Ch. 1: Mud-Bound, Reaching Heaven

I sit at the tavern tables, watching the birds that swarm the eaves, simple white doves speaking a language I will never understand. Currency dictates stature and hierarchy, but language has always divided us. Even the lowliest—birds, miners—question with a ferocity born of misunderstanding.

My silver knight armor bears the emblem of Thalemont as I take a sip of local liquor, a growing reminder of the motherland, of the civilization we are destined to build. Yet the air around me grows tense. Recent revolts by mining mercenaries in the lower levels have cast a veil of unease over the tavern. Outsiders understand our mission to reach Heaven, offering support in principle, yet the people they send speak dialects ill-favored here.

Worse, there is a phenomenon that intensifies the deeper we dig, or the higher we ascend: Aphasia. They lose language entirely, only to regain words unknown to us, and unintelligible even among themselves. It is a curse, and one the noblemen have chosen to confine to the lower levels.

Understand the disbelief of the noblemen: beneath my feet lies a mound of ants, but humankind as well! Ants that understand order more than the common mining-man. Revolution and bloodshed; both water under the bridge, guarding Prince Caelric has been the difference. 

I close my notebook.

From the right, a familiar voice cuts through. “Hey, hey!”
From the left: “Well, I’ll be damned; Roland, you slob.”

I stand to greet them—one thin, the other built like a slab of iron.
“Sir Edmund. Sir Hugh. Care for a drink?”

Edmund scoffs. “You’ve got nerve. Putting in orders for armor recycling? Twenty of my recruits are left with nothing but cloth!”

I point at him. “And how else do you calm a revolt? Demilitarize them, or let it burn. Besides, the tower demands its due. Metal is taxed like anything else.”

Edmund lights a cigar. His tone shifts.

“Roland… look around. This kingdom is splitting apart. Those who share a language cling together. Those who don’t; turn on each other. And the mute…” He exhales. “Children, Roland. Even grown men. They get lost. That was our responsibility. Order.”

He shakes his head. “We’ve already failed.”

Smoke curls between us.

“I don’t understand you,” Edmund continues. “You strip men of arms to keep peace… but you couldn’t save your own son.”

I slam my hand against the table.

“I am trying to save them,” I snap. “Prince Caelric will soon take the throne. His father is failing. If the city breaks now, he won’t hold it together. Panic will spread. More children will vanish—”

“Vanish?” Edmund cuts in, voice rising. “Call it what it is. Trafficking. Your son is gone, Roland, sold like the rest.”

I swing.

Hugh catches my arm before it lands.

Gentle, to not impede. "Guys... let's not do this here..." He calls over the waiter. "Yes. Can we have two more glasses of liquor-"

Edmund stretches to grab his shoulder. With demanding tone. "Leave it." Shifting focus to the waiter, "We're leaving". 

He flicks his cigar and steps on it.

Then a performance, an impression of a nobleman: "Sir Roland of Thalemont, the prince's guard... your duty awaits you in the tower" He points at the background: a large tower-like ziggurat. Centered in the middle of the town, so tall it commands light, it's shadow devouring a quarter of the towns sunlight at each given day.

He blows air, "not that I give a damn"

Edmund and Hugh disappear in the crowd of foreigners.