DWARF IN A HOLE

A heavy hand found footing on the shoulder of Captain Locust, his weeping subordinate the operator. He, Doetrieve, requested the slaying of the dwarf suspended. Locust turned himself so that his weapon still stood but a swipe away from the nearest beard and bug. He shook his elfen head, long hair frayed and tangled swept suddenly away.

“You jest?”

Doetrieve’s shoulder-length locks held still.

“‘Old on, brother. Sir.”

“Why do you interrupt justice?” asked the captain.

“Cappan,” began his soldier. “None intent whatsoever. But jus’ stoppan breathe, sir.”

Locust looked back at the dwarf incredulously, as if fishing for reason from anywhere he could, before returning his sharp eyes to Doetrieve.

“Why?”

The dwarf divided his attention. Half understood court had commenced and he was short a defense. The other half frantically assessed odds of escape and the means of doing so. Ankle deep water beleaguered the dead Ponderous; a dive dissipated from the dwarf’s options. Waspig’s snout protruded hairs above the ground with heavy grunts signaling its readiness for action. And realistically, the dwarf seemed poised to grab onto his pet and attempt an airborne retreat--but whether or not Doetrieve would fire his bow in retaliation mattered little--Locust’s presence simply stood too near. No matter the movement, the dwarf realized a total lack of chance. So he bent slow and, under the cautious half-eyed glance of the captain, smothered himself in Waspig.

“ANIMAL HUSBANDRY INCREASED TO 21”

The dwarf thought to ask the elfs if ever they witnessed another’s skill gain ‘EXP’--but judging by the fixed, unchanging look Locust maintained, he considered his query answered. The dswarf could do else but listen then.

“Cuz sir. Take a gander at Him,” Doetrieve advised, offering after a gesture in the direction of shriveled fungus. “If the dwarf wuz in on an ass-assin scheme’s one thing, but ‘ow could ‘e ‘ave gone and planted it’n so darned quick?” He walked past his statuesque captain and retrieved damning evidence, submitting brackish black and red dotted poison to the record. Any one stem bore the brunt of a cartoonishly sized grip. Doetrieve turned to the dwarf, addressing the defense: “You yanked ‘er?” The dwarf nodded. “Why?”

As the dwarf began to explain the sight he met, Captain Locust advanced and swiped, disrupted by the redirection of a swinesect stinger. Waspig finished its flip and landed defensively in front of its master, breath bouncing up and off chiseled stone. Doetrieve, having inadvertently learned well from his superior, only then shattered out from marble and shoved his captain backwards. Locust, with free palm, struck his subordinate across the face.

“The war criminal--which I may remind you, Lieutenant Mason Doetrieve, His wisdom declared anticitizen--declared his guilt. Find me a soul who would profess ignorance of the repercussions of such actions, of the dwarf’s ‘yanking’.”

Mason Doetrieve drew his bow and let an arrow stay stiff in his free hand. “Cappan. Brother. Sir--the Ponderous’ infection wuz’n fresh,” it was asserted, his captain’s elfen eyes darting from criminal to lietunenant and back again. “Forgive me question’n you, sir, but ‘ow’d’ya’d not see it a’fore win you’re the only ‘un who sees ‘Im?”

Captain Locust--prosecution, jury, judge, and clamoring for execution--cocked a smirk.

“What are you implying?”

The subordinate shook his head. “Nuttin’ can’t be talked over’an council.”

“Yet this will not leave the chamber.”

“Wuzzat?”

“For aiding and abetting the dwarfen war criminal, I relieve you of your post, Mason Doetrieve, strip you of your citizenry by my succession in His wake and declare you be tried the same as the little bearded menace.”

“Brother? Sir? Are you out of your...”

Locust lunged and a bow blocked his saber’s path, swinging again after to no avail. The dwarf exchanged hurried looks with his pet, as if Waspig reassured imminent escape, but he could not bring himself to abandon the sudden-made attorney. So the dwarf dove and into his grasp came the low hanging fabric of Locust’s wear. He assumed where ankle met leg in each hand before squeezing with the might of fifteen ‘MELEE’ levels. Despite, the cry Locust shot to the ceiling signaled a quick defeat, the dwarf releasing his hands, the captain quickly a sniveling heap. His teeth grit, and he hissed ill fate upon the dwarf between each groan. Doetrieve sighed and sheathed his weapon clearly upset he’d ever drawn it. He turned to the dwarf.

“‘Tween you an’ me, I dun think He’ver really declared you war criminal. Dunno ‘ow the cappan’s brain got all mushed up but reckon you shouldn’t’ve been involved in all this. Any case, you were. An’ we lost Giltgrief’an Sowsmith cuz of you, ‘an got a mess now of the pens--cuz of you. But goin’ up the chain an’ it all starts wid you put behind bars. Sorry little ‘un. I wish you never came; not certain what’s next for the settlement. We really only just gotter going an’ now it might collapse. Dunno why I’m whinin’ to you, it’s not your problem. But I think you should be leavin’. Sorry about your critters. You still got the one, though, so count your blessings and be’n your way. If’n gate guards ain’t let you through up at the fron’ jus’ tell ‘em ‘Roach Coach’. Won’t give you trouble after. Dunno if’m exilin’ you. We’re still here and you’ve a reason to bein’ ‘ere sometime, give us a try.” Doetrieve’s eyes drifted to his feet. “Get gone already. Jus’ go, dwarf.”

The dwarf got gone.

Following the hurried directions given in between clear dismay for the dwarf, he hugged right with Waspig and managed an escape. Among his sights were the remains of the massive slain arachnid, head dismounted, guts rug. Exiting the collapse of once his prison, the dwarf forced out a ‘Roach Coach’ at guards who held no hesitation for deploying arrows. Just before, he had visited the second dining hall to remind himself of his original purpose, the long view ahead clear and cloudless, sand sparkling. He’d returned to the gate gravely, apprehensive of the approach--of the task itself. The idea of simply taking off up and over the walls only momentarily appealed before the imagery of a pincushioned Waspig set to trust in the strange elfen code.

Passing through, the two left the slamming of the massive doors and the raw and untamed sprawl of thick trees and roots and ravines behind. Cutting through the savage greenery, the two soon maneuvered into an open field of plains. The dwarf had last gazed on such properly in the backyard of a cottage.

Wind swept fast and whipped grass--flowers and all. It came for the dwarf after.

As a boy, he’d explored well past the limits of his farmhouse--not to excess, for he did not visit any of the friends he did not have nor intend illicit action. He only aimed to walk. He liked walking. He knew his father’s property completely; easily. Into pubescence the boy continued to enjoy the hobby of slipping chores and meandering. His knowledge crept well past the confines of the farm by nearly seventeen. And one day at this age, he chanced running away entirely in an episode fated to repeat. He fled well into the bloom of morning and, traveling past unoccupied roads and tracks, came out suddenly into a bluff the wind ruled king. His highness’ presence immediately recognized, the boy bowed to what he considered a sacred thing, litter and all. And now, as dwarf, the bluff’s memory unforgettable, his eyes lowered to his fur topped feet. The feelings he felt back then seemed no longer produceable. The dwarf did not long for them. He regretted bitterly only he and Waspig could receive the crisp air so welcome. The dwarf replayed Bathiel’s death. He thought of Pistol. Anguished, he realized how many of his quickly formed party members had fallen under his care. The dwarf wondered if even Funguayou still lived; if he’d fled to his legitimate father and confessed its adventures. He decided suddenly on a hatred for the fungus that once rode atop his head so freely and unauthorized. He wondered of the fate of the straw pasted shroom. He hated it too.

A mammoth emerged. Two followed. Soon six stomped. The trail of tusks began crossing a short distance from the dwarf who watched with disinterest. Forgoing finishing his witness, the dwarf knelt to the green below and curled and clutched his pet’s hoof well into sleep...

“Hey, well, there he is. Good to see you, buddy.”

The dwarf’s worn eyes drifted open to the disappointing appearance of Funguayou. He couldn’t help but notice a new party member in tow, strapped in straw, snout protruding as well as four hooves.

“Wasn’t so sure you’d make it. Hey, neither myself. And there’s Waspig! Well I’d consider our group grand then. Yes it does seem we’re down a few members but fear not, dwarf, for we’ve an addition. Allow me to introduce--”

The dwarf swiped at Funguayou hurtling the thing into a mess of weeds. The hay covered fungus trotted over to its half-sibling who sprang up and brushed the dirt off.

“Yea, hey, what’s the deal? I’m not getting this. What’d I do? Oh, this can’t be about--dwarf, pal, huh, you didn’t even name them. I named them. Well, two, but whatsit matter--Waspig’s here, huh? Put a smile on your beard, this scowl’s unbecoming. Ok, ok, apologies. So you are sore. That’s fine. You sit tight. I’ll gather some berries. Hey, leave it to the fungus, we’ll make good, huh?” The straw shroom snorted and shot an air of agreeance and, one hopping aboard the other, the two trotted off past a rising hill and disappeared.

The dwarf rolled onto his back. It was very blue above but it seemed inexplicably grayer. White too darkened. He peered to his side and watched Waspig crunch up a flower. Waspig was alive, he agreed. And that was all he was able to manage. The dwarf shook his head and rested tired eyes. The accumulated weight of his travels thus far mounted and presented itself mighty atop the dwarf’s guts. To Waspig’s array of eyes its master simply laid still out of peace, perhaps, but all the dwarf could feel was encumbrance. He thought of Captain Locust and ran through a series of his elfen expressions. Was it fairy-tale greed? Why had he hated the dwarf so terribly? The title of ‘war criminal’ weighed strangely. What had he done to deserve those words? The dwarf considered having offended God. Punishment, whether from father or all father’s father, seemed succinct a summary. He’d been struck down a hole, forced around in viscera, infected by fungus, assaulted by arrows, and imprisoned and very nearly executed. And only now did he take the full brunt of the damage his fists had endured. They pulsated with pain immeasurable, each knuckle a direct contact with his nerves. The dwarf attempted squeezing his hands out from habit and popped a jolt zipping right through his short form. He laid his hands caught mid-clutch against the grass dully, knuckles into damp earth. A terrible groan failed stifling. And he laid quietly.

The dwarf realized he’d completely lost track of the days that’d passed since his arrival; dwarfening.

The sky hadn’t changed at all. But despite this, the dwarf knew it lost light. Waspig oinked, and it lit a touch lighter. The memory of Bathiel and Pistol flooded in and set the sky black. The dwarf shut his eyes again, rolled to his side, and let slip gradually a fresh puddle beneath his head...

Awake to genuine darkness, the dwarf sat up and blinked. Waspig chased around its illegitimate straw offspring. Funguayou attempted to pitifully start a fire. The dwarf roused himself, and his heavy hand shoved the mycelia aside and set to task.

“SURVIVAL SKILL INCREASED TO 16”