DWARF IN A HOLE

What the dwarf needed least happened fast: rain picked up and poured down the hole. Forced beneath the sloped roof of dripping earth for cover, the dwarf once more considered the possible inevitability of collapse--for this was his hole, and the dwarf lay in similar circumstances not really long ago. But, shivering, he’d not leave the warmth of the bare rune until dried. Teeth chattering, beard wrung, the dwarf curled into a shape often assumed on his parent’s bed. His father was the first to suggest the boy’s growing too old; his mother fell in line soon after. The son had his own, rarely used room for instead he took to the barn with a comfort found in the creatures of his inheritance. Even their terrible smell that easily reached the loft could be tolerated more than the imposing lonesomeness of his bedroom. Despite the obvious stench he read his comics and pulp here. He sought breaks here. Despite his father’s obvious owning of the farm and all it was, the son could not help but often behold the sight of an intruder on his marked appearances. His stink the son feebly tolerated. His suspicious eye and weighted words he suffered. All this and more in the wake of his mother’s disappearance...

The dwarf shifted, scratching at his hind. A particular noise stirred him from his rest, and he glanced upwards at what meted him water in horror. The dwarf shot his legs out at the dirt beside with a sickening squish and reattempted with the slab just in time to roll out from his puddle and into the still pouring storm. Then came the collapse: roots and rocks tumbled downwards pelting the soaked dwarf attempting desperately to stay ashore. Indeed the water level rose dramatically following both the brought down roof and unrelenting showers. The dwarf’s sense of place completely vanished, unable to distinguish where he’d once laid, the rune drowned, the shoddily dug tunnel began. In fact the dwarf repeatedly shut his eyes and opened them again. He could conclude naught not moisture. He could only feel the torrential downpour. He cursed himself for having not seen to the steeple’s repair. He cursed himself for ever returning the elfen jewels to their settlement. He gripped wet earth in both large hands and smacked his forehead forward in penance, dreadfully, repeatedly.

The dwarf could not tell if he cried.

“SWIMMING SKILL INCREASED TO 7”

But he surely did then. The dwarf sobbed into the mound of drenched earth slowly ceding ground to the rising tide. His open mouth warmed the dirt in between protracted cries. He pounded his cartoonish fists against the walls leaving soft dents behind. He could not even hear a single sound from the steeple on account of the constant rain, severing his link to a happier circumstance, he felt. The dwarf felt a bubbling up to the surface within him. He screeched, a shrill noise emitting, blasting upwards off wall bouncing momentum. Even his own ears soon rang, but the dwarf could not cease. A tremor slipped and the volume seemed to decline; the dwarf became overwrought with rage at the weakening and reapplied an inhale to outdo the first effort, only barely discernible above growing, incessant empty noise. Then his voice gave out and the side of the dwarf’s head hit the mound. He’d have attempted to sleep, barely ashore with no sign of ‘SWIMMING’ exp stopping; the water level rose to his cheeks. Spitting, the dwarf scrambled for anything more to hold. He thrashed in the water of which continued to fill the tube, his cell. He became very weak and very tired. He began to cede to the notion of death and, though he could not remember when last ‘SAVED’, the dwarf would be happy enough to reunite with his flock. His vision began to blur, and the sight of Waspig, wings rapid, brought a smile to the dwarf’s soaked beard. He thought of Joshua, tuskless, likely alone in its corner, its brilliant white hairs darkened by choice. Came quick the image of Speedy, its slick trail of mud following wherever tread. He couldn’t remember if the adults of its kind were the same. His heart beat for the scars across Pistol and the loss of Chef Girlodee. The dwarf remembered the rest, a haze of wild haired Bathiel and almond eyed Cath smearing his vision. Waspig again came into view, its snout close. It enmeshed itself with a vision of Blissey and Mustard, their inferior sizes of shape and tusk to Waspig known but loved. In a terrible world governed by EXP and relentless in its cruelty delivered towards the dwarf, felt the dwarf, he felt alive in his duty to the flock. He loved his creatures. He loved Waspig, and he believed this appreciation could not surely be measured for, despite the count of his livestock, Waspig itself seemed determined to stay in his mind’s eye. Then the illusion shattered as Waspig’s snout nudged hard into the dwarf, its hot breaths warming his beard, its grunts and noises just audible enough above the continuing rings.

But the dwarf tired so, slipping further into an abyss of exhaustion. He felt it difficult to distinguish whether reality truly met him and what it asked. But the very real sense of touch as his fingers threaded themselves between Waspig’s wet fur grounded him, a very ironic sense as the water level choked him. Nudging its master and angling its hind, Waspig managed to convince the dwarf to mount and rest. The creature was not massive. Indeed, Pistol dwarfed it, though not through girth. The dwarfs limbs hung awkwardly, his forearms and calves submerged. He realized Waspig’s wings no longer were active; the beast swam in place--in his place. Overcome with gratitude, the tears once more came. But the dwarf could not be sure in the rain’s ceaselessness. As he rose his head out of immense desire to behold his pig in the dark, a clap of thunder and flash of lightning, though partially weakened so far down, granted the dwarf’s wish.

“ANIMAL HUSBANDRY SKILL INCREASED TO 20”...

Morning was known, the silence of near still waters greeting the dwarf--this and the presence of his most loved Waspig, its treading never having stopped. Indeed, as his cheek pressed into damp fur, his limbs clumsily bounced against occasional whipping of wings. The dwarf figured this measure to have aided Waspig in surviving the night and storm and basked in its intelligence. If there were a way home--if the dwarf were allowed to take but one beast back--his choice would arrive in an instant.

If there were a way home.

A touch of sunshine’s warmth on his back, the dwarf’s head rose to fast squint. Indeed the dwarf corrected his suspicion to the afternoon and, his wet hand rising out from the pond towards the wall--high as his stoutness could reach--his eyes gleamed at the satisfaction of dryness.

The dwarf wrapped himself around Waspig’s head. locking fingers tight, kisses pressed into the spots least wet. An affectionate shot of air returned the gesture. The dwarf then slipped off into the water. He came up to the cylindrical opposition and pressed himself up against, his hands up to dry. When the dwarf decided he’d enough of the tanning, he reached above and grasped what firm earth he could. And with gathered strength, his body came up. He reached again and the process continued. Waspig began flapping itself again to meet the slow rising of its master, its absence of load obvious as if ballasts removed.

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 31”

The dwarf remembered the strange sight beheld before the storm: “ADRENALINE TECHNIQUE APPLIED”. If it had been, whatever it was, he’d not known its use and owed his survival instead wholly to Waspig. But he did ponder the message, coming up empty. In his distraction he missed a grip and, losing some height, shook the thoughts and regained his focus.

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 32”

Waspig’s wings continued their action, its bearer squealing in delight as if in cheer. Indeed the dwarf thought it possible of an ascent on the back of his beast, but he could not consent to it. He remembered the misadventure across the ravine and all that followed, and he could not bear the thought of another. As well he felt a great debt to such loyalty that fueled its treading throughout the night and so he would not add towards. He rose.

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 33”

While the ratio of air to liquid in the tube had been set unbalanced by the raging storm the night previous, there still seemed an immense distance yet to cross. Worse, the dwarf eventually fell, sinking deep within the well. Bursting back out from the surface, his eyes met the many of Waspig, once more settling into the water and allowing for the dwarf to mount. And he consented. He was so tired; so grateful. He coped with the thought of it too needing a rest, knowing well it traded one exhaustion for another. The dwarf would hold the elfs to task for treats; Waspig deserved even more. The dwarf, realized he, would not end his role in the ongoing conspiracy with a sick, decaying Ponderous as result. He would not forgive the elfs for all he and his flock had suffered at their hands in this life and some previous. Once more clouded doubts sprang about Doetrieve, the dwarf wondering if he still had an ally; if he ever did. He considered Doctor Mallow’s wisdom:

“A fool to trust a sharp ear for their stab in the back comes extra deep.”

It was not as if they--the sharp eared--had summoned the downpour, knew well the dwarf. But circumstances in their control led to what his beast was forced to tread. And their captain, their leader, the lunatic the dwarf thought him to be directly threatened this side of the woods. The dwarf did not necessarily want revenge: only peace for he and his creatures. After bringing justice to Locust would the dwarf feel granted rest and recuperation, and only after both could he then tackle the concept of returning home.

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 34”

Escaping his thoughts, the dwarf slipped from the hog once more and returned to his struggle upwards. And at touching on revenge, the dwarf did not ignore the flash of the steeple stained in blood, debased and desecrated by its dwelling bandits. Perhaps he did wish for some. He’d revisit the idea another time.

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 35”

A distance crossed twice and therefore defeatable, the dwarf forced his muscles into constant operation towards the goal above. Dull pain reverberated throughout his veins, some popped as of recent--many in the process. Dotted in blue and purple, the dwarf continued in a fervor quellable only by death. Muddy, filthy, the dwarf resisted further falls by harnessing a sense of past effort; perhaps this was the implication of levels and EXP, thought the dwarf. And he shook his wandering mind again for he feared its obvious result, and once again the dwarf took to climbing, and still continued the wings of his creature that fluttered beside.

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 36”

After a great distance crossed off the backs of near death by drowning and inhuman dedication, as his lungs collapsed and contracted with a struggle this world continued to force upon him, the dwarf’s hands seized the mouth of the hole.