Born a Monster

411 311 – The Long Path, Part When a night is two shifts of sleep, each roughly two hours long, I sure do wake up grumpy. “What?” I asked.

“Silence. Gather our things and...”

The fire elemental burst into the chamber, sending everywhere.

I uncorked my water supply. “Move Water! Water Shield!” I shouted, rolling out of bed toward him. He recoiled against a wall.

I took a step back, angled my shield to let him have access back to the foundry.

It looked at me. No eyes, no face, but he looked at me. And then it raced back the way it came.

I cracked my neck, wandered back over to the keg. “Move Water.” I said, but instead it just fell straight down, only the smallest portion of it back into the cask. I sighed, and flipped the lid closed.

“Well, that’s a waste of water I haven’t seen in some time.” Gondon said. “Well, pack up. We need to be away from here in case that thing comes back with buddies.”

I blinked at him, looking for any indication that he was joking. He wasn’t. We moved on along the winding tunnels, until he stopped at an intersection to look at his maps.

.....

“This way.” I said, indicating one.

“No, it isn’t.” he said.

“I can smell the water. This way.”

“No, lad, it’s THIS way.” he said, moving down the way I had been pointing.

“All right, now. Remember, move the webs aside with a rod or staff, gently. Fire works quicker, but it angers every spider within a half mile range. Slow and steady, and we won’t have to fight.”

And we didn’t. Not until we got to the cathedral of webs.

What? No, being immune to one spider venom did NOT give me immunity to theirs. Where they bit at the joints between armored plates, my skin would puff up, and a blister of blood and liquidated tissue would burst.

That scent, in turn, would draw both snakes and spiders to fight, generally over the spill. Sometimes, maybe one in five or so, one or both sides would try to take a bite of me.

“Come on.” urged Gondon, “The lake is this way.”

“The snakes come from that way.” I said.

“Good. You notice things. Now come along.”

Diplomatically, the cavern was a disaster. Some of the Snakes were sentient; so were some of the spiders. Neither faction cared about the other being aware, and almost as much disdain for us. Both species wanted us to help in genocidal attacks upon the other.

“Okay,” Gondon said, “That’s half a day gone, and we’ve determined that however smart they are, nothing in this cave but animals. Are you done?”

I sighed. “I’m done.”

“Are you sure? You don’t want to talk to that mushroom there? See if it has an opinion?”



“Half. A. Day.” Gondon reminded me. Then, “What does it want?”

“It’s a mushroom.” I said. “It’s happy living in the dark as long as shit keeps happening.”

“Well, pull out a knife and harvest it, then.” he said. “It’s food.”

So much for live and let live. But I was hungry, and so I did as I was told.

“Okay, we’ve lost too much time for a gentle exit. We fire this section of web.”

If you’ve been paying attention, you know better. DO NOT light webs on fire when surrounded by spiders. It took orange criticals for them to pierce my armor. Roughly speaking, one in eight attempts to bite me.

[You have 8/80 health remaining.]
So no, really, just don’t. “I need a healing potion.” I said.

“You need a brand new eye.” Gondon said.

“I’ve got the fungus cap and the mycelia strands.” I said. “And salt, at least enough for one potion.”

“I have an ash tree root.” Gondon said. “So much for saving time.”

He was the senior; I kept watch while he brewed. “It’s your fault.” He said. “You harvested the mushroom cap wrong.”

“I did no such thing.” I said.

“You shook too many of the spores loose.”

“To fertilize the ground we harvested the mushroom from.” I said.

“Those are more than spores, lad. Those spores are life. Critical to the making of the potion.”

I knew otherwise, and had my own opinion on which of us was to blame for the potion failing to bind properly. But not all truths need to be spoken.

Getting into a shouting match in the tunnels wouldn’t have aided either of us.

“Okay,” I eventually said. “Maybe the fractured dwarves have a healing potion?”

“Oh, no doubt they do, larva. But won’t neither of us see it. You’re thinking the Fractured are like normal dwarves.”

“Well,” I asked, “how are they different?”

“Ask them yourself, larva. You’ve let them all but wander into our camp, anyway.”

“For starters,” the dwarf said, stepping into view, his skin black with steaks of gray, “we’re smarter. Use actual gemstones for brains, instead of the soggy coal that upward dwarves do.”

“Oh? If we’re so bad-brained, then you should be able to do everything we can. Stand at attention, you dirty old stone.”

“You know full well that my legs are different lengths, you infested garkling.”

“Healthier than you, ya walking pustule of the earth’s piss.” Gondon responded.

The two of them clasped in an almost brotherly hug.

“No hug for you.” the black newcomer said.

“This is Larval Cave Pig.” Gondon introduced me. “Some day he might be worth a hug.”

“You vouch for its conduct?”

“He can vouch for his own.” Gondon said.

“He’s got black eyes; I can’t trust him.”

“YOU have black eyes.” Gondon replied.

“Yes, and I know exactly what I’m capable of, and when. I’d sooner sacrifice him to the pit gods than trust him.”

“Nah.” Gondon said. “You don’t want to kill him. Look at him; he’s made of meat. The smell of his decaying body will bring all kinds of cave scavengers.”

Blackrock looked at me thoughtfully. “If we kill it here, it draws the scavengers here and not into our dwellings.”

Gondon stroked his imaginary beard. “What’s you crazy surface saying about lands, cave pig?”

“We need only so much of your floor to walk across, and only for so long as to cross it.” I said.

“Oh, merciful gods.” Blackrock said. “Don’t let my brother hear you talk like that. He’ll be arguing law with you until I’m dead and turned to dust.”

“As you can see,” Gondon said, “the Fractured are just like us as children. No discipline.”

“And you Calcis have no creativity. Don’t worry about us, Larval Pig. Any new idea spends a generation or two among the Fractured before it becomes a new dwarven custom.”

“In those rare cases where the idea or custom turns out not to have been pure coal slurry.” Gondon said.

“Calci law says we have to be at least three days away from ‘proper society’, not anything we’ve decided.”

“Your ancestors...” Gondon said.

“... are not us.” Blackrock said. “Okay, larva. We’re caste-less outcasts and the descendants of such. All that structure they’re trying to force on you? We know what a load of fungus-food that all is. Each tribe of those fractured from dwarven society has our own take on what dwarven culture and history actually is.”

“Kinslayers.” Gondon said.

“People who spit in the road.” Blackrock said.

“Liars.”

“Storytellers.”

“Heretics.”

“People who tried new clothing styles.”

“Traitors.”

“Rebels.”

They hugged again. “It is good to be back, old enemy.” Gondon said.

“It is good to have your smelly face around.” he replied. “My sister still wants to see you, for the same reason.”

“I am not giving up a hand or foot just so that she can merge her stone with mine and have kids.” Gondon said.

“Quit being selfish, you old toad.” Blackrock said.

.....

“You’ve no idea what a toad even looks like.” he replied.

“True.” said Blackrock, “But my sister has, and she has new words of wooing for you.”

“Unless those words include ‘grow your arm back’, my answer hasn’t changed.”

“I’m just giving you due warning; she’s still got it in her head that the both of you are destined to found an entire clan.”

“She’d not survive that, and I’d be left without arms or legs.”

“Well, at least she’d be certain you’d stay around and raise the children that way.”

“You think I can punch your face hard enough to spawn a child for her?”

“You cad! You haven’t even declared your intention to mate for life; how dare you threaten me with children?”

I blinked. “I thought it took more ritual than that.” I said.

“Only if you actually want kids.” Blackrock said. “You squishies have the advantage of that on us. Your kind pop out new children every year, and barely need to slow down afterward.”

“Well, maybe not for the women who survive the process.” I said. “But no. From what I’ve seen and heard, birthing a child is a feat as dangerous as any battle.”

“Blasphemer.” Gondon said.

“We’re going to get along just fine with you.” Blackrock said. “Come this way, please.”

The actual word he used was ‘coal slugs’, or coal made useless and full of holes by moisture. The closest equivalent to this insult on the surface is ‘shit for brains’.

Short for Calcified. Again, yes, that’s an insult.