our prisoners called it the Fiendwood and most seemed to indicate that the entire continent had fallen to the spiral Mark. Judging from the large amount of supplies in their cart and the dusty, tired state that they came to us in, their trek had to have taken over a week. Only skilled fighters have been able to explore as far as they have because of their divinity."
"And the rest of Ahkoolis?"
"The presence of the elf lady and her garb seem to indicate that the Faewood is still thriving, as that race generally cultivates their large forests. Other places of note were mentioned, like the Blastlands having some rudimentary firearms that compare to ours and the Fiery Lashes. I suspect that only our current continent is plagued."
Lord Megad nodded slowly, his face hiding in the shadow of his hood for a moment. "If given the choice, would you venture to the surface?"
Dundale let his mouth fall open slightly. "My Magnificent Lord, why the rush? The Marked lands are unforgiving and deadly, and we have proof that a godling war is raging. We've endured the ravages of several ascensions, why risk the dwarfpower?"
The vampire quietly answered, "You remember what I said about the Tenth Age, about it being the number of finality? What if there is no Eleventh Age?"
He shook his head firmly, "With all due respect, my lord, ten is not the final number of mathematics. Even if the Pillar Gods insisted that ten was the final number, there is nothing that proves this ascension will prove more catastrophic than others."
"Having Pillar Born and Outworlders at the same time is cause for worry." He turned his hooded head toward Dundale and smiled in an almost grandfatherly way. "When you get to my age, you start noticing things. Something trembles deep inside our world and a silver flame that not even our ancestral knowledge has catalogued has emerged." His voice trailed off into thoughtful contemplation.
The young dwarf simply nodded and waited. His points stood solidly, so there was no use in engaging with the topic of speculation. The manner of the pin still hadn't been brought up. Maybe he should suggest it. "My lord, have you summoned me to retrieve the pin you so graciously gifted me? The prisoners can no longer be interrogated, so the added privilege should be revoked."
"You may keep it, though showing it should only be reserved for your new duties."
"New duties, my lord?"
The Long Lord held out his hands. "Surely you could extrapolate a hint of what I wish from you, Dundale Stoutfoot. The mention of your grandfather, talk of the outside world, and new duties."
His eyes popped open. "My lord, you can't mean to lead an expedition to the surface! The dangers and the cost would be exponential!"
"We have time, as you said. Not decades, but enough time to make an impact on Ahkoolis. We will speak more seriously on the manner after the Long Rest has concluded, but your duties will be in organizing and calculating logistics." His head nodded to the library behind him. All historical accounts, maps, and research materials will be at your disposal. You may use the pin to recruit worthwhile dwarves to our cause. You've proven to be excellent at judging and predicting behavior of others, so you will act as a de facto Expedition Leader." Lord Megad smirked slightly, his greyed flesh wrinkling with the action. "And standing in this room with us will be our muscle. That is, once we solve the riddle of his golden eyes."
Wurmdring jumped to attention and bowed deeply, beads clattering to the floor. "My lord, please, I do not-"
"You drove off that monster Hoplite and took some of his essence for yourself. At least, that is my working theory. That will be put to the test as you and my highest ranking phlebotomists focus on your 'affliction'."
Dundale's eyes widened. So, he was right! Hoplite was a creature of some kind in that suit. Wurmdring of all vampires had lived through a fight with that killing machine, enough to potentially drink his blood! His respect for the old Fanged Guard climbed immensely.
The ancient one nodded to the warrior. "My top phlebotomist, Fellpike, is currently with my attendant Jestram in my private holding cell for the Outworlder vampire. Go to him and explain everything. Your duties will be to solve what that Outworlder's blood has done to you before you are put into supervised Rest."
Wurmdring saluted crisply and marched away without another word.
Lord Megad's blazing eyes lingered on Dundale. "Here are my direct orders: compose a draft of the necessary resources and dwarfpower needed for an invasion force. Plot out a course, predict transportation needs, and all of the angles you could possibly imagine. Only recruit those you trust to lend their expertise. You will report to me after the Long Rest."
Dundale drew himself up and saluted. "I strive to meet your expectations, my gracious lord!"
"Grand. You may also attend my observations and training of our newest vampire, the Outworlder Michael."
"You are too kind, my lord. Thank you!"
The vampire nodded. "You will make your grandfather proud, Dundale. I sense his tenacity in you."
Dundale's heart nearly exploded from the praise. He beamed brightly, then excused himself to immediately start on his sacred task.