The Son of the Mountain

The man of shale and slate broke the silence of the steppes, turning to Throkk and pulling the wide brim of his straw hat lower to shield his blood-shot eyes.

His voice was hoarse and earthy, and sounded like heavy footsteps in gravel.

After the last century waTr,  we Dwarves retreated north to the mountain strongholds, sensing it was no longer our fight, and unwilling to risk everything for others. We build walls high and tunnels low, and over the centuries that followed, we systematically isolated from the other races and cities, … we thought ourselves safe in our isolation.

There were still skirmishes, outputs would fall to a foe unseen, a village would be razed, and mine flooded, and slowly , mile by mile, we retreated back to the citadel of Caer Mynydd, after years of paranoia and fear, probably every last dwarf had retreated back to the safety of the stronghold.

Little did we suspect, that we were not retreating, but rather we were being herded, corralled into one location. 

One night, when the twin moons were high and leered  at us from above like a great predators eyes, they came. A wave of otherworldly creatures, all claw and tentacle and fury. But we laughed secretly. What could such creatures do to the great citadel? To the mountain itself?

When our doom came, it was from a single point of weakness. A point below. For despite the great warren of tunnels and mines we had built, the proud halls and the living mountain that was our heritage, there were those that had dug deeper, and had been digging and tunneling and planning for centuries longer, waiting patiently. Disaster struck from below as the night elves had engineered some foul plot – somehow allied with those creatures to distract the  us, to herd us, to hunt us, to attacked the gates. They were the hammer to the Anvil of the Drow.  Meanwhile the Drow came from far below, from the sunless sea, and somehow… the groans of ancient masonry still haunt me Throkk.. somehow entire city sank.. was swallowed as the mountain itself crashed inwards and downwards, caving in and collapsing down. I felt like I fell for hours watching a city tumble into the shadows with me… I .. I guess most died. we must have. surely. A slow, methodical, almost masterworked genocide of my people.. those who survived were pulled from the inky depths onto the deck of their slaver ships.

I tunneled, usually downwards. I build walls and carved surfaces, having no light I would work by feel and instinct. I was owned .. owned by one named Amalolg Oussath, a lord of a large estate in the sunless sea. The geography was.. alien, strange to me, it felt like a scattering of islands.. I would be transported from island to island manacled in the hull of a dark ship.. I could..feel and hear the dull scratches of the  strange creatures swimming alongside in the inky black stillness, waiting for somebody to fall, or be thrown overboard. On deck, the sound of leathery wings flap overhead, circling, and yet, despite the lack of all sense… there was a wind to lift the sails.

The masters were not cruel Throkk, more .. empty.. and heartless and uncaring. Once you had reached the limit of your usefulness, you simply had your throat slit, calmly , clinically. The spoke little to us, fed us and watered us adequately, knowing we had value so long as we could work, they did not torture us, but kept us as.. pets.. to allow us further their goals.

I never made it to he city of Faneadar, the supposed capital of that black empire. I was digging a new tunnel some months ago.. I think.. its hard to keep track of time underground.. I guess we tunneled too close to the surface although we never really knew where we were. I was digging with my uncle, who’s tongue had been excised for excessive … communication.

Well, the old mans arms were not as strong as they used to be, and his buttressing was catching up on him. I felt it in my soul first, in my heart… the walls give, the creak of damp soil reaching inwards. Then I heard the wooden tearing of the strut snapping. The tunnel flooded in an instant, a great torrent of water from above. I sank to my knees and waited to drown.. but when I tasted the water as it washed around me.. it wasn’t salty. It might be a lake or river.. I had assumed us under the sea and doomed for sure.. but.. for some reason I… I let , let myself be carried up by the water and once the tunnel was completely submerged I found the rupture in the wall and followed the tunnel out and swam .. and swam.. and..

Well.. a son of the mountain was never meant to swim. I should have died. In fact, sometimes I think I might have died, Im not sure. But when I opened my eyes there was a beautiful orc standing over me clutching a brilliant diamond to my chest and mumbling in her strange tongue. I hadn’t seen the sun in years, and the light bouncing of the water as I lay on the deck was blinding, but the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and for the first time in centuries, I wept.

After I regained my strength, the crew left me off at Porta Verde. Well being a novelty is no joy in a trading town. That’s where I fell afoul of brigands and rogues.. a few trades here, swapped hands a few times there, a drunken card game and hidden daggers in the night, and here I am. Not the last son the mountain, but.. maybe the last to be free. And for that I am, thankful.

I’m Alawyn. I was a shale smith.

Of Elves and Demons

“It is easy to go down to hell; night and day the gates of Dark Death stand wide; but to climb back up again, to retrace one’s steps to the open air, there lies the problem, the difficult task.”

VIRGIL, The Aeneid

 

The elven forests of Vaul are a part of a wider territory stretching across multiple planes of existence. Individual settlements are linked by a series of magical gateways known as the Winding Path. To human eyes these portals are barely visible – only a change of light between two trees or an odd ripple across a pool mark the spot where one world bleeds into the next. An unwary wanderer looking for a shortcut through a small stretch of elm trees may suddenly find themselves in a snow covered pine forest hundreds of miles away or lost in a silver forest under alien stars. Sometimes a traveller can retrace their steps but numerous folk tales attest to the existence of portals which only open in one direction. To return from such a place the misfortunate soul must throw themselves on the mercurial mercy of the Twins, the Abyss and whoever else they can invoke before their inevitable end.

 

Knowledge of the Winding Path and an indifference towards philosophical concepts of good and evil means that elves are one of the few mortal races who maintain an outpost in the layers of the Abyss. The Zaqqum Glades are a never-ending nightmare to the dead souls trapped there but the elves have control of several portals which lead back to the woodlands of Vaul. Elves find the demonic obsession with pain and torture both distasteful and boring, but they have no qualms against striking deals with fiends. At any given time hordes of demons crowded the boundaries of the elven territories in the Abyss waiting for the mortals to open the gates and let the lucky few though. Typically an elf would summon a single creature for a specific task but if a serious threat arises then dozens or even hundreds of demons could be loosed against the enemies of the elves. An invading army moving into elven lands could meet no resistance for days before suddenly finding themselves overrun by hordes of the
damned.

Demons delighted in these chances to shed blood but their long term goal was always to take control of the Winding Path. Fifty years ago they nearly managed this due to the disastrous intervention of the Namtharite Judge Etricht the Unwavering.

Etricht had seen firsthand the devestating consequences of even minor demonic incursions. As he rose in the church’s hierarchy his expanding investigations left him in no doubt that the elves were consorting with demons and he grew to see the Winding Path as the greatest immediate threat to human existence.

Etricht managed to sneak a small band of adventures into the heart of the elven lands and began a ritual which he believed would close the portals leading to the Abyss. Whether the ritual was flawed or merely interrupted at a critical point is still unknown but the results were catastrophic. Connections between elven settlements were disrupted as portals winked out of existence, exploded into multi-coloured flames or opened up to entirely new locations. Thousands of elves died in minutes as demons poured into forests, taking the unexpected opportunity to wreak havoc on the mortals who had caged them for so long. Hundreds died in the first few minutes before any defence could be mounted, and thousands more died over the next few hours as settlements became cramped and bloodsoaked battlefields. The spellcasters and warriors of the elves were able to retake control of the gates by sunrise but one fifth of their entire population was dead, injured or unaccounted for.

Decades later the elves are still rebuilding from this cataclysm. The majority of portals along the Winding Path have been sealed and old alliances with the lords of the abyss have been annulled. This is intended to prevent a repeat of Walpurgis night but it has deprived the elves of their most potent mercenaries and greatly curtailed their mobility. Historically the have elves tolerated nearby settlements, safe in the knowledge that they could evacuate entire communities in moments. Now for the first time they need to link and defend their disparate territories against the encroachment of civilisation.

Unbeknownst to most races the elves have turned their diplomatic efforts towards the elder races of Dragons and Giants, seeking to make common cause with those who can remember a time before roads and cities scarred the endless wilderness. The civilised races will be reminded that this is not their world.

In their new quest for allies the elves have even sought reconciliation with their long ostracised cousins in the depths of the earth…