A Feat of Four Fools

"There weren't always dragons in the valley…"

rattled the old man, his tone bitter and his volume faint.

"No, there was a time at which era we would have been safe to roam without ado the plains of land above our trenches and antres we now encave in like cowering mice, but scant is the company that can attest to such epochs, and scanter still those that would bid of them soothly. This is because company of that like would be preponderantly plagued by such poor memory which often accompanies old age, their aged memories ripe with truths contorted by senility and bent at whim to the obscure state of their minds eye. I am lucky to have circumvented such fate."

"No no, the luck is ours that we might hear your prolix tales," grumbled the dwarf sardonically, having tired of the old man’s ongoing maundering. "Of course, should the gods see fit that you succumb to nature’s course before you finish, that would be alright." This dwarf hadn't any forbearance from snideness, especially in regards to the prattling of others. To him, all talk that was not his own was senseless drivel. He expected his remark to go unnoticed by the old man and heard only by the two other men in the wooden cell, the cell that was, as they spoke, being slowly, by process of dwarven mechanisms, hoisted heavenward. One man, tall and slender and dressed entirely in white, top-end apparel grinned furtively at the dwarf’s comment.

The other man in the cell, musclebound and adorned in some form of regalia, remained inscrutable, as he had been for the first half hour of their cell’s ascension, and presumably would continue to be until he and the other prisoners reached the apex of the valley wall.

"Though, no, I do not truly suppose it is luck that succors me. I do not believe in such a force;" continued the elder, either bearing no regard for or having misheard the dwarf’s comment, "it is by mine own indefatigability and by mine own resolution that I have remained unimpaired. Mine own friends yond once walked 'longside me on the grassy fields above, all have now died of old age if not been taken early by illness or incident. I have denied such fate with great determination. I have not allowed myself to grow feeble-minded. I have not allowed myself to fall into the indolent state that now even young sprats in their eighties and nineties allow themselves to fall. This is how I have lived my life; and not without reward. As of the 46th date of the upcoming dark season, I will be seven-hundred and four."

The five listening ears of the men neighboring the elder all were perked by this detail - five, as the musclebound man was missing most of his leftward auricle.

There was a brief pause in which the impossibly old man’s wizened lips seemed to actively resist the smile that tried to spread across his face.

It was commonly accepted that one could live no longer than 300 years; and even that number was largely hypothetical, as it was not well-established that anyone had ever reached it.

"Are you saying, and I mean not to suggest any duplicity on your part..."

the prim man in white chimed in, his posture and gesturing all exuding etiquette fit for royalty,

"that you yourself have experienced, personally, the elapse of seven centenaries?"

"If you do not mean to suggest duplicity, then why do you ask?" proposed the elder dourly. "Are you hard of hearing?"

The proper man gestured his hands outward and laughed evasively, "I only mean to…"

"If anyone was to be impaired of hearing," the old man interrupted,

"I should suspect it to be the huntsman here, being one half earless; yet even he does not appeal for me to repeat myself."

The one-eared man and the elder shared eye contact.

"And earnestly I do beg pardon if I have misrepresented myself," the man in white rejoined carefully, "I only mean to…"

"That is what you are, is it not?" the elder talked over the proper man, "a huntsman?"

The dwarf laughed at the man in white's hapless attempts towards vindication.

The one-eared man maintained eye contact.

"I am," he spoke gently.

"Ha!" the proper man in white exclaimed, in a relief as though he had dodged near fate,

"Well that is a wonderful bit of news."

The one-eared man said nothing.

The proper man leaned forward to the huntsman’s right side, "I say that is a bit of wonderful news!"

"I think he heard ya, ya dolt," remarked the dwarf with a snicker.

The one-eared man grinned at the dwarf’s comment.

"Of course, my apologies," the proper man retorted, tugging on his coat and returning to lean on his wall of wooden bars.

"I only mean, I suspect we all should be grateful to have you here, as when we crest this valley wall, I conjecture that the rest of us will be in short supply of certain skills you well possess," the proper man added composedly.

"And you, old man?" the huntsman queried without regard for the proper man, "Who are you?"

"I'll tell you exactly who he is!" interjected the dwarf, "though I've only just now figured it out as I've been crouched here thinking to myself... he's a wizard. I've heard tell of these batty types since I was a child. They toy around with life, death, and the forces of nature; they're oft grey-bearded and, without fail, quite difficult to be around. So far...you meet the marks, fusty."

"I'm no wizard," the elder asserted sternly, peering down at the dwarf who was not half his size.

"Well then you're a liar!" snapped the dwarf.

"Tommyrot!" the old man snapped back.

"Well now!" interceded the man in white, "We've only a flitting stint in which to know each other. Let us not waste it on senseless debate."

"Senseless?!" shouted the dwarf.

"Why, we know not even what will come of us come night-fall," continued the man in white, "and though I quail at the morbidity of such sentiment, let us not forget the transitory nature of our well-being and squander in tiff our endmost moments."

"Tommyrot!" the old man barked, "Nay such thing as a senseless debate! And time spent in debate is never wasted. All debate is at core a beckoning for resolution, and resolution is never senseless. That is that."

"And that is indeed a respectable judgement…" the man in white said, his frustration revealing itself only in his eyes; his words remaining gingerly, "but perhaps you underestimate the pigheadedness of dwarves, a quality of which the pair of you seem shared in."

"Tommyrot!" shouted the old man.

"Yes, tommyrot!" shouted the dwarf.

This bandying of words continued on for some time and grew to a volume that, within the cell, seemed deafening (this was mostly ascribable to the dwarf); but not a word of it was heard on the valley floor, for the cell was now hoisted well above the lowland and did not cease in its slow ascension; thus no one on the valley floor, or even those housed along the more elevated valley walls, could hear the unrelieved brabbling emanating high above, brabbling the likes of what might resound of a drunkard-laden tavern, brabbling that was really quite impressive to be rivaled in tumult by four bloaks in a box.

II: Crooked Company

Three of the four prisoners had been locked in quarrel for some time. The irascible dwarf, speaking impulsively his every thought; the caviling elder, firmly averring his every notion as fact; and the prim man in white, cautiously dancing around in his parlance. Still, the huntsman stood in silence. He took this time instead to analyze his company, in hopes that what he might deduce would be some form of pragmatic use once they reach the apex.

He was most greatly flummoxed by the dwarf. As a huntsman, scarce were lands he'd left untrodden; so he knew well the cultures within the valleys, and that, of course, included those dwarven. He had himself spent a good few months in the caves of northern “quarry dwarves” while hunting the queen of a trōgal-bat hive.

He bore knowledge of the southern “crumple dwarves”, but he queried its verity, being mostly knowledge gained from quarry dwarves, who had come, over time, to hate crumple dwarves; knowing this, he mostly dismissed the tips he'd received about crumple dwarves stating that “most of their bed-fellows were sheep” or that “the reason they stay at high valley ledges was because they were afraid of mice”, but he did assume most of the unbiased sentiments to be true. He knew crumple dwarves wore red to distinguish themselves from quarry dwarves who wore green. He also knew that, by tradition, crumple dwarves are usually bearded and quarry dwarves are oft barefaced.

He had heard rumor of crumple dwarves being more rude, reckless, and doltish than quarry dwarves, but would give this no credence until he witnessed it himself, for as far as he had seen, quarry dwarves were not themselves deficient in these qualities.

Most dwarves made it evident which assemblage they associated themselves with, but rather perplexing was the disgruntled dwarf now squatting down by the wall of bars right of the huntsman. He was a bit shorter than the average valley dwarf (like a crumple dwarf), but without beard (like a quarry dwarf). His skin was dark as oak and he appeared trim and muscular (a physique more common of crumple dwarves, counter to the often round habitus of the mining quarry dwarves), yet he wore red cloth garments with a belt of rope (livery unmistakably associated with crumple dwarves).

The huntsman remained unsure what to make of the dwarf as he moved on to examine the elder. Although he did not especially care for the dwarf, the huntsman did share in his leeriness of the elder, who, perhaps as attestation of his claims, did appear older than one could ever live to be. Stranger still, he seemed, past his grey beard that hung like icicles from his withered face, youthful, at least more youthful than one would expect of a seven-hundred-and-three-year-old, which, of course, is not especially youthful, but youthful enough to entail suspicion. He was quite tall and stood up entirely straight, without the spinal slouch that seemed, by pattern, inevitable of anyone having reached an age around two hundred. When he spoke, he spoke perspicuously, without break or stutter.

Though the huntsman did not fully indulge in the dwarf’s suspicions of wizardry, the old man did speak in a manner reminiscent of archaic tongue, a tongue that's age of rifeness had long since come and gone. For one to be living still, having lived through such an ancient period, did seem unlikely without the aid of some unbeknownst magic. The old man’s tongue and health urged of the huntsman to believe his claims of impossible age; and his uncut beard, grey weathered cloak, and evasive demeanor urged of him to believe the dwarf’s accusations of wizardry; but in all of this, there was no proof. The huntsman shared in a quality possessed by most every hunter of monsters and beasts, unrelenting skepticism. He had oft-times encountered troves of riches that revealed themselves to be hallucinations incited within his own mind by the crafty diaphantikatrop cobra, or spurned the seductive advances of a shoreline nymph knowing that if he fell to such seduction he would be ensnared and torn apart by the form-changing beast Visceravalos. One in this line of work was never averse to suspicion.

The man in white was not spared the huntsman’s skepticism. Though nothing about the proper man appeared tremendously suspicious, it did seem strange that such a man would be immured. He occurred to the huntsman as too cautious to engage in reckless crimes and far too proper to engage in violent crimes, but for him to be here in this cell, he had to have committed some form of unlawful act.

He was dressed in a crisp white coat, a white buttoned vest, and a white flat cap that blended with his hair so blonde it was nearly white itself. Even his pants were snowy white, and white pants were not readily sold.

Of course, as the huntsman observed his cell-mates, their bickering continued on, only bearing brief intermittent pauses before someone would chime in and start it all over again (most often the dwarf).

"What are your names?" the huntsman put forth, his unanticipated insertion bringing the room to a sudden hush…

"Vairenbolt," the man in white broke the silence, extending his hand, "Vairenbolt Von Vairenbolt."

"...Vairenbolt Von Vairenbolt?" repeated the dwarf disparagingly as the huntsman shook Vairenbolt’s hand, "The same name twice?"

"Not uncommon in those of earthen lineage," retorted Vairenbolt ostentatiously.

"Oh come off it," the Dwarf scoffed, "Everyone's of earthen lineage. It's only you northmost want to claim everything you set your eyes on. Everybody was once up there. And everyone's down here now."

The man in white didn't speak.

"The dwarf is as right as he is irksome," spoke the elder, not looking at anyone in particular.

"Well it's no surprise you would think such. Those of un-earthen heritage often have a way of fostering up their own story to call history," Vairenbolt responded with little patience left.

"Tis not mine own story," responded the old man, "nor that of any man before me. ‘Tis the only story, what hast verity, that there ever was. I was there, after all."

"Professibly. Professibly you were there. And by profession alone. Don't misunderstand me, I do not think you are lying, but neither do I think you are telling the truth. I hear many stories," remarked Vairenbolt, growing increasingly irritable.

"The bloak is a wizard, you clodpole! He saw it with his own eyes. Who, if not a wizard which for himself saw the events in question, will you believe?" asked the dwarf, suddenly willing to accept the old man's proposed age.

"I hear many stories," stated Vairenbolt dismissively.

"Surely, you do not believe yours is the only heritage of earthen origin. Tommyrot!" The elder spoke, "Even children understand that all who dwell in the valley must come from the plains above. I haven't the foggiest clue at what exact point those haughty Northeast Valley wall dwellers, yourself included, concocted the idea that they were the first to step inside the valley. Nor do I know at what point they began claiming to be the culture that begot all cultures. These notions seemed to trickle slowly into acceptance among those foolish enough to believe them. The Northeast Valley wall dwellers, being ripe with foolish pride, became the most willing to overlook the inanity of these beliefs; as they were the people that of them prospered. Within the valley, the elders of the Northeast wall spread rumors saying it was once only themselves that dwelled above, and that it was them who first discovered the valleys, and that the Northeast wall was the first organized civilization in the valleys. Tommyrot! There was a time at which every living being walked the plains above, myself included, though I was quite young. The dwarves, the elves, the orcs, the gnomes, the humans, the goblins, the giants, the fairies, the halflings, the kobolds, the hobgoblins …

... why, even the gremlins, treants, drows and nymphs were all once earthen. We all were driven valleywards by the crimes of Lās Fravitor. We all began to construct suitable living conditions once we were here. There's no proof, nor yet a hint, that the Northeast Valley wall was the first. Why, I was part of a village by the name of ‘Firsthaven’, called this, of course, because they thought themselves to be the first civilization. Even in my youth I knew not to believe such rubbish. The valleys at that time were so chaotic, so wrought with the rambling commotion of desperate progress, that no one could rightly keep up with the order of things."

"Well, I'll be blowed..." muttered the dwarf, "I didn't expect to believe you, and I very well might not, but I am startin' to believe that you believe what you say. I retract my accusation that you are a liar...because if you are a liar, it is only that you are crazed and attempting to be honest, craziness being a common effect of wizardry."

"I am not a wizard nor a loon, you twit," added the old man.

"Right, right," said the dwarf, leaning over to address the huntsman, "it's a wizard’s code, at least it once was, to never admit wizardry."

"I see," spoke the huntsman, already knowing this fact.

"It's also code of the loon to never admit looniness," the dwarf added.

"Of course," added the huntsman.

"And you dwarf, your name?" inquired the huntsman.

"Griomachium. Gripworm Griomachium," the dwarf answered in a dismissive hurry.

"So you're a crumple dwarf?" asked the huntsman, knowing that it was only crumple dwarves who named their offspring the names of constellations; as it was also the crumple dwarves who first gave name to the constellations.

"I'm not a this dwarf or a that dwarf. I'm just a dwarf," retorted Gripworm, again in a hurry.

"Anyway, I have questions for you," the dwarf addressed the old man.

"Then ask. Will the questions not be themselves indicative of what they are? Of what use is rolling out a conversational carpet by which the questions can enter?" spoke the elder.

"Good heavens," muttered Gripworm,

"Let's suppose all you say is true...did you ever set eyes on the sorcerer himself?"

"I assume you are speaking of Lās Fravitor?" the elder asked.

"Of course," responded Gripworm.

Gripworm, the hunstman, and Vairenbolt all seemed intrigued to hear the elders response.

"Not with mine own eyes, no." A disappointment seemed shared among the three listeners. "But I know the tales well and I did witness the effects of his divine crimes. I was there as the consequences befell the earth."

"Well what's the story?" queried Gripworm, "We dwarves have our own version of the history but it-"

"Has mostly to do with dwarves?" interrupted the old man.

"Has mostly to do with dwarves," affirmed the dwarf.

"Oh yes," chuckled the old man, "cultures have a tendency towards that. Well, mine own version of the story I should hope is truthful, as I have no one to favor and am far too old to care for the gain of lies. Here is the story... There was a time when it was safe to roam the earthen lands, that is, those above the valleys, a time when those lands were not scoured by the beasts cast of the heavens. Those were times long ere the crimes of Fravitor, the sorcerer who sought to attain life eternal. He sought out the half-god Geavelta and deceived his way into her trust. There came a day, largely speculated to be the 8th day of the dark season in valley terms, or the 16th day of the withering month in earthen terms, when he brought her to what he called his sacrarium. ‘Twas a mighty three-pronged tower erected in one night, its construction witnessed by none. In this sacrarium, Fravitor murdered Geavelta, daughter of the elven queen Diantra and the wind god Vivanos. He soaked a marble spear in her blood and, according to legend, it was turned to a velvet scarf. He adorned this scarf as he seared his forehead with a glowing coal. In accordance to the ritual, the burning of the cinder, while adorned with the velvet scarf, would bestow the wearer eternal life. This act is known still as the greatest offense ever committed against the gods. Ere this point, Fravitor was known to be a reticent character, his actions oft unknown and his demeanor appearing cryptic, but he was never thought to be a wicked man. When news of this heinous act did reach the gods, they were enraged. Sil, the goddess of creation, briefly bestowed upon Vivanos her divine power so that he might personally craft the beast he would send to avenge his daughter, but he did not craft just one beast. He crafted three beasts, and a myriad of each. Firstly, the Drásvos, a badger like beast well the size of dragons and tenfold as fierce. Then, the Káveras, a monstrous sea-crab that feasted on the once most feared monsters of the waters. Thirdly, he created the Tigri Ouranó, a mighty flying beast with skin like a white tiger and wings each the width of certain villages. This was the largest and most crafty of the beasts. These beasts were each sent in droves of their own kind to demonstrate the rage of the gods upon the earth. Many a war was waged against these monsters before all such attempts ceased in defeat. The Cyclopeans were last of those who dared combat Vivanos’ beasts. Unsurprisingly, they are now an extinct race. Finally, once retreat was heralded the only practical recourse, earthenkind fled. Some fled to the mountains and were devoured by herds of Tigri Ouranó. Others set sail for distant islands thought to perhaps be uninhabited by Drásvos, but none are known to have reached any islands, as their ships were torn apart by the many claws of Káveras; and none who dwelt already on islands are known to have made it off. It was from dragons fleeing the Tigri Ouranó that earthenkind learned the safeguarding of valleys and narrow canyons. Peculiar that earthenkind’s once most feared creature would be what led us to safekeeping, but ‘twas ne’er a time, I suppose, that this world was not in satire steeped. The Káveras pose no threat to valley dwellers, who seldom meet with a large body of water. The Drásvos, luckily, are relatively unintelligent and rarely agile enough to make their way down canyons without falling to their death. When one does stumble in alive, it seems that we have found ways by which to kill them. Then, finally, the Tigri Ouranó, though still posing a threat to the more curious dragons who venture out of the valleys, pose no threat to valley-dwellers, for its wings are far too expansive to spread within valley walls. Now all that exist in the valleys are earthenkind, dragons, and whatever earthen animals and beasts make their way down. All that we know without doubt exists above are animals and beasts.

"I have a question," the huntsman stated.

"Don't say that! Don't subject me to another tangent. He really doesn't like sentence lead-ins," Gripworm interjected.

"Of course. You are free to ask it,” stated the elder.

"Are you serious?" griped Gripworm.

"Why are dragons and earthenkind the only creatures Vivanos’ beasts attack? What of the other creatures?" asked the huntsman.

"A very good question," stated the elder with a smile.

"I no longer like you," said the dwarf.

"Vivanos’ beasts were sent to reign down upon earthenkind the anger of the gods - earthenkind alone. Many assume the term earthenkind to exclude animals and beasts, but the dragon is an exception as it was not a divine creation. Dragons were born of wizard’s magic. To the gods, dragons are an extension of earthenkind," spoke the old man.

"I always took it a myth, dragons being born of wizardry," stated the huntsman.

"Far from it," the elder replied.

"It's well known among dwarves. One of the many reasons wizardry is now kept secret," said the dwarf to the huntsman while peering over at the old man. "Your secret is safe with me," stated Gripworm to the old man.

"I'm no wizard," insisted the old man.

"See?" said Gripworm to the huntsman.

"Supposing, just for a moment, that you are a wizard..." Vairenbolt chimed in, "would it not be most wise to tell us now? In our predicament, I think it would be best that we cast secrecy aside. We're in no place to cast judgement now; and where we're headed, I suspect it best that we know the skills possessed of one another. If you were a wizard, I suspect we all would cast aside what we've heard of wizards, knowing that our survival could be assisted by-"

Vairenbolt was cut off by a sudden halt in movement.

"Well here we are," stated the dwarf, rising from his squatting position, nowise certain of his crooked company.

III: Out the Door Afront the Gate

The cell had ceased in its ascension with the distance of about three average houses between itself and the topmost edge of the valley. Adjacent to the wooden cell was a pair of large wooden doors in the side of the canyon. At once they swung open, leaving quite a distance between the large dug out opening and the cell suspended in air by thick ropes connected to a dwarven pulley system atop the canyon. Inside the opening was a burly human man alongside an equally burly elven woman, the human leftward and elf rightward of another strange dwarven contraption. They each gripped one of the two crank handles jutting out each side of this contraption and began to forcibly wind these handles in large circles. As they did, a bridge of thick wooden planks connected by metal hinges began to unfold itself outwards in the direction of the cell. They continued winding these cranks until a proper bridge had unfolded outward to the cell. All that stood between the four men and the newly unfurled bridge was a vertical gap that would require a jump.

The elf gestured for the prisoners to come over as she hastened her way along the bridge.

"Unlock the cell!" shouted the dwarf.

"Twas never locked!" responded the elf.

The dwarf jostled open the cell door and hopped to the bridge below. The man in white following closely.

"Would you like assistance?" asked the huntsman, extending his hand to the elder.

"Tommyrot!" shouted the old man, jumping spryly downward, the huntsman following closely behind.

The prisoners were met halfway along the bridge by the elf, and by her were rushed onward to a finely engraved door positioned behind the now agape larger doorway by which the bridge had expanded. Past the engraved door was a mid-sized room not unlike a forger’s smithy, the walls bounteous with mounted weaponry. Ayont the wall from which they entered stood a second engraved door. The prisoners went without perusal as their attention was quickly taken by the elf’s hasty rattling off of instruction.

"The hurry begins now. I won't waste words," stated the elf quickly, "you well know why you're here. Prisoners like yourselves are sent to retrieve earthen resources in exchange for their freedom. If you return alive, you'll receive your freedom and coin totted up to your bail. What we need from you is Blue-willow, an herb known to cure the Ruvéan Plague, now rampant in the valley. The only tip we've received is that there's a large field of it eastward. Every second wasted is one closer to nightfall in which the lands will be thronged with Drásvos. Choose whatever weapons you desire, but waste no time. When desirably equipped, make way to the chamber beyond the next door and up the ascending staircase; there, the doors will be locked behind you and the gates to the earthen plains will open. Out there are creatures that will put to the test your every sense. Know that though they're oft vile and unrelenting, they can be slain. I myself was once in your place, and many beasts what seemed impassible were felled by my blade. Make haste."

The four prisoners began at once their search for weaponry. The huntsman squandered no time in his drawing of a sturdy halberd, the likes of which he carried in his hunting days. Vairenbolt stood unwittingly before the wall of keen-edged instruments.

"Would you be so good as to choose for me, huntsman? I've never wielded a weapon and haven't the slightest clue what might best aid my skills in skirmish," spoke Vairenbolt.

"I'd wager you bear no 'skills in skirmish' to aid," spoke the dwarf. "I think this should suit you well," he continued, pinching between his fingers a dangling thread pulled from his tunic.

"This seems adequate," spoke the huntsman, offering by the scabbard a thin cutlass to Vairenbolt.

The huntsman made his way to the door, Vairenbolt closely following.

The elder drew a well-crafted bow and sheath of arrows from the wall and smiled at them.

"Is't the axe you favor?" asked the elder of Gripworm.

"Bloody sulfur! Because I'm a dwarf I must swing an axe about my head?"

"Tommyrot. ‘Tis only that I noticed you eyeing the unit," said the elder.

The dwarf said nothing.

"What weapon is't then that you pine for?" queried the elder.

"Well, it was the bloody axe, but now I'm inclined not to take it!" Gripworm reacted.

"Dwarf, take the axe," spoke the old man.

"No, no! To hell with the axe! I shall take this bloody hammer here!" shouted Gripworm. "Of course, now, should I die, it's on your hands."

And so, knowing the door would be locked behind them, the elder and dwarf moved briskly out the door afront the gate.

IV: Of the Earthen Sun Through the Oaken Gates

The four prisoners, not one fit for the journey ahead, each by different means masking profound trepidation, stood in a row, each glaring towards the mighty oak gate in a manner as if commanding that it open. Suddenly, with echoing creeks, the clamor of dwarven mechanisms filled the chamber. The gates trembled and at once they did begin to open.

"Let us not waste time," spoke the elder, squinting into the blinding light beaming of the earthen sun through the oaken gates.