Hearth Fire

Wiping his beard free of the gobi’s black blood, Stronric spit onto the mound of dead bodies. The aftermath of the fight left him more tired than the battle itself. He had collected the clubs, he hadn’t destroyed, into a pile. He counted eight total. He even patted down the gobi’s loincloths but found nothing useful there. He sat down and looked at the injury on his shoulder. It had already scabbed over. Why am I healing so fast?

He prodded the injury with a finger, scratching off some of the scab. Angry red lines shone through his skin, but no blood came from the injury. His mind pondered back to the strange noises he’d heard during his breakfast that morning. The noise said his health recovery had been slightly increased. Was this the working of that? Had sleeping by the fire done this? No, that made little sense. I didn’t hear the noise until I had eaten. Maybe I needed to sleep, eat and drink by the hearth. Also, why am I not winded? Killing ten gobi is easy, but I should at least be a little tired.

Has the ancestor truly blessed me with these gifts? The message also said it was temporary. Is this some kind of ancestor ritual they have on this world? In my world the ancestors would bless us but they didn’t have such direct interactions and when they did, it was a big deal. The hearth had come alive and soothed me last night. In this would the dwarves be much closer to their ancestors. That must be it. That would explain why Thoranthana looked better after I thanked her. I acknowledged her and empowered her.

That also makes no sense. How could a dwarf race fall if their gods were so close at hand? Unless somehow the ancestors were replaced with false gods. Forsaking their true ancestors would leave their powers diminished.

Stronric scratched and shook his head. I can’t be bothered with the issues of Gods, when I have the issues of the dwarves in front of me. As he gazed upon the pitiful farmland, seeing what little mushrooms were left, he decided the first thing he would need to do was nurture the field and incubate more seedlings. He realized before he could start working on the field he would need to secure the area from any more unwanted visitors. Perhaps even instate some sort of alarm system. I need to find how the lil buggers got into the fields in the first place. His dark vision made it easy for him to see in the blackness of the cavern as he walked around the fields. Once he reached the far side of the fields. He found a small break in the wall.

The opening was hewed to resemble a naturally occurring cave entrance. The entrance was smeared with a film of filth. Leaning closer to the grime, Stronric smelled the stink of the Gobi. He raised his pick, peering inside, he saw a twisted natural tunnel with more traces of traffic. Passing through the tunnel was a slow process, runes were carved into the narrow walls. Stronric stopped and observed the runes, tracing some with his fingers. This was a place of solace. Traversing the tunnel led Stronric into a room with a beautiful naturally form cavern. In the center was a large pond illuminated by light shining down from a hole in the ceiling. The area was wide and the pond could easily fit a large group of five inside. As he approached the edge of the pond, Stronric could see algae covering the sides and flowing into the bottom of the pool. On one side, the pond sloped down, where water would trickled over the edge of the pond in a slow waterfall. That water had worn open cracks on the ground, creating a small fist size hole. That tunnel was crooked and small, Stronric knew the gobi had not gotten in from there.

Stronric reached out to touch the water, the icy water bit into his warm skin and a gasp escaped him. Only freshly melted snow could chill and soothe the body so deeply. He had found his source of clean water. He would need to mine the tunnel to make it more accessible, but more importantly and foremost on his mind, he wondered how the gobi’s had gotten in. Looking up, he could see a hole in the ceiling but it was thirty feet up.

“Did these cretins jump into the pond? Not likely. How would they climb back out?” he said to himself. Deciding that wasn’t how they got in, he scanned the walls. There had to be some kind of entrance he wasn’t seeing. He was halfway around the room when he found a small opening hidden by stalagmites. The opening had grime smeared around it. He leaned down onto one knee and yanked his head back in disgust as an invisible force met his nostrils with such potency not even a troll would be able to endure it.

“Oi, ye smell as bad as you look,” he said, covering his nose.

Standing and spitting, he looked around for something to plug the hole with. Using his arm, he took a measurement of the hole. He wandered back over to the tunnel. He found a stalagmite, and stretched his arm out again to measure its base, comparing it to the size of the hole.

“You’ll do fine,” he said.

Hefting his pick axe, he began the tedious process of slowing chipping the stone away to leave the mass of the stalagmite intact. Working the stone came natural to him. Dwarves from his world were born knowing how to manipulate the earth. Soon the Rhythmic strikes of metal on stone filled the cavern, mingling with the deep sounds of Stronric’s humming. It was an old mining song taught to keep pace of swings and breath. Freeing the spike from the ground, he broke the top off and carried it back to the gobi’s entrance. He laid the rock down near the entrance and carved measuring lines into the stone. Soon he was tapping the pick axe in quick chops, carving the stone into a plug. As the plug was taking shape, he moved it in and out to measure, making changes, carving and chipping away. Roughly an hour passed when he had a plug that would snugly fit into the putrid opening. One last thing to add.

He carved two pairs of lines that criss-crossed diagonally. He connected the top closest lines to each other and then the top outside lines to each other, forming a double triangle with a diamond at the center, the bottom set of lines running long. Across the top of the runes he carved the name Råsh; the runic word for death. He placed the plug into the hole; it fit almost perfectly. He sat down and kicked the plug as hard as he could, lodging it into place.

Now, that should take care of that for a while. He gave the stone some experimental pokes and probes to make sure it was stuck. It didn’t move an inch. It wouldn't keep the Gobi out forever, but that was an issue for another day. Getting up, he walked over to the pond and stuck his head into the cold water, gulping down some fresh water. He washed the blood off of him as best he could and headed back down the tunnel towards the mushroom fields.

He spent what felt like half the day walking the fields. Counting his steps and marking the ground as he went. He figured he had a total of ten acres of land. Five acres wide and two acres deep. There was empty space on the sides of the lot, where he could store his things close by for work.

With the rock clubs, he carefully dug out the mushrooms and carried them closer to the entrance he originally entered from. Before replanting the mushrooms, Stronric looked out at the piles of bodies. Gobi were useless in life, but purposeful in death. He took the captured clubs and smashed the fragile corpses into smaller parts. After quartering the bodies, he dug trench lines with the pick axe, dropping body parts along the way. They were buried in shallow grooves. Now that the field was ready, he planted the mushrooms in his rows. He placed the smaller mushrooms directly on top of the body parts and spreading the larger ones out from there. The largest and most mature were placed in a separate row off to the side. They would need harvesting soon and he planned to let some of them spore.

With the rock clubs, he carefully dug out the mushrooms and moved them closer to his entrance of the gardens

Covered in blood, dirt and mushroom spores, he headed back to the pond. Stronric cleaned off a step that gave access to the water. He then stripped down and set his clothes and pick axe to the side. Stepping into the frigid water, his breath caught in his throat. He slowly sank in until only his head was not submerged. Looking down into the water, he saw red and blue stones. As the gore, dirt, and filth floated off his body, the stones stirred. Small legs sprouted from the sides of the rock shaped creature, and small pincers appeared in the front. Stronric saw two small eyes pop out of the rock just above the pincers and they turned toward him. The crab like rocks began to scurry after the grimy debris floating around his body

One crab broke off from the rest and approached Stronric. He raised a hand to swat it away as the crab’s pincer shot out and snatched some gore off his leg. He let out a laugh and laid his head back welcoming the help. The crabs climbed over him to eat, cleaning him in the process. They tickled his toes and ran their claws through his beard. Stronric ran his hand through his beard as well. He hadn’t braided it in a while, something he planned to do soon. He would need to find a comb and leather to braid with. After his cleaning, the crabs climbed out of the pond heading for his clothing. Stronric saw this and with a hand, knocked the pile into the pond, all but his boots and pick axe. I will have to be fast or freeze, its a long run to the hearth.

Stronric dunked his head under water one more time. He pet a particularly big red crab, knowing it was time to make his way back to the hearth. With his boots on and rung out clothing in his arms, he sprinted back. The sound of a crackling fire and a warm room greeted him, as he made his way inside of the main chamber. He laid his clothes out on the stones of the hearth and got to work making his dinner. Stronric eyed the tankard half filled with beer. What curse has been placed on this hold if the beer is poisonous. Raising the tankard to his lips he said a prayer to Thoranthana and took a sip. Seconds passed slowly as he waited, when nothing came he let out a chuckle shaking his head.

“Poisonous brew, even this hold isn’t so cursed” He said as he refilled the tankard to the brim.

He had warm food, a brew and clean warm clothes. He sat, leaned back on his makeshift bed, and let out a sigh. You know this isn’t so bad. A good fight, some labor and a brew. This is truly the life of a dwarf. Now I need to find doors for hanging and a smithy. Finding something to wear between here and the pond would be a good idea too. The mushrooms won't be ready to harvest for a few weeks. I have water, food and shelter, couldn’t ask for more. Maybe I will continue up those stairs and find what’s above. The only thing I could imagine would be up there were the mountain tops. I wonder if they have mountain goats like back home? Our worlds share the vilest of creatures, the gobis, why wouldn’t we share the greatest of creatures. would be smart to rope some mountain goats, and if I can snag one maybe a riding ram. I will need to leave here, eventually.

There might be a town not too far away I could buy basic supplies from. I have nothing of value; I didn’t bring coin or gems to trade. Okay, explore the levels above the fields, then find a smithy. Maybe there is some ore I can make into an item to sell. Fix doors, check the mushrooms, repair the hearth area.

On and on his mind went until slowly began to slip into sleep with a grin on his face. The fire in the hearth crackled like a gentle laugh. He felt almost at home with his eyes closed and the warmth of the hearth fire wrapping him in an embrace. It felt like a desperate embrace, as from a mother welcoming home a child thought lost and gone.