A tiny circle of crimson sat squarely beneath the large central glass gem. The small drop of blood had the effect of making the entire quiver somehow ugly. The alabaster bones looked yellow, the flawless glass looked cloudy, the perfect silk felt rough, the polished leather looked dull. Blood had touched it and now it was inescapably wrong. Her masterpiece was tainted now and it was no longer hers.
Dumplin Lakewanders prepared herself for a party. Killing a trapped goblin had killed a part of her. She felt somehow hollow, even her plot to embarrass the One-Eyed demon of Arrowstockades didn't raise her spirits. There was a frantic sickness inside of her that she couldn't quell, the turmoil in her heart was maddening. She went through the motions repeatedly and obsessively, she would appear to be as composed and proud as ever no matter how tightly panic gripped her heart. It would be better for her life in Arrowstockades if Cerol still believed she was a cold blooded killer.
As the legitimate and sole authority of the Hairless Baboons Captain Degel was her second in command and she instructed him to oversee training in her stead. She spent the day polishing her armor to a brilliant shine, working thick braids into her hair, obsessively washing up, and practicing her manners. Asen's preparations consisted of washing his face before they left.
They were lead into the noble corridor by the gold clad guard and down a flight of stairs. This area of the fortress was completely alien to her. She realized how little she knew of the actual layout of her home. The party area was a rectangular space about the size of the dining hall and comprised of the same high quality polished black stone. Unlike the dining hall where the tables were arranged in two long rows here they were in small intimate clusters and the statuary was more aesthetically placed. On the side opposite of the doors was a parapet overlooking a large dome. It looked like some sort of arena.
Dumplin was shocked at it's size. The fortress must be significantly larger than the parts she had seen, the dome alone was larger than the entire above ground fortress. She wondered what purpose it would serve. The word “excess” failed to describe the opulence and decadence of Arrowstockades. A party for nobles would no doubt have some form of entertainment worthy of nobles who vastly overestimated their own worth. Perhaps they would have a circus, elves and men and drow and gnomes all preforming exotic acts and playing exotic music. For a moment at least she forgot the horrors of the fortress and focused on the positives.
She turned to her fellow party goers and began to mingle. The nobles and “celebrities” of the fortress were all there. The Mayor was telling the story of how a Minotaur had latched onto her arms with one of its heads and her feet with the other and ripped her in half where she then had to be sewn back together. Feb One-Eye was menacing a few of the lords and ladys whose rank stemmed solely from sort of knowing the king. Cerol was standing statue still with his arms crossed in the corner while he was badgered by the Psychiatrist. (The psychiatrist, as she understood it was the fourth dwarf to hold that job that year. The dwarves who took that position had a tendency to accidentally walk out of sessions and fall into the river.) The bookkeeper, a pale and distracted looking dwarf, sat by himself tallying off every time someone finished a drink or a plate of food. The greasy looking broker entertained himself playing table games with Chief Medical Dwarf and the legendary craftsmen. Ashmon, who she remembered had achieved the rank of hammerer, was listing for the manager the best kind of punches and the manager in turn was drinking heavily. And at the center of the madness sat the king, flanked by his wife and his favored children he sat jovially telling stories of dubious provenance and enjoying all the excesses that the fortress had to offer.
Interspersed with the nobles and the craftsmen were the dwarves who had in some capacity or another gained renonwed. Some of them had made a particularly impressive artifact, Cog Brass-God for example forged Cerol's magnificent incandescent sword. Others had slain great beasts, Tholtig Warfighter had bisected a dragon with a steel axe meant for woodcutting. Others still had slightly stranger accolades. Bemul Sheep-Shearer had pitched in the construction of the barracks and in some strange accident was struck by a wheel of cheese which somehow broke his spine. Every dwarf who had ever done anything worth notice was there drinking and laughing and cursing and lying.
This was the Arrowstockades of legend. Every dwarf wore glorious garments of rare silks and wools, dyed brilliant and rich colors and adorned with intricate designs and ornaments of precious metals, fine jewels, and ivory. The glorious black stone held a beautiful silvery shine as the pools of bubbling magma segregated into a channel surrounding the room gave warmth and light to the room. The fine food and fine drink looked immaculate arranged perfectly to accentuate the splendor of each dish. Here there were no boulders to haul upstairs, there were no insane jail sentences, there was no blood on anyone's hands. Dumplin allowed herself to forget ,for a moment at least, how wretched she felt inside. She chatted with the nobles and the craftsmen and the warriors occasionally working into conversation that she had stabbed Bandrims in the brain with a crossbow bolt while Feb munched on cakes in the dining hall. Her claims seemed out of place amongst the other absurd stories only because they were true.
Dumplin made an effort to enjoy herself and when the alcohol had taken hold she'd begun to succeed. Allowing herself to become dead inside because of the things she'd done seemed like the first step towards becoming someone like Feb or Cerol. She chatted with Ashmon and lost a few coins to the broker and even laughed at the Mayors stupid, blatant lies. She sampled each of the many ales and wines offered and enjoyed her first proper meal in ages. Sausages and breads and cheeses and vegetables and sweet candies and foods fried in fatty oil.
For the occasion a special kitchen was constructed and stocked with fresh vegetables, fruits, herbs, and the finest cuts of meat. This new kitchen was staffed by three legendary chefs and three legendary brewers who labored for days preparing the finest and most decadent of feasts on the entire continent. She ate herself full and drank herself giddy and reveled in the excess and good company. She felt truly and properly at home. But all good times come to an end and sure enough hers ended when the deadly cold voice of Cerol Sabershaft spoke to the air “It Begins.”
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Topic: The Increasingly Tragic Tale of Dumplin (Read 74972 times)