In the great, withered land of the Deteriorating Continents, on the vast Mountain of Prices, there is a dwarven city carved into the rock, its position heralded only by a small outer shantytown milling with bedraggled-looking dwarves, with a small fortified guardhouse in the middle. This is the city of Mirrorrasped -- Onulstigaz in Classical -- the capital of the Torrid Lash, and if one were to somehow make their way through the winding, trap-filled corridors of the guardhouse to the central staircase and breach through the heavily-guarded barracks underneath, they would find that there is a vast mountainhall underneath, filled with workshops, dwarves, and of course royal guardsmen keeping careful note of everything going on lest something occur that defies the will of His Gaudiness, winding down, down, deep down, over elaborately-constructed artificial rivers and through bustling marketplaces, into the heart of the mountain and below.
On the very deepest level, just above the vast magma sea, one would find a heavily-guarded, sturdily-constructed pair of iron double doors inlaid with angular gold patterning on the other side of a searing lava moat, the guards surrounding it encased in shining steel armor with brilliant blue larch trees painted on the breastplates.
If one somehow, through some outrageous twist of fate, managed to get past their wall of beautifully-crafted steel and blasted their way through the firmly-sealed doors, they would find a vast hall, its shadow-cloaked ceiling rising at least five stories up above the reflectively-polished obsidian floor and supported by ornately-detailed pillars. The room was illuminated by a soft, lambent glow emitted by small glass bowls of glowing fungus set into the walls and supports. There was a solid-gold throne on the far end of the room, the wall behind it inlaid with platinum in concentric rings and enormous rays around the throne in a pattern that somewhat-resembled a shining silver sun, and which gave the impression that whoever sat in the center of it was extremely important. In the center of the room was a long polished-granite table with silver candlesticks staggered along its length.
However, one would do quite poorly to let their guard down at this point, as high above, waiting in balconies cloaked by the darkness of the upper reaches, were several dozen highly-trained snipers armed with the highest-quality crossbows, ready to swiftly and brutally terminate anyone who so much as looked to be contemplating causing trouble.
There were six dwarves seated around the table on finely-varnished and engraved nether-cap chairs. They were having a conversation; the atmosphere was tense.
One of the dwarves, currently reclining in a particularly-large and ornate chair on the far end of the table, his head resting on his hand, spoke. "And just why, exactly, have you requested that I take time out of my busy schedule to meet here, Sergeant-General?" he said sleepily, as though he had much more interesting things to be doing at the moment. He was a fairly-impressive figure, with broad shoulders and a voluminous, meticulously-groomed silver beard, and he was made all the more impressive by a billowing purple robe lined with the finest yeti fur and overlaid by an eye-searing array of gold, silver and platinum necklaces, pendants, bracelets, and brooches, all set off by an enormous, bulky-looking solid-gold (at least according to the Archives) crown inlaid with garnets and amethysts resting on his head.
The Sergeant-General, a weathered, grey figure with a close-cropped beard and steel-grey eyes set into a craggy, leathery face, returned the other dwarf's steady, patronising gaze with what he desperately hoped was an expression of cold steel. "It's about Clobbermountains, Your Gaudiness," he said, a very slight quaver in his voice as His Gaudiness's thick silver eyebrows flew up across his forehead; "The situation may soon get out of hand."
There were a flurry of faint murmurs around the table; two lady-dwarves, one rather frumpy-looking and one who was clearly dressed to impress in every conceivable way, who were sitting on either side of His Gaudiness leaned in near him, and the three briefly exchanged a series of inaudible whispers before His Gaudiness looked up at the Sergeant.
"Is that your official tactical assessment?" said His Gaudiness; "You must feel that I'm being quite rash, yes?" His tones were conciliatory, yet his expression indicated that the Sergeant should choose his next words very, very carefully, for his own sake.
The Sergeant bit his lip; in the stiff silence that had set over the table, he could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. "The banshees are becoming irritated," he said softly; he wasn't used to taking a diplomatic tone, but he figured now would be an excellent time to practice. "They're already starting to attack Clobbermountains in earnest, and our other outposts have been seeing more raids as well." The Sergeant swallowed, then continued: "Also, and mind that this is completely off-the-record, but they're starting to get anxious as well. We've seen an increase in raids and drone activity. My subordinates are already stretched thin just dealing with random skirmishes; we've been enjoying an uneasy truce of sorts for the past century or so, but if we disturb them in earnest, I shudder to think of the carnage." His Gaudiness raised an eyebrow goadingly, as though imploring the Sergeant to get to his point.
"Your Gaudiness, I urge you again," said the Sergeant-General, leaning closer over the table; "Evacuate Clobbermountains. Now. The risk you're taking is unconscionable. I'm sure the Archivist can create a cover story." The frumpy woman scowled slightly, clearly not appreciative of having her services volunteered unwillingly.
His Gaudiness slowly leaned forward, his jewelry clinking and tinkling like a thousand tiny bells as he did so, and steepled his fingers, gazing at the Sergeant steadily. "No," he said quietly, "I don't think I shall. Our forces are invincible. Clobbermountains will not fall."
Suddenly, the Sergeant slammed his fists on his table, making everyone except His Gaudiness and the Royal Archivist jump. "Tumam dammit, Erib, you stubborn troll!" shouted the Sergeant, his marginal level of patience violently shattering; "You can take that fucking arrogance and shove it straight up your ass! We have over a hundred citizens in that death-trap already! Some of my friends' children are down there! I even sent one of my most promising speardwarves in the expedition party! All of them could be killed if you don't fucking do something! Just how many dwarves are we to sacrifice to satisfy your fucking pride!?" He slammed the table again, the noise echoing through the halls; "Erib Catchtowns, you must order an evacuation immediately! I demand it!!"
There was a horrible silence, which gave the Sergeant an excellent opportunity to reflect on just how much trouble his outburst had bought him.
His Gaudiness looked at the Royal Archivist.
The Royal Archivist looked at the well-dressed lady, who was incidentally the King Consort.
The King Consort looked at His Gaudiness.
And then they all laughed and laughed. Even the normally-stoic Archivist managed to dredge up a few small, tinkly giggles.
The Archivist leaned forward, focusing her gaze on the Sergeant; she was dressed in a dark blue robe, and had a mop of thick wavy black hair and thick, large, round glasses that together obscured most of her face. The Sergeant was unnerved by the way her dark grey eyes were staring at him; it was as though he was an insect -- no, a circus animal.
"'Demand'?" said the Archivist with exaggerated bemusement; she shook her head, clucking quietly. "You don't seem to quite understand how a totalitarian dictatorship works." The other two nodded in solemn agreement.
The King Consort, dressed in a pitch-black, low-cut gown and corset, her collar bedecked by dazzling silver necklaces and a small silver tiara in her short grey hair, leaned in towards her husband. "I think we need to teach this silly man some respect for authority, darling," she said sweetly; "For his own sake." She was very fond of black, as evidenced by her clothing and dark lipstick; her eyes, by contrast, were an extremely-pale blue.
His Gaudiness nodded at his wife, grinning menacingly. "I quite agree, dear," he said lightly. He raised a hand loaded with rings and snapped his fingers three times in quick succession, the jewellery clinking along each time.
Within moments, the Sergeant felt extremely-strong hands encased in smooth metal -- four of them -- clamp around his upper arms; he struggled briefly on reflex, but might as well not have bothered for all the difference it made. He was a fairly-strong dwarf, but whatever was holding him was like an iron vice. He craned his neck up behind himself and saw two dwarves, or at least what he hazarded to be dwarves, their strange electric-blue armor failing to conceal their enormous build -- far bulkier than a normal dwarf. Their faces were concealed completely by their helmets, but the Sergeant swore he could see a very faint red light through the slits in the front; his blood ran cold at the sights. Spawn? That was his first thought. But, no... he'd seen the Spawn of Holistic in person, and they weren't built like this. Wrong bone structure, wrong proportions. He was pretty sure they didn't glow, too.
"Take him to the Pits," ordered His Gaudiness casually; "A few weeks there should teach him to mind his tongue." The Consort giggled quietly next to him; meanwhile, the Archivist was sitting on the edge of her seat, staring at the drama silently, as though watching the climax of a play.
The Sergeant felt the dwarves(?) dragging him backwards, knocking over the chair he had been sitting on as though they didn't even notice it. "You'll be the death of us, Erib!" he hollered at the retreating table; "All of those dwarves' blood will be on your hands, do you hear me!?" His words echoed across the hallway, masking the sound of his heels dragging against the floor. The dwarves at the table all goggled at him across the room. "Mark my words, Erib!" he shouted, as he heard the deep groan of the doors opening behind him; "Soon you will curse the day you rejected my counsel!"
The doors slammed, and the Sergeant's muffled ranting slowly grew more distant until it could no longer be heard.
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Topic: (34.11 Succession) Clobbermountains -- The End(?) (Read 383643 times)