Tiny Dungeon

POV Ile’Fen, High Spirit of Conflict

The final blow dealt against the Drowning Dark was cataclysmic, sending plumes of dirt and rock skyward as the subterranean labyrinth was sundered to its bones. Ile’Fen felt the sudden diminishment of conflict like a weight being lifted from tired shoulders. The relief and the loss were hard to explain with the first coming from the end of demands for power, and the latter coming from the forthcoming supply of that power. A lesser spirit would describe the feeling as painful but Ile’Fen was old and well entrenched within his power. To him, the whiplash effect of his domain was an old friend.

He reflected, as he watched his two High Marshals begin the clean-up efforts, that perhaps it was his own faith that made such a state endurable.

‘What would my marshals think if they ever heard me say such a thing?’

Ile’Fen scoffed at the thought but it was true. Everything he did he did for his faith. The management of conflict was a worthy endeavor, an endeavor that those before him had squandered. Some had feared the backlash too much and engaged ceaselessly in conflict to the point that they had lowered themselves to being mere spirits of war. Some had feared the outcomes of conflict too much and had become spirits of peace instead, endlessly attempting to settle disputes before they happened.

Only by embracing both sides of the coin could you truly call yourself a spirit of conflict. Ile’Fen had done so, embracing the beginning and end of conflict, enduring both so that he could be a worthy servant of his creator. He would not allow for a situation where The Maker was forced to intervene again. He still remembered The Sanctions he had imposed upon the Fae lords who had been abusing their power.

He turned his attention to the far north territories and the corruption that blazed there. The conflict in the wastes was never-ending and it was getting harder to keep himself balanced. His gaze turned to where his nephew resided, just a measly 50 miles south of the larger conflict, and he smiled in spite of himself. His nephew’s territory was small but the delight it gave him was great and helped to settle the High Spirit’s mind.

Where the little dungeon had once been a simple experiment now he was a source of endless amusement and balance. Despite the convoluted way he had built his Dungeon, the conflict there was endless but always brief. Like a staccato of whiplashes, the conflicts of the creatures there helped to offset the growing miasma in the north. It wasn’t much, to be honest. Ile’Fen was so great and his influence so spread out that one little corner of the world shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

Perhaps it was the Divine nature of his nephew that helped it matter more but the tiny conflicts of his realm helped Ile’Fen center himself, keep the delicate balance of conflict alive and well. The great spirit left the remains of the Drowning Dark, after giving blessings to those that had gathered to destroy its darkness, and left for the north. He was there almost instantaneously, the spiritual membrane of the world allowing him access wherever his domain was celebrated. There he stood, unseen, and witnessed the coming destruction. Legion upon legion of twisted creatures assaulted a wall of golden light that guarded the northern peninsula. Fashioned from the collective divinities of the High Spirits it was the most powerful Working they had ever attempted.

It was breaking down. The interior of the northern wastes could be seen through the barrier and miasma coated every square inch. Everything there fought, lived, and died under the smog of its embrace. Those twisted creatures were not the true enemy, however. Their attacks on the wall, while many, were not the source of the constant conflict within Ile’Fen’s domain or for the intense degradation of the wall itself. No, it was the slumbering Fallen Spirits dwelling within the wastes that tore at the wall’s integrity. They were The Sanctioned and even in their sleep they fought the will of The Maker.

Ile’Fen’s great mind turned over the council’s plan in his head. He didn’t know what the future held but he knew that it would be years yet before the wall fell. They had time but in the lifespan of an immortal, a few years was like the life and death of a fruit fly. Such a thought brought another smile to Ile’Fen’s lips. He turned back toward his nephew’s territory and pondered a new idea.

‘We live our lives by the count of centuries but he does not. A few years is such a small amount of time. But perhaps Valterra, who lives within such time frames, perhaps he will truly be the solution we wished for but could not see with our view of centuries. Perhaps.’

He let the thought circle within his mind before turning again to the wall. He had no time to investigate the exact goings-on within his nephew’s territory. He summoned his power and pushed Aether and Divine Potential into the barrier, strengthening it as best he could. There was only so much that could be done. The wall would break eventually and Ile’Fen could only hope that the council’s plans would come to fruition in time.

POV The Figure

Cloaked in darkness a figure made its way down dark stone steps. Wary eyes panned over ancient stone, choked with thorns and ivy. There was a stench that wouldn’t go away, a low fog that wouldn’t disperse, and a black ichor that stained pieces of broken statues. With a low growl, the figure moved on, keeping his distance from the stains and moving deeper into the structure, buried deep within the ground. It had taken no small amount of effort to get here and the skulking figure wanted to be done and away before his involvement would be known.

Deeper he went, down stairs slick with an indefinable wetness, past broken vistas of former opulence now choked and broken, and finally arriving at the place he sought. Rising up in a cavern of stone, the ziggurat was like a beautiful cracked vase. Former glory was etched into the sides, but it was a sundered structure with a massive split running the length of the building from top to bottom. It was into the base of this crack that the figure scurried, sensing the end of his mission. As soon as he stepped in he shuddered with a measure of relief and revulsion.

There was power here, ancient in the ways of his people but etched deep into their psyches to the point where he recoiled. But still, the deep recesses of the ziggurat called him into their depths and he obeyed the unconscious instinct. Deeper he went into the bowels of the ancient structure and eventually entered the place of calling. A portal, dark and foreboding, spilled fog from its inky shadows, and the figure made his way hesitantly into the space. A rumble from the portal caused him to lurch as power and presence seeped from the portal to latch onto the figure’s insides.

Power twisted and rippled and the figure fell to the ground, screaming in agony as suddenly his racial psyche remembered. Remembered the pain, and depth of destruction visited by this presence upon his people.

SILENCE

The voice that was not a voice, clamped down on the figure’s vocal chords, strangling the sounds of his agony. The pain ceased after a long moment but an ache remained and the figure knew instinctually that the ache would remain indefinitely.

GET UP

Whimpering, the figure rose from his fallen position to stumble to his feet, looking toward the portal. The calling he had felt, the one that drew him here demanded he listen. He hated the call at that moment, hated what it had done to him. There was a dark chuckle from the portal and pain sent the figure to his knees.

YOU WILL OBEY OR YOU WILL DIE AND I WILL FIND ANOTHER

CHOOSE

Regardless of whatever else he was, the figure was a survivor. Death was the one foe he would never be able to escape if it came. There was a shaky nod and the figure flinched as the presence shoved information into his mind. There were a couple of locations and several orders, places to go, an army to gather, and a singular objective. Destroy a thing and bring it back to the portal. Back to his new master. Back to Absolith of the Fallen.

POV Cormac Torgir

The summer wind blew softly through the bows of The Mother Tree as the forge burned hot. Stonework protected the wood of the tree itself from catching on fire but the Aether infused into the stone did most of the work. Cormac Torgir drew the metal from the forge and moved it to the anvil where he began to pound upon it. His great arm drove his smithing hammer down, sending sparks flying as metal struck metal. This was the last of it and then it would be time to pack everything up for the final time.

Another hour of hammering passed him by before he was satisfied. He left the relatively pure iron ingot to cool as he began to remove the last of his tools from the smithy. The forge itself would remain, which was something Cormac still struggled to accept. It was just a forge yet it was also the ancestral forge of his family. He had taken steps to preserve the inherent magic of the place, ash from the forge itself, a block of stone from the foundation, and other such key items that would help him replicate the feel of the place.

It wouldn’t be able to fully negate the feeling of loss but it would help. The magic would be preserved for the future Torgirs. As he set the last box on the dirt path outside, his eyes were drawn to a chest that lay in a place of prominence where it wouldn’t be damaged. He went over to it and flipped the lid revealing a silk-lined interior. The silk moth farmer had charged him a hefty sum due to his being an exile but it had been worth it. The chest itself was carved from a piece of The Mother Tree, deadwood she had shed ten or so years ago.

Lying inside were three items of exquisite craftsmanship. The first was an engraved belt of leather taken from some monster slain in one of the battles to defend The Mother Tree. Cormac had worked it himself, as was tradition, and had etched the enchantments himself. Set in the center upon a silver clasp was a tiny gemstone that would power the enchantments set into the belt. The belt could be activated with a thought and it would form a protective barrier of Aether in a moment and could last several seconds of sustained abuse before shattering.

The second item was a necklace of pure gold, also crafted by Cormac and etched with runes of Aether accumulation. Once activated the necklace would draw in ambient Aether and allow the wearer the ability to absorb any excess. It could also be used as a focus for any Workings done through it. The third and final item was a triple-braided sash of red, gold, and purple, fashioned from silk. This was the only item Cormac had not made himself and represented the joining of two people in marriage with The Maker as a witness.

Closing the lid, Cormac picked up the chest and a bag nearby before making his way into the forest. A short distance away lay a pool where he washed before pulling fine clothes out of the bag and putting them on. As he put on the fine robes he remembered the times his own father wore the same robes, during times of great happiness and great mourning. He whispered the Rights of Wearing as he went through his own Ritual of Cleansing. This wasn’t how he had envisioned this day going in the past but the person he was back then wouldn’t have cared for the ceremony.

As he was now, however, Cormac found that the ritualistic nature of the Cleansing and Wearing helped center him in the moment, etching it into his mind for later memory. He caught himself staring into the clear waters of the pool, his visage clearly visible. His robe was gold and green, ironically fitting his new priestly role despite the robes having been made centuries ago. It contrasted pleasingly with his earthen skin tone as did his dark, almost black, hair. He spent a few moments fixing said hair and grooming his beard before nodding to himself. Finished, he picked up the chest and began his solitary journey to the next destination.

He arrived at the appointed clearing to find his party waiting for him with only Fiona missing and that was by design. Eoghan simply nodded in greeting while Killian stepped up in front of him, the large boggart looking the leprechaun over before nodding his approval.

“You look good, my friend,” Killian said simply, motioning for Cormac to take his place. The leprechaun did so, climbing the stairs hewn into an old stump nearby until he was standing in the center where the rings were closer together. It was there that a small dais had been raised and Cormac placed the wooden chest upon it. Then it was time to wait with Killian and Eoghan standing on either side of him. They didn’t have to wait long.

When Fiona entered the clearing Cormac felt his breath catch in his chest. He had been expecting the sensation, wondering what it would be like. He found that no words quite fit the moment. Fiona was dressed in a slim gown of green with gold accents to match his robe, looking for all the world like a fairy queen of the old stories. He was once again struck dumb in acknowledgment of what he had almost given up for the sake of greed. His eyes couldn’t stop drinking in the sight of her until Killian coughed and Cormac jumped to hurry down the steps so he could help her up the stairs.

There were good-natured chuckles from Eoghan and Killian with a soft smile reserved for him from Fiona. He helped her climb the steps and then they were before the dais. Killian went to stand behind the chest and motioned them forward. As they approached he addressed Cormac.

“Cormac Torgir. Are you the crafter of this chest and all that is within it save the sacred cord?”

“I am,” Cormac answered, glad that his voice was firm and without the nervousness that he felt. Killian nodded to him with a smile before he addressed Fiona.

“Approach, fair maiden, and behold the working of your suitor's hands that you might know what his skill has wrought for your sake.” Then he opened the chest’s lid with a solemnity that Cormac would have found humorous on any other day.

Fiona stepped forward to look into the chest and Cormac swelled with expectation at her wide eyes. She reached in hesitantly, obviously employing an Inheritance to ascertain details of what had been crafted. She turned to look at him and her eyes were bright with unshed tears. She smiled through them to let him know they were happy ones but he still stepped forward to wipe them away. As he finished she turned and spoke to Killian.

“I accept these items, crafted with love and care, for I know they represent the love and care of my husband-to-be. May his hands be blessed for having done such work.”

Killian nodded, accepting the words before turning to Cormac. “The bride price has been accepted. Do you, Cormac Torgir, give your hand to be bound to this maiden? This is to be a free choice and not of compulsion. Let none make this decision for you.”

“I do,” Cormac said simply, gazing into Fiona’s eyes. He saw Killian nod out of the corner of his eye.

“Do you, Fiona Glastoc, give your hand to be bound to this man? This is to be a free choice and not of compulsion. Let none make this decision for you.”

“I do,” she said, her eyes not leaving Cormac’s. There was a rustle as Killian drew the sacred cord from the box. Motioning to Eoghan, who stepped forward to grasp one end, the two began to wrap the opposite ends of the cord around Cormac’s right hand and Fiona’s left. As they did so they both spoke.

“As those who witness we bind these two. They now become one, both children of The Mother. We two have spoken, we two have bound. Now let their joy go forth, resound.” So saying, they stepped back a pace and beheld their friends, still staring into each other's eyes. Cormac didn’t know how long it went on before he heard Killian grunt. “Kiss her yah dolt.”

Blushing despite himself, the leprechaun used their bound hands to draw Fiona close before kissing her softly, using his left hand to cup her face. As they pulled apart both blushing like far younger fairies, Killian let loose a roar of approval. Cormac turned to find a broad grin on his friend’s face and chuckled himself. Eoghan came forward to clasp hands with him and give a side hug to Fiona, silent as usual though with a big smile on his face. Killian simply hugged both of them at once, his large frame making it easy to do so.

Cormac smiled to himself as he took in his new wife and his two friends. The fact that they would be going with him into exile made the whole ordeal seem doable. He knew that soon he would be face to face with an angry Dungeon but even that felt far less daunting than it had a moment ago. Smiling, Cormac led the way down the steps, while Killian picked up the bridal chest and followed. The leprechaun took in everything and committed it to memory. It wouldn’t be long before he would be too busy to relax or celebrate but today, of all days, Cormac was going to do just that.