Despite the dwellers’ diminutive size, the ceilings of this dwelling were surprisingly forgiving.
“I’m tellin’ ya we can’t fuckin’ go diggin’ shit up while the Dungeon Core’s throwin’ a fuckin’ temper tantrum rearrangin’ rooms an’ shit! Y’forget what happened last time?!” the surly little voice grumbled. “That’s not to mention that half-statue motherfucker that’s been showin’ up through the monitoring glyphs down in Sector Fifteen since the elf came ‘round. Now sure he’s still inside Hedan’s Wall, but mark my fuckin’ words, he’ll be a fuckin’ problem one day, and as always we’ll have to deal with the surfacers’ bullshit!”
The ranting moleman sat at a low table made from a single piece of glistening bug shell, his attention turned toward a smaller moleman that tended a fire pit. He whipped around the moment he heard them enter, forcefully gesturing with his gleaming, gold-tipped claws: “And here’s to my new position as fuckin’ prophet, eh?! Fuckin’ surfacers just as I goddamn predicted! Y’finally gonna decide which side of the damn mountains you wanna be on, huh Hulson? Or are y’just so fond of my beetle steak that you keep comin’ up with excuses to visit?”
This up close, Zel could discern anatomical differences from the Poltragow molemen, particularly in the face; his gleaming teeth were smaller, his nose was more akin to that of a pig than a star-nosed mole, and he had something vaguely akin to lips. His deeply-set eyes still burned like embers with reflected light, but there was an undefinable shimmer to the glow that would’ve ticked off her instincts to the creature’s sapience even in a less favorable situation than this.
“It is good to see that you got over your fungal infection since I last came through, Aeshador,” the northman greeted as if nothing was amiss. The moleman scoffed, holding up his other hand. The two outer claws were visibly different, seemingly coated in metallic chitin rather than solid iron.
“No I fuckin’ didn’t, had to chop two damn fingers,” he said, putting his hand down. “Y’comin’ through, yeah? Got payment ready or do I finally get to make you do my busywork? We’ve got a harvest comin’ up and I really don’t feel like doin’ it this go ‘round.”
“I have the usual payment ready, but I wager we have something that would interest you more than hrivns,” the northman said in a faux-apologetic manner, prompting a faux-annoyed groan from the moleman.
It was immediately followed by an expression of interest: “Oho, somethin’ more interestin’ than songsteel, y’say? Lay it on me, then. C’mon, I ain’t got all day.”
Not wasting any time, Zel pulled the gold-plated, gem-encrusted “gun” out from behind her belt, prompting a wide-eyed vocalization of interest from the moleman as he reached out to grab it.
Aeshador’s eyes shot open, a chortling, chattering cackle bursting out of him.
“Give it here, lemme take a look,” he demanded, holding out his hand and gesturing his demand with his fingers. Zel handed it over without reservation, her amusement at this whole scene drowning out even the shred of mistrust that sprouted in spite of Jorfr’s attitude towards these people.
He took to examining the trinket and turning it every-which-way, only to look up and holler further into the dwelling: “Ey, Allipeite! Come lookadis shit! The fuckin’ Geyserhumpers down south bubba’d some elf’s blazewand, fuckin’ sawed off the stock an’ bedazzled the fuel cell compartment shut!”
He raised the gun and pointed it at the entrance, a manic grin on his face. The figure of another Dweller passed the threshold, and he pulled the trigger; a ray of light ripped through the air and smashed right into the newcomer’s chest… Leaving them unharmed, much to both of their cackling amusement.
“I barely felt that!” the newcomer laughed, dusting a bit of burned chitin off his chest. “That thing’s runnin’ on fuckin’ Mogralt dust at this point, nevermind a core!”
“...Mogralt?” Vic asked.
“Nasty shit that Ankhezians use to power all their fancy machines. It’s kinda like kidney stones, but fer leyline wells instead a’... Well, y’know. Sometimes y’find it natural-like, but them smartass elves figured out some filthy way to make their own usin’ those big ol’ fuckoff sun towers. They’d just pump sunlight inta the ground n’ harvest the Mogralt that clogged up the local leyline wells. So uh, where’d you get that fuckin’ abomination?”
He looked at Zel, craning his head to a seemingly painful degree with no evident discomfort.
“Poltragow, down south,” she answered. “A horde of molemen attacked a Damasite-shipping convoy, my sect was called in to deal with them. I took this off the corpse of an authoritative-looking individual that seemed to be in control of their Ankylodragon.”
"Yeah see our southern cousins're a load 'a wise guys thinkin' they can jus' steal from humans an' shit, but we know better!” the one named Allipeite chimed in. “Sometimes when harvests're bad we jus' find one o' you's big ol' foundries and get inta the slag bins an' start eatin' the good stuff you toss ‘cause it’s got impurities…”
“Ey don’t fuckin’ tell ‘em that! The Begebuchs still think it’s Slag Goblins! They’ll stop leavin’ that shit out there unattended an’ start tryin’ to sell it to us if they find out!”
Putting the gun down on the table, he looked up at Zel.
“Of course, can’t really blame the dumfucks, bless their souls,” he said, gesturing to the wall with the mural. “When Habregeite, the founder of our lil’ commune ‘ere, happened to eat some magic shrooms n’ cultivated himself some brains, his first thought was to make as many of our kind as possible like himself. An’ what did his brother Ubradeige do?!"
“Fucked off with a buncha unenlightened ‘fore Habregeite could get to ‘em an’ crowned ‘imself god-king down south!”
“Uh-huh, exactly! The poor morons don’t know what they’re missin’ out on,” Allipeite agreed.
Aeshador quieted down, picking the gun up and using it to gesture as he spoke more seriously: “Now, here’s the thing: If I take this ‘ere tschatschki as payment just for lettin’ yas pass, I’ll owe ya… And I hate owin’ surface-dwellers. I’s got an offer I’d like t’make ya, but even that won’t balance out my account so t’speak, so…”
Akaso
If you’d like to read ahead, consider heading on over to the Patreon! Patrons gain access to up to 20 days of advance content, with further expansion planned for the future. So if you want to help fund my crippling addiction to commissioning art, consider reading a couple chaps ahead.
I’d also greatly appreciate it if you could rate my story, or even leave a review. Reviews and ratings alike weigh heavily in the eyes of the algorithm (not to mention prospective new readers), so that pretty much means they determine the success of my work. A single review or even just a rating can noticeably influence the novel’s performance, especially when it has few ratings overall like this one does as of me posting this.
Same goes for review voting - the reviews with the most upvotes are the ones that most people will see, so you as readers decide which reviews are legitimate.
Discord for inadvertent spoilers from yours truly HERE.
Despite the dwellers’ diminutive size, the ceilings of this dwelling were surprisingly forgiving.
“I’m tellin’ ya we can’t fuckin’ go diggin’ shit up while the Dungeon Core’s throwin’ a fuckin’ temper tantrum rearrangin’ rooms an’ shit! Y’forget what happened last time?!” the surly little voice grumbled. “That’s not to mention that half-statue motherfucker that’s been showin’ up through the monitoring glyphs down in Sector Fifteen since the elf came ‘round. Now sure he’s still inside Hedan’s Wall, but mark my fuckin’ words, he’ll be a fuckin’ problem one day, and as always we’ll have to deal with the surfacers’ bullshit!”
The ranting moleman sat at a low table made from a single piece of glistening bug shell, his attention turned toward a smaller moleman that tended a fire pit. He whipped around the moment he heard them enter, forcefully gesturing with his gleaming, gold-tipped claws: “And here’s to my new position as fuckin’ prophet, eh?! Fuckin’ surfacers just as I goddamn predicted! Y’finally gonna decide which side of the damn mountains you wanna be on, huh Hulson? Or are y’just so fond of my beetle steak that you keep comin’ up with excuses to visit?”
This up close, Zel could discern anatomical differences from the Poltragow molemen, particularly in the face; his gleaming teeth were smaller, his nose was more akin to that of a pig than a star-nosed mole, and he had something vaguely akin to lips. His deeply-set eyes still burned like embers with reflected light, but there was an undefinable shimmer to the glow that would’ve ticked off her instincts to the creature’s sapience even in a less favorable situation than this.
“It is good to see that you got over your fungal infection since I last came through, Aeshador,” the northman greeted as if nothing was amiss. The moleman scoffed, holding up his other hand. The two outer claws were visibly different, seemingly coated in metallic chitin rather than solid iron.
“No I fuckin’ didn’t, had to chop two damn fingers,” he said, putting his hand down. “Y’comin’ through, yeah? Got payment ready or do I finally get to make you do my busywork? We’ve got a harvest comin’ up and I really don’t feel like doin’ it this go ‘round.”
“I have the usual payment ready, but I wager we have something that would interest you more than hrivns,” the northman said in a faux-apologetic manner, prompting a faux-annoyed groan from the moleman.
It was immediately followed by an expression of interest: “Oho, somethin’ more interestin’ than songsteel, y’say? Lay it on me, then. C’mon, I ain’t got all day.”
Not wasting any time, Zel pulled the gold-plated, gem-encrusted “gun” out from behind her belt, prompting a wide-eyed vocalization of interest from the moleman as he reached out to grab it.
Aeshador’s eyes shot open, a chortling, chattering cackle bursting out of him.
“Give it here, lemme take a look,” he demanded, holding out his hand and gesturing his demand with his fingers. Zel handed it over without reservation, her amusement at this whole scene drowning out even the shred of mistrust that sprouted in spite of Jorfr’s attitude towards these people.
He took to examining the trinket and turning it every-which-way, only to look up and holler further into the dwelling: “Ey, Allipeite! Come lookadis shit! The fuckin’ Geyserhumpers down south bubba’d some elf’s blazewand, fuckin’ sawed off the stock an’ bedazzled the fuel cell compartment shut!”
He raised the gun and pointed it at the entrance, a manic grin on his face. The figure of another Dweller passed the threshold, and he pulled the trigger; a ray of light ripped through the air and smashed right into the newcomer’s chest… Leaving them unharmed, much to both of their cackling amusement.
“I barely felt that!” the newcomer laughed, dusting a bit of burned chitin off his chest. “That thing’s runnin’ on fuckin’ Mogralt dust at this point, nevermind a core!”
“...Mogralt?” Vic asked.
“Nasty shit that Ankhezians use to power all their fancy machines. It’s kinda like kidney stones, but fer leyline wells instead a’... Well, y’know. Sometimes y’find it natural-like, but them smartass elves figured out some filthy way to make their own usin’ those big ol’ fuckoff sun towers. They’d just pump sunlight inta the ground n’ harvest the Mogralt that clogged up the local leyline wells. So uh, where’d you get that fuckin’ abomination?”
He looked at Zel, craning his head to a seemingly painful degree with no evident discomfort.
“Poltragow, down south,” she answered. “A horde of molemen attacked a Damasite-shipping convoy, my sect was called in to deal with them. I took this off the corpse of an authoritative-looking individual that seemed to be in control of their Ankylodragon.”
"Yeah see our southern cousins're a load 'a wise guys thinkin' they can jus' steal from humans an' shit, but we know better!” the one named Allipeite chimed in. “Sometimes when harvests're bad we jus' find one o' you's big ol' foundries and get inta the slag bins an' start eatin' the good stuff you toss ‘cause it’s got impurities…”
“Ey don’t fuckin’ tell ‘em that! The Begebuchs still think it’s Slag Goblins! They’ll stop leavin’ that shit out there unattended an’ start tryin’ to sell it to us if they find out!”
Putting the gun down on the table, he looked up at Zel.
“Of course, can’t really blame the dumfucks, bless their souls,” he said, gesturing to the wall with the mural. “When Habregeite, the founder of our lil’ commune ‘ere, happened to eat some magic shrooms n’ cultivated himself some brains, his first thought was to make as many of our kind as possible like himself. An’ what did his brother Ubradeige do?!"
“Fucked off with a buncha unenlightened ‘fore Habregeite could get to ‘em an’ crowned ‘imself god-king down south!”
“Uh-huh, exactly! The poor morons don’t know what they’re missin’ out on,” Allipeite agreed.
Aeshador quieted down, picking the gun up and using it to gesture as he spoke more seriously: “Now, here’s the thing: If I take this ‘ere tschatschki as payment just for lettin’ yas pass, I’ll owe ya… And I hate owin’ surface-dwellers. I’s got an offer I’d like t’make ya, but even that won’t balance out my account so t’speak, so…”
Akaso
If you’d like to read ahead, consider heading on over to the Patreon! Patrons gain access to up to 20 days of advance content, with further expansion planned for the future. So if you want to help fund my crippling addiction to commissioning art, consider reading a couple chaps ahead.
I’d also greatly appreciate it if you could rate my story, or even leave a review. Reviews and ratings alike weigh heavily in the eyes of the algorithm (not to mention prospective new readers), so that pretty much means they determine the success of my work. A single review or even just a rating can noticeably influence the novel’s performance, especially when it has few ratings overall like this one does as of me posting this.
Same goes for review voting - the reviews with the most upvotes are the ones that most people will see, so you as readers decide which reviews are legitimate.
Discord for inadvertent spoilers from yours truly HERE.
