What Are You About?

Every good dwarven feast starts with booze. The sound of the bearded folk clanking flagons together could be heard echoing down the many craggy tunnels of the cave complex they were living in. They were celebrating the discovery of a new vein of mithril that seemed to stretch for miles. Not only that, but the hearty dwarves felt like the vein may just be the ticket to finding Merlairbode, the ancestral home of the Melairkyn’s, lost when Drow had invaded long ago. That, and they were welcoming a new addition to their family. Brottor and Ovina Melairkyn had brought another healthy baby boy into the world. Even their older son, Elaim, who was barely old enough to toddle, was happy about the arrival of his baby brother. What could be better to drink to than mithril and a newborn babe?

“Speech!” yelled Agdorm, Brottor’s ancient uncle with a beard more impressive than most – although Brottor would rather eat his armour than admit such a thing! The other Merlairkyn’s followed suit, slamming their flagons onto the table, causing small geysers of honey-sweet ale to splash everywhere, and stomping their feet. Brottor shook his head fondly, gave Ovina a kiss on the forehead, and heaved himself up on the bench he was sat on, and raised his hands to calm the sea of wildly stomping red and brown-haired dwarves.

“Alright, alright, calm yeselves down or you’ll wake even King Melair from his slumber,” Brottor chuckled. The dwarves did calm down, in solemn respect for their long-dead king, but also because the newborn had begun to wail.

“I think ye son might disagree, you ol’ man,” Ovina laughed, jiggling Morgan a bit. “Like any good Melairkyn he likes the hustle and bustle of a good ol’ feast!” And just like that, the Melairkyn’s roared to life once more. Much more ale and stomping were had before Brottor, calm as always, managed to quieten the avalanche of dwarves.

“Well, ‘ere we are. Melairkyn and Clanggedin’s Hearth united, as we ‘ave been for a while. Not only have we hit mithril, but found tunnels with walls thin enough to suggest there be more beyond. Moradin himself has looked kindly on us this day, for a healthy boy was gifted to us as well,” Brottor said, wiping a small tear from the wrinkled corner of his eye. Ovina nudged him fondly. She always was the tougher of the two. “What I mean to say, it’s a fine day to drink!”

And that was that. The simple smithy had given his fellows excuse enough to drink merry, up until the point even the hardiest dwarf had to call it a day to rest up for a fine day of mining the next day.

Brottor tucked up Elaim in the makeshift bed he’d scrounged up out of scraps of metal and turned to watch Ovina put Morgan in his swaddle and tuck him up in a cradle their midwife, Mornhylde, had created with stone-melding clerical magic.

“You’re a beautiful mum, my Ruby,” Brottor whispered, and quietly, as much a dwarf can, came over to give her a gentle squeeze.

“Keep flirting with me and maybe we’ll have to make it three,” Ovina said slyly, smiling widely when Brottor’s cheeks burnt as red as her hair.

“What are you about?” he replied, shaking his head, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Oh come ‘ere and give us a kiss, you ol’ man.”

The two slept well that night, cuddled in each other’s arms, surrounded by their two lads, dreaming of Melairbode and mithril.

That was until the sound of warning bells began sounding off in every tunnel connecting to the dwarves’ main base. Ovina shot up, running to Morgan, and scooping him up, as Brottor sleepily stumbled to grab hold of Elaim, who had woken up and had scrunched up his face in fear. Ovina left Morgan in Brottor’s other arm and turned to equip herself with her many-notched battle-axe. Both dwarves were already armoured – only a fool would rest without armour in these monster-infested tunnels.

“I got the kids, Ruby.”

“And I got me axe.”

There were contingency plans for when the warning bells were rung. Any dwarf able to, which was most of this exploration party, would take up arms and join with their sentry kin as back up in their respective tunnels. The young and old would be taken to the cave furthest away from the base, where there were tunnels leading all the way back to the surface.

“Go give ‘em hell, my Ruby, and I’ll see ya back home,” Brottor said, trying his best to balance both his sons and his own warhammer in his arms. Ovina gave him a single salute and marched off towards the sound of battle echoing from deeper in the complex.

Turning down a new tunnel, Brottor met up with Agdorm, who was herding some other sleepy-looking dwarves who had a few of their own children in their arms. Giving his uncle a nod, Brottor hunkered down, pumping his dwarven legs, following the small crowd of non-combatants. The sound of battle seemed to come from every tunnel, and the snarls and grunts of monster and dwarf alike was muddled with the sound of clashing weapons and banging shields.

“Seems like every tunnel is blocked… like it were calculated,” Agdorm hummed, gripping his hand axe as he led the party. His beady eyes peered past his wild red beard, trying his best to watch for any enemy that had somehow gotten through the blockades. The party was relieved when they got to the exit cave and saw it was empty. Now it was just a waiting game.

Of course, all the dwarves paced around. It wasn’t in their blood to sit patiently when their own kin were deep in battle. It was especially anxiety-inducing for Brottor, who was desperately trying to keep Morgan from wailing, although it would be unlikely that his cries could be heard over the sound of fighting.

Relief came in the form of Ovina, powering down the tunnel, followed closely by seven other dwarves, one of which was Mornhylde, a cleric of Berronar. All of them were covered in blood, and it was impossible to tell whether it was their own or the enemies.

“Drow!” Ovina shouted, swinging herself around to face the tunnel they had left, readying her battle-axe that had a few more notches on it than before. The other warriors that had accompanied her followed suit, lining themselves shoulder to shoulder to create a living blockade.

“What about the others?” Agdorm yelled, pushing to the front of the small crowd of young and old.

“They’re dead,” Mornhylde growled, pulling up the sleeves of her bloodied clerical robes. She never wanted to be a fighter, but by Moradin’s beard she wasn’t going to let Drow get close to the children. “May Berronar give ‘em a gentle rest.”

“What’s going on Ovina?” Brottor asked, trying to keep Elaim from wiggling out of his arms to reach his mother.

“They sent kobolds and quaggoth to fill all the tunnels first. Then the Drow came, the spell-flinging murderous bastards!” Ovina snarled. “We’ll keep an eye on the flank and follow up the rear as you head to the surface.”

Agdorm and Brottor knew better than to argue with Ovina when she was in warrior mode, so they began to herd the now wailing children and their terrified parents up the tunnel leading to the surface. Having the wall of dwarves in plate armour behind them gave them comfort, at least.

There wasn’t any time to react when the scorching ball of blue fire exploded above the fleeing dwarves. The sound of crumbling stone was a sound any dwarf could tell you was the first sign of a tunnel collapse. Brottor felt himself shoved forward, tumbling a few times after he tucked himself into a ball, with his two boys clasped tightly against his chest. He sprawled out forward, the children still beneath him, and he just managed to crane his head back to see Ovina’s outstretched hand and determined grimace, as she and the seven other remaining warriors were promptly lit up in another fireball. Then, she was gone, as the tunnel gave a final groan like it regretted what it was about to do, and collapsed, separating Brottor, his two boys, and Ovina.

Brottor’s ears rang, the sound of his children crying furiously, still tucked up safely in his arms. Agdorm rushed over to his nephew, concern plastered all over his face. The old smithy blinked dust out of his eyes, moving slightly to allow Agdorm to hand off his little ones to another dwarf. Suddenly, all the sound went back to normal in a painful whooshing sensation.

“Brottor! Are ye with me lad?” Agdorm shouted, tapping Brottor on the cheeks to try to bring him to.

“Y-ye. I’m good. I’m good,” Brottor spluttered, coughing out a cloud of dust. “Me lads?”

“They’re tough, they’ll get by. But lad, your leg, it’s crushed.”

Brottor looked back, to see one of his legs had been completely buried by several huge slabs of rock and clay. It wasn’t until he saw it that he realised he was in immense pain. It was a feeling that could only be described as literally having several tons of immovable rock crushing bone.

A few dwarves started trying to move the rocks, Agdorm leading the rescue, until a shudder came from beyond the collapse, probably from another Drow fireball, causing another cascade of rubble to shower down on the dwarves. Brottor couldn’t bite his lip any longer, and let out a pained yell, that only amplified the frightened children’s cries.

Agdorm took a step back, shaking his head, shooing the rest of the party back.

“Leave me!” Brottor cried. “Keep ‘em safe!”

Agdorm gripped hold of his hand axe, which hadn’t left his hand since the invasion began. He took one long look at his nephew, stepped forward, and hacked Brottor’s leg clean off.

With the near unconscious Brottor slung between two other dwarves, his stump bound with a belt as a tourniquet, Agdorm led the party up and out of the cave complex, to the surface. It was night when they broke out into the fresh air, the stars blinking high up in the inky black sky. Some of the children had never seen the sky before and were momentarily shocked into silence.

Brottor, in all his stubbornness, flung himself out of the iron-fast grip of his fellow dwarves, and turned himself on his stomach to face the tunnel they had just left.

“Gotta wait for my Ruby,” he slurred, having lost enough blood that words did not come so easy. Agdorm rushed over and picked up the fading dwarf.

“Drow work best in the dark. We gotta keep moving, or her fight was for nothing,” Agdorm said, biting back the grief that threatened to steal his words.

“My… Ruby,” Brottor whispered. Darkness claimed Brottor’s vision, then, and the last thing he felt was Agdorm slinging him over his shoulder, and the faces of his tear-stained children, covered in dust, looking at him with pleading eyes.