"Get out of here, Stoutfoot," an exasperated voice greeted Dundale at the metal doorway, "there's nothing to guard here."
Dundale Stoutfoot examined the group of engineers. The usual ragtag assortment of Footers and apprenticing Inchers in their greasy, grime-smeared outfits filled the wide workshop. Half of them sat at workbenches that lined the walls, fiddling with the Outworlder weapons. The other half of the crew surrounded the behemoth automaton, a few ladders placed against its frame. Experienced Footers were atop these ladders, investigating the various seams of the construct. He heard one of them swear loudly and snapped about where the power tools had disappeared to. Another dwarf began bashing at the golem's armor with a mallet, cursing after it became apparent that the dark metal remained undamaged despite his efforts.
Excitement coursed through his veins as he examined the towering mass of metal. Outworlder tech was even more magnificent than he could have imagined. The way the golem had navigated and walked with human-like experience was beyond any advancements of the Romai. Add in that somehow a contraption of that size could move without a tunnel-sized generator and so quietly left his brain stumbling for explanations. What secrets could be unlocked by examining such prized technology? The possibilities almost made Dundale dizzy.
Attention from the workers forced Dundale's wonder back into the smug exterior a good Romai dwarf ought to carry. He was treading outside of his regular stomping ground and he had to justify it.
The Gear Guard pointed to his shoulder and the lack of an "on shift" clip. Without waiting, he approached the upright golem, craning his neck to look at the smaller box of a head the thing had. "None of you saw this golem move or respond to its surroundings. I can provide insight."
A sigh followed. The head engineer, Ketbram Surestone, wiped his hands on an oil-streaked towel and approached. His brown beard was allowed to grow to a foot and a half to show that he was close to promotion, but still a few years off. He was the strongest of the work-dwarves in his sector, muscled well for his age, and had an unfortunate bald spot creeping over his head. Overall, not a bad dwarf, but a little territorial.
Ketbram jerked a finger at the humanoid hunk of metal and grunted, "Alright then Stoutfoot, enlighten the team."
Dundale felt a few more eyes on him. He kept his back straight and spoke, "Surely you've noticed that the golem's head is little more than a box with no visors to speak of. When he moved, he never seemed to turn his head. It can be surmised that he has many hidden cameras that he observes his surroundings with."
"Toad Slime!" One of the workers cursed from his perch near the Outworlder's head. "I couldn't find any trace of glass or lenses along the entire surface of this slab of metal."
"Not just any metal," one dwarf in a thick black apron mused, "a rare, tough alloy. If any piece of that material comes undone, I must smelt it immediately to solve this mystery. It's far too resilient compared to our metals."
"It's Outworlder tech, of course it's going to be alien to us," an Incher said.
"Different, but not better." Ketbram spoke firmly, eyes narrowing.
All other dwarves immediately echoed the saying, including Dundale.
"As I was saying, wise guy," the dwarf near the golem's head sniffed, "there's no way that there are cameras on the surface. We don't see a need for your Stoutfoot kind to poke your nose into our business."
Dundale smirked, "Then you know his designation?"
"Yeah: Golem."
"He has a name and a number. Nothing of the like has been printed on the material?"
The combative Footer grunted and squinted his eyes.
Dundale had done enough stirring up of their egos. Now he had to see if the automaton was voice operated or not. He made a show of asking permission to stand in front of the contraption to patronize the engineers, then called up, "Define Hoplite."
No response came.
Automatons likely couldn't be provoked into a response, but the Gear Guard voiced one all the same, "Tell me, does the number thirty-seven mean that you are part of an exclusive group, or are you simply an outdated model made at the beginning of your factory's run?"
Again silence.
Feeling pressure to get Hoplite to speak, Dundale tried one last time, "Perhaps you only listen to that elf woman. Shall we get a recording of her giving you an order to respond or do we have to open you up and rewire you ourselves?"
The engineers began chuckling. Dundale forced the disappointment down. Hoplite might have been powered down, was in need of a charge, or was still locked down from the Long Lords' magic. Regardless, the secrets the Outworlder tech carried would be unearthed eventually. Dundale just had to accept that he personally couldn't lead the investigation.
"Aw, your big show of knowledge didn't do anything." A dwarf on the ladder by Hoplite's head jeered. "Go back to the door that never opens. Or, used to…" He shook his head and beard, then resumed trying to pry the head piece off.
Just as Ketbram took a step closer, another dwarf entered the room. All others froze at the intrusion. The reddened eyes of the arrival pierced Dundale and he felt a little shudder run through his spine.
Wurmdring Gleamhilt filled the entryway with his presence. His graying beard reached down to his feet as all Third Footers wore it. Braids of hair framed his mouth and climbed down his jowls. Small jewel decorations in his facial hair denoted him as immaculately ranked. On top of that was the pale, sagging skin, glowing eyes, and pointed teeth of a vampire in the Fanged Guard. He raised a withering finger directly at Dundale and hissed, "I have come to fetch Dundale Stoutfoot. His presence is requested by our First Prince."
Dundale's heart may as well have hit the floor. He gulped and bowed deeply to his superior, then marched to the vampire's side. Wurmdring bared his teeth slightly, then glided for the northern tunnels. As Dundale left the workshop, he heard more laughter and jeers follow him out, along with promises to write a flattering obituary.
His mind twisted and turned over any possible reason why he specifically was being requested. The Long Lords never asked for a mere Footer. Promotion was always started by announcing a ceremony and a Shaving was preceded by a riotous call for justice and a gathering in a public square. Even a Matching had some pomp and the prospective families were given advanced notice of the marriage. Coming up empty, Dundale glanced at Wurmdring for a hint, but found nothing behind the beady red eyes.
He was not allowed into the grand throne room as he had been yesterday. Instead he was directed to First Prince Megad's private quarters a short distance away. Dundale's heart pounded in his ears as Wurmdring eased the door open and gestured for him to enter.
A room fitting of the Long Lords welcomed him with beautiful engravings of gold and silver encircling the room, depicting a land only known about through ancestral tales of vegetation and sunlight. Ancient scraps of paper hung encased in glass frames along one wall, and a small bookshelf of the dwarves' most ancient of texts stood next to a mineral table that had been carved to mimic wood. Dundale's breath caught in his throat at the sight of so many signs and relics of the above world.
Two schools of thoughts shaped the Romai in their education. One was to love the tunnels, rock, and soil and to want nothing else. The other was the desperate dream to reclaim their rightful place as ruling class among the races of Ahkoolis on the surface. Each idea had had its time of power through the years, but both unquestioningly bowed to the Long Lords' decree. It was noteworthy to Dundale that Prince Megad had decorated his room to undoubtedly proclaim alliance toward the dominion sect.
Then again, Prince Megad was the dreamer of the Long Lords, the driver of innovation and pursuer of greater advancement. Younger Prince Lagoma held onto traditions and enforced them with such vigor that the term "Lagomian" had become a synonym with "unyielding" centuries ago. Long Lord Telegad acted as the responsible mediator between the two, reigning in unachievable dreams and undoing staunch unchangingness. Truly, the trio were the perfect rulers.
"You may approach, Dundale Stoutfoot, my child," a soft croon came from the adjacent room.
The Gear Guard found his knees knocking and his breath unsteady in his lungs. After a small push from Wurmdring, he rounded the corner.
Glorious First Prince Megad raised his hooded head from examining a collection of brown scraps of paper upon a golden table. His personal guard, three Fanged Guards in total, held sections of his luxurious beard off the floor. It was well-known that the first thirty years of vampirism was devoted to attending a Long Lord at all times. It offered a good buffer for the strongest of weaknesses to ebb and to learn from a lord how to properly manage their new bodies and skills. Once graduated from attending duties, they'd be assigned a sector of work to preside over, as Wurmdring had been assigned to patrol oversight.
As any good Romai would be, Dundale felt privileged to be in the company of so many vampires. He once again saluted and bowed deeply as his voice was unable to work.
After a small pause, the wondrous voice of the First Prince said, "Tenth age. Curious, since in all the ancient scriptures, ten is an important number. Ten is the number of luck, and it is the number of finality."
No one dared to speak. First Prince Megad continued to muse softly as he took a few steps closer to Dundale. "Outworlders and Pillar-Born alike now fill our cells. And who should be the one to be posted at our Gear Door to welcome them inside other than the dwarf who has been the most outspoken about the wonders of the surface?" A skeletal hand rested on Dundale's shoulder, then curved around his head to lift him from the bow. First Prince Megad smiled gently through his wizened flesh. "What are the odds?"
He couldn't form any words that could describe the rush of emotions. He simply held still, staring into the Long Lord's red eyes.
"Tell me honestly," the vampire lord removed his hand, but the warmth remained in his expression, "if left to your own devices, would you speak with our prisoners?"
Dundale glanced at Wurmdring behind him and answered properly, "The cells are not in my guard jurisdiction, gracious prince, so it would be beyond my station to-"
"Honestly."
He gulped and lowered his eyes. "Yes, my lord."
The smirk from Wurmdring hinted at something malicious being planned, but the First Prince instead reached into his robe and pulled out a small emblem shaped like a shield. A gasp emerged from all the attending vampires.
Prince Megad clipped the golden shield to Dundale's uniform where his "on shift" pin usually resided. The vampire lord explained, "Ambition and tenacity will be rewarded. You would seek out answers from the Unmarked without prompting. Therefore, I will enable your curiosity on the one condition that every tidbit you learn, I will hear of as well."
"My lord…" Dundale gasped, then bowed deeply again. "You are far too gracious. Thank you!" His mind raced at the possibilities, at what he could say to each of the prisoners to best draw the truth out of each one. The elf girl clearly hated the Pillar-Born so she could be played against her fellows. Each one could provide untold wells of information if he was careful and clever enough. Already a plan was forming in his mind and he felt his feet itch for action.
"First Prince, if I may," Wurmdring stepped forward with a grunt. "You speak of rewarding curiosity, then one question lingers in my and all the Fanged Guard's minds. That Outworlder that Long Lord Telegad bit, how does he rank? Surely you can't expect us to treat that human as one of our own?"
The hooded figure waved his hand dismissively. "Consider him like a fat head. He provides us a service, but he is nothing more than flora. No race is as precious as the dwarves."
Wurmdring grinned and saluted.
Dundale hesitantly felt the gold pin at his shoulder and said, "I will interrogate our prisoners, my lord, and bring back the spoils of knowledge. May I leave to fulfill your will now?"
First Prince Megad answered kindly, "You have my permission. Fortune favors you, Dundale Stoutfoot. Do not squander it."
He saluted, then all but burst into a run, eager to begin his work.
Psychology translated well across all sentient races of Ahkoolis. This simplicity gave Dundale a starting point of offering kindness after the dismal incarceration process. From there he would adjust to play off the small tidbits he'd picked up about any words or actions he'd observed from the outsiders. Energized by the possibilities, he moved quickly to the high security cells, a pile of spare blankets filling his arms.
Three Footer guards chatted with each other, rifles held loosely as they firmly grasped mugs of mushroom ale. One spotted Dundale and told him to turn back. A flash of the golden badge had the three of them choking on their drinks and appraising Dundale in a new light.
The guard with a black beard said that the sanctioning crew was talking with the blonde male humanoid at present and to not interrupt. Other than that, he was free to do as he pleased. Dundale nodded and entered the dank, sparsely lit corridor.
Romai prisons were pits of despair by design. If a dwarf did something egregious enough to surpass a Shaving, public humiliation, and even slave labor, then he or she was usually left to rot before being Drained. Cleaning crews never touched the halls, leaving mold and mushrooms to choke the air with their spores. Water dripped down from the ceiling on occasion, staining the stone walls with slimy trails.
Taking in a deep breath to reassure himself, Dundale approached the first iron door and opened the eye slat. With only a distant light bulb to light the interior, he had to take a moment before he could see the occupant inside.
Soft mumbling came from the occupant, the red-skinned human-like being that normally wore little clothes. Dundale hadn't caught his name, so he had little to work off of for this prisoner. However, that lack of a foothold had no drawbacks. The red-skinned thing ignored Dundale completely even after several loud calls for attention. Instead, the prisoner seemed to be talking to his own graying hand, and it seemed to writhe back. After a minute or so of failed attempts, the Gear Guard moved on after stuffing a blanket through the food slat.
Next was the wrinkled elf, but speaking to him too proved rather fruitless. He lay on his side and snored loudly through all of the attempts at questions. Whether it was a tactic or genuine tiredness, it mattered little. Dundale left a blanket for him in case of future conversations before leaving.
Then came the Outworlder woman. Even after the blanket was given, she loudly proclaimed that she'd trained against interrogation tactics and refused to betray the Octopus. Amused by the idea of a human serving a mythical slimy creature, he asked further about it, but was met with the repeated sentiment. There was little to be learned from her stubbornness this early into her imprisonment.
However, before Dundale closed the eye slat in the door, the Outworlder asked in a gentler voice, "How is Michael?"
After getting clarification that this was the other Outworlder's name, Dundale said truthfully that he had not checked on him yet.
She hesitantly admitted, "He doesn't do all that well with the dark. And if he's in a pit like this… He's a bit of an idiot, but I can't stand the thought of him in the dark."
So, the bravado of standing down the Long Lords to protect her could indicate that Michael and other fellow Outworlders had a strong sense of unity in their species. That would be good to keep in mind. Dundale attempted reassurance. "Your ally will not have many problems with the dark moving forward."
"What do you mean by that?"
That's right, she had been sleeping while Michael was bitten. Dundale clarified, "He's been bestowed the honor of vampirism. His abilities will give him full sight in-"
"You bastards bit him?!" the woman yelled. "What the hell? How dare you!"
This angry response shocked him… it made no sense. Becoming a vampire was the highest achievement one could aim for. He attempted to reason this point, but his explanations fell on deaf ears and the chance to coax more conversation from her had been lost. Dundale begrudgingly accepted the loss and moved down the cells.
The conversation with the audacious one, Kid'ka as he was called, went just about the same. Standing and clenching his cuffed fists in one corner of his cell, the pale-skinned Pillar-Born demanded the right to spar before conversation could be earned. Hesitation and stuttering took over the prisoner's speech, "I won't spill the cats. I mean, let the beans out of the… can? You get the picture." Dundale would return to the Son of Zodd later to see how long that rule would stand against prolonged solitude.
Outworlder Michael's cell was next, however, no questions could be asked as the new vampire lay in a puddle of his own blood, seemingly in a state of sleep. Protocol gave a week's leniency for any new vampire to recover himself from the extreme bodily changes. Unwilling to breach that sanctity, he slipped a blanket in and left quietly.
Finally, Dundale encountered the elf girl. He started by slipping in the blanket, then watched through the eye slat. She leaned against one wall, her arms were covered in suppressor cuffs to hinder the use of Foundation and her magical chains. Her lower arms looked almost like clubs with them on. She had been called Lance, but Dundale had a feeling that addressing her so informally would raise her defenses rather than ease her into conversation. Instead, he began with, "Truly, this age is lost when the ilk of the Pillars ease their way into your confidence. How long have you given them your trust?"
She turned her head and glared. "You've got some nerve thinking you can get information out of me after taking everything away."
The resistance gave him the hint that he should change tactics. "But you are the only one I can turn to." The dwarf paused for effect, leaning away to let more light in for a beat, then continued, "You see, there's a chance that a few of those people you called companions can slip through the cracks of our sanctioning bands."
"That's impossible. Sanctioning bands force the truth." She pointed out with a sharp glare.
"And yet, there are three Pillar Gods that we don't have the names of." Dundale let his voice dip into a lower, pleading note.
The elf spoke slowly, "Nothing will change for me if I keep quiet or talk, what's the point in helping?"
He shuffled closer to the door and spoke conspiratorially, "I personally cannot guarantee any change in your imprisonment, but I can put in a good word for you if you prove cooperative."
"Empty promises," She scoffed.
"A Romai dwarf would never lie about Pillar-Born matters." His voice eased into firmness bordering on anger. "From infants, we have had the fear and hate of the genocider Oros ingrained into our race. It was a distant dream generations ago to return the bloodshed upon the children of the gods. And now you've witnessed for yourself that Long Lord Telegad himself can stand up to a Pillar-Born without fear, without injury." Another purposeful pause, then a whisper, "We must rid Ahkoolis of their scourge, and our lords are capable of achieving this end."
Through the dark, he could see that she had turned her attention towards the far end of the room with a frown shaping her eternal face. Dundale let the silence bear down upon the two of them, tempting her to fill it. It lasted longer and longer, but still the Gear Guard held to his tactic.
"You'll kill them?" she asked.
"The Long Lords may wish to interrogate them first as much as possible, or they may Drain them of their blood. It is uncertain if consuming the essence of a godling would benefit our leaders. But yes, the goal will be eventually to execute all the Pillar-Born here, I would imagine. Will you help ensure that none slip through our screening process?"
Her shoulders raised, then sank with her deep sigh. "Can you make sure that it's a quick death?"
"I can see what can be done," he said softly.
Lance didn't look in his direction, but she said all the same, "Afina, the goddess of Tranquility; Guile, the god of Cunning; and Ankoriss, the god of Destruction."
Dundale's heart leapt at the new information, but kept it tactfully out of his voice. Instead, he reassured the elf, "You will be rewarded, I promise."
She simply buried her head in her arms and knees and sank into silence.
After sliding the slat closed, the dwarf approached the last two holding cells. One guard was stationed outside of the room where the blonde man was being processed with the sanctioning band. Dundale passed along the names of the three unknown gods to him and felt a little burst of pride at the confusion the Second Footer showed.
That left the paladin's interrogation as last. Dundale assembled what he knew about the elvish woman called Twindil in his head. She seemed to have been able to seal a coffin in the Akan Dark, though the effort had left her weak, and she didn't have the pride to forgo bowing to the Long Lords. Something about her seemed to indicate a slight maternal instinct, and it might prove useful to play off it.
He slid in the blanket and after spotting her through the gloom of the cell, remarked, "If you knew that one of your companions was a godling spawn, what are the chances that you are one as well?"
She spotted the cloth and scooped it up, wrapping it around her shoulders. After settling, the blonde woman asked, "Is that you, Dundale?"
A frown forced his eyebrows down. He hadn't expected any of the prisoners to remember his name or even his voice. Pushing through the surprise, he admitted, "Yes."
"I thought you were a Gear Guard. Do you also guard the cells of dangerous prisoners?" She asked, leaning her head back against the wall.
"No. Personal curiosity brought me here." He found himself feeling more at ease with her, as if she was somehow influencing his emotions. With the suppressor cuffs keeping even passive abilities cut off from Foundation, the relaxation had to be non-magical. Words became more honest around her. "Namely, that so many of you 'simple travelers' accept that Kid'ka is a Pillar-Born and embrace his world-ending capabilities. Even if some of you are also fledgling deities, what would make you cooperate? Only one god or goddess may ascend at the end of an age. What incentive is there to work together?"
"That isn't entirely true." Twindil said softly. She inhaled, then said, "After the end of an age, the Pillar Gods wait several generations to assess which civilization will be prominent. Then, they choose a prophet from that group to introduce themselves to, to pass on the knowledge of who each god or goddess is and what they wish to be done for churches and prayers, and the like. When the Third Age started, the prophet was greeted not by the Pillar Gods and their two champions, but also a rogue god: Mazeek. We only know of this first appearance of the Unbound god of Chaos thanks to the stone monuments the prophet carved that lasted long enough to be copied and stored in secure libraries across Ahkoolis." She explained, her posture straightening. "The Pillar Gods have never been specific toward their prophets about how Mazeek came to be and likewise Mazeek says nothing of his accomplishment. Unbound to the Pillars, he cannot create Godling children to compete in a Godling War. And yet, he is undoubtedly a deity. My friends and I have been searching for his secret method of Ascension and a way to stave off the inevitable madness of a deity's blood warring against the mortal mind." She tapped at her lip, near a light scar. "There's no point in hiding and lying about our godly parentage now."
Dundale hadn't heard of a tradition of a Pillar God's prophet before. Maybe First Prince Megad knew it, but he'd be sure to repeat it back to the Long Lord just in case. His biggest question bubbled into his throat. "Did you come here to finish what the genocider Oros started?"
"No," Twindil spoke with conviction. "Our guide led us here because it offered a short cut out to our primary objective. We were not lying to you that we wanted to pass through."
"And this primary objective?"
She smiled with a hint of resignation. "It's too personal to say. I only hope that we can see it through while we have time, while we still control our own minds."
The dwarf frowned at the thought. Was she trying to paint the age-ending godlings as some sort of tragic heroes? That dogma would not be accepted. And yet, he couldn't justify contradicting her outright in case she felt like going on another fascinating tangent.
She continued, "The fate of a godling is brutal, but simple. Pillar-Born have but two outcomes: they Ascend, or they die. I have welcomed that simplicity as a comfort." Twindil's eyes found his and her voice became strained. "You have a far more complicated future. So many possibilities await you, Dundale. You may find love, raise a family, grow old... Yet you cannot know for sure. That host of uncertainty and mystery… It must be so overwhelming."
Dundale eased back from the door, cutting off the conversation with the click of the eye slat. Everything about that last sentiment wormed its way deep into his mind with an unquestionable truth: she had outright lied. But in accepting that, a treacherous emotion emerged. Pity.