Dwarf opening narrative part 1

From: richstella_at_...
Date: Fri, 25 May 2001 14:25:41 EDT


A couple of weeks ago I mentioned I'd started a Hero Wars game at last and would be posting the first of my "opening narratives" to the list for your delictation. I then tried to post number one but I think it didn't get through. So here it is again. Any comments gratefully received...

Richard Crawley


Part 1 Cast off from the side

Filthspeaker sat in the rear corner of the mineral wagon as it trundled down the track, its wheels clattering on the worn stone joints. Behind him the Jolanti stared fixedly onto the darkness ahead, feeling the descent as an interplay of air currents across its barrel-broad stone torso. The Jolanti did not, could not, think of telling its passenger that the three hour journey was nearly over any more than it would pass the time of day with a load of rubies from the crystal mine. It simply, at a draught of salt laden air, shifted its considerable weight on its narrow ledge at the rear of the wagon. A grinding noise. The smell of hot granite. With a plate-sized foot jammed onto the smooth worn stone, the wagon began to slow in a shower of orange sparks.

The tamestone was unconcerned at having a living work-unit in its truck and took the tight curve at the bottom of the tunnel faster than Filthspeaker would have liked. He slammed into the opposite corner of the wagon spewing a stomachful of greasy monthly stew over the sleeve of his leather jacket and the dusty boards beneath him.

Moments passed in a whirl of pounding blood before Filthspeaker realised the wagon had come to rest. He rose unsteadily to his feet drinking in the unfamiliar salty air. Water lapped somewhere nearby. With a grinding of stone sinews, the Jolanti was already taking its place among a group of similar creatures. They would squat there, like occasional piles of rock, until ordered to push another, full wagon back up the thirty mile incline to Gemborg.

The cavern was an echoing, domed space, dimly lit by guttering oil lamps and populated by occasional scurrying dwarfs. Warehouses around three sides of the stone flagged jetty were, Filthspeaker remembered from his training manual, built in Esrolian human style; remnants of some previous period when the Openhandists had dominated the Gemborg Conclave. On the fourth side a dark void hid the view from his eyes but the swirling air currents and salt-laden breezes told him all he needed to know of the Black Glass River and the Poison Shore beyond. A darker strip studded with points of light caught his attention. Briefly, Filthspeaker's thoughts fled back to the city. He was disappointed to discover that real stars were far less impressive than the diamonds set into the jet ceiling of the Lesser Conclave Hall.

But Filthspeaker was of base clay and his breed not given to romantic notions. As a distant tremor shivered the stone beneath his feet, he shrugged his small pack onto his back. He turned to an anonymous, granite-lintel-topped doorway and, beyond it, the hidden basin where he knew Submersible No.1 would be waiting.


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