CHAPTER NINETEEN

Marched to a cell of glass bars between otherwise concrete, the dwarf and dwarf alone landed hard on the latter. Behind him, Doetrieve and his commanding officer clicked the gate shut, a variety of strange knobs lined vertically dispensing air in quick hisses before petering out. The officer--the elf the dwarf yet knew the name of--piped up at once:

“You have been declared, as decreed by The Ponderous Tree, a criminal of war. You will be tried. Likely you’ll hang--our vines will keep. You are not entitled to a defense. By fury of His oaken words, this is a formality for His people. There is no projected timeline for these events, but know by His word the matter will be settled quickly. My men are personally assigned to watching you in the meanwhile. I recommend trying nothing lest you wish to expedite the process.”

Leaving, Doetrieve stood firm facing away from the cell, bow strapped across his back, feet pointed away from the dwarf. He, dwarf, took stock of his miserable new circumstances. A dark rectangle, the facilities offered within were: cot, bucket, mass of hay, and a chair on three glass legs. He sighed and threw himself against the clumped wheat--a similar sleeping situation to nights in the barn. He bitterly regret cooperating with the elves and once more ever crossing the chasm to begin with. The dwarf stared at the ceiling, wretched roof of cracks, his worn eyes filling them in. His stomach lurched--the delicious food he’d enjoyed had just as soon vanished, and the elf who so wickedly addressed him seemed to forego mention of further meals. The dwarf’s anxious mood spiked on realization of his pets’ potential fate, and he grit his teeth; clasped his hands. Why could he not escape the clutches of misery so intent on stalking him and his through this new world? Would the tree who first damned him--for now two had--ever show its gnarled bark again? The dwarf thought he might cry but his ducts refused. So he moved no inch--only laid.

Some concern clear in his expression, Doetrieve turned and glanced over the miserable stout wretch.

“Yer lookin’ rough, dwarf,” he observed. “Though ain’t none us want you cozy. Hey listen, why don’t you hold the fort down awhile, damned Captain Locust dragged me first thing this morning and I ain’t got a breakfast yet. Be good and I’ll swing a biscuit by you, ‘uh?”

The dwarf continued his lay miserably. Doetrieve did not hover long for an answer, his own stomach at attention. The elf trotted off, and the dwarf realized his solitude. Carefully weighing his options, the dwarf then hopped up and glanced at the strange lock sealing him within the cell. It had long since silenced its hiss, and now only remained a strange series of bolts completely alien in design. He pressed his hands against the pillars of glass acting as jail, and gave one a light thump--the strength seemed clear behind each bar. But he had to know and had to try, so the dwarf reared his fist and slammed the weapon straight forward.

“MELEE INCREASED TO 14”

Pain blasted out from his already bruised knuckles erupting in hellfire for the dwarf and his wrist, the former gnashing bone wildly to distract from otherwise howling. Sent to the ground, the tears he anticipated arrived with great release rapidly down his cheeks, drizzling into the floor and, like its opposite, cracks. The dwarf swallowed his sobs and managed loose only two slips of agony--unnoticeably quick, he hoped. But although he suffered and indeed the glass did not, a plan began to hatch in his dwarfen mind. Given the continued absence of his guard, the dwarf knew each minute passed was value pissed away, as his father would have explained. After recovering Waspig and his two recent additions would he find time to writhe. Moving towards the pile of hay, he swept some back and, tongue squeezed between teeth, began punching the floor.

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 3”

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 4”

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 5”

“‘Ow you feelin’, dwarf? Got’cha biscuit. ‘Uh? Dwarf?”

The dwarf, noticing the advancing return of Doetrieve, swept the loose bale back and shoved himself within, his profusely bleeding right deep within needles, his less ugly left breathing atop. The dwarf’s face too disguised in hay, the unbelievable blubbering endured deemed better kept away from elven curiosity. And so in this silence Doetrieve slid the biscuit between the bars and traded shifts with Giltgrief who took his place sliding onto his rear, heard the dwarf. A surprise came when his dwarfen ears too soon picked up the sounds of deep snoring and, the dwarf removing himself from the dirty yellow pile, he realized Giltgrief’s sleep. A theory, whether the dwarf realized it or not, had been rolling itself around the deep recesses of his brain, and now it hatched: he didn’t think the elves had very good hearing. Shifting his hay aside and carefully bringing just one fist down before snapping back for guidance, the theory took wings: Giltgrief took no notice. The dwarf brought another down. Giltgrief sung a train whistle. And the dwarf devoured the biscuit.

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 6”

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 7”

“‘Uh? Wuzzat...?” sputtered Gittgrief. The dwarf remained still. “... Very well...”

The dwarf knew not what expression the smacked guard made--beating no doubt delivered by his superior officer--only that the action happened nearly as soon as the dwarf had shattered his way through concrete and into a cavern overflowing with thistles and bushes and plantlife that twisted into strange shapes yet seen. He, ostensibly successfully escaped from his pen, knew his next movements were critical if he did not wish to be placed back in it. But the many tunnels spinning off into different directions all round the dwarf submitted him to nervousness and hesitation. Hearing the commotion upstairs spurred him to pick a path--any at all--and so the dwarf dove forward left-most, that which sported many spirals of vine and scattered small shroom headed snakes with every step. He did not feel afraid of their presence--merely apologetic for having disturbed them--but the plight he underwent surely weighed heavier than the snakes’, and so he marched ahead uncaring. Much dirt made up the foundation around his initial flee, but the landscape gradually shifted to a black bracky sort of earth, and soon he realized the rivers running all under him--then on both sides--until the entire path seemed a slide. Losing his footing, the dwarf tested this hypothesis rapidly, light fast lost into a dark foray where violent splashes reverberated in explosive cacophonies.

And then all at once the dwarf shot out a hole and into a vast lake beneath the blazing sun.

“BASE JUMPING SKILL INCREASED TO 3”...

Mid-afternoon brought quick showers across the dense forest for even the roof of green could not resist rain’s perforating. In the wake came golden light that filled the lime world from end to end, a clear delight off the cooing and ooing of many elves in their second dining hall, a patio high off rock with a perfect view of holes through thick foliage; of the sunset; of mammoth tread plains and the city on the shore. The elves clinked glasses and enjoyed the sophisticated delight of colors through glass--it seemed a wonder to the dwarf, who knelt beneath them all under heavy shadows, they never grew tired of the sight. But then, having identified four further clearly designated eateries, he guessed at a rotating schedule. There had been weeks on the farm in which he and his father subsisted off corn and a variety of potato-based dishes. Whether sliced, baked, hashed, fried, or as fries, his father served corn the exact same way. By the fourth night his father challenged the boy’s attempt at leaving the table early, a plate of yellow remaining. But he never got sick of the potatoes. Coincidentally, the meal served to the sharp eared subsisted entirely of potatoes and mushroom--he wondered if they grew sick of the latter. He wondered about the same atop Waspig’s head. His heart hurt for his animal, of Bathiel and Pistol too, ignorant of their names he may then have been. Sneaking away from the scene to follow the chef, who himself had begun his exit of the kitchen, the dwarf’s stubby legs managed to trail the target--though not without issue. As a young child he’d made a habit of skulking about the farm late at night often to sneak into the barn, infrequently to eavesdrop on arguments or watch his father degenerate. The dwarf, on dwarfen feet, struggled with the right touches of toe and heel necessary. He stumbled and smashed his way through fencing jolting the cook out from his trance--but to the dwarf’s good fortune he resumed, and the tailing continued.

“STEALTH SKILL XP GAINED”

“STEALTH SKILL INCREASED TO 2”

Soon, the chef broke off from the road and began cautiously navigating nature--all still well within the walls. This agreed with the dwarf, an assortment of vegetation easily obscuring his stalk. He slid on wet mud and plunged straight into a boulder, birds sent shrieking away to once more the cook’s surprise.

“What elf walks!” he called to prolonged absence.

Given the dwarf’s physical circumstance, he appreciated the lack of guilt in his lack of response--after all, he hadn’t really been addressed. So keeping still and silent, the chef shook his head and moved along the great city wall until it dug into a sky scraping mountain. Here he descended down the rock wall, for the topology continued further and further downwards; he stopped, turned, and waved his hand fast and knowingly. A crevice formed between barriers of stone giving way to an entrance, and the chef turned slowly with one eye cocked as sudden shuffling shot towards his back, the dwarf soon upon him bringing a bloody fist down hard and emotionless. Feeling strong the urge of dwarfen rage at its door, the dwarf resisted, memory of the beaten funguay welling. So he brought his burst knuckled hand close and asked directly for his pets. The elf squeezed out from his assailant’s grip and bowed repeatedly, tossing promises around like seed. The two continued into the secret cavern and soon came upon an orb shaped pen--fully glass--in which Waspig and Bathiel bumbled against and into each other. The dwarf asked of the third, and the chef could only shake his head, explaining they needed meat for tomorrow’s breakfast. The dwarf brought a fist fast into his gut and the elf doubled over winded.

Approaching a console standing erect before the spherical cell, the dwarf took a guess of a smash to it. Sparks of all shades of the rainbow spit out from the piece and the front door of glass fell fast freeing its prisoners. For yet another reuniting the dwarf ran full speed into the hooves of Waspig, the two wildly nuzzling. He spared a free hand to brush up against Bathiel--obviously shaken, but no less composed for the situation, wild hair and smaller stature he may have sported. Of surprise came the hand that stroked Waspig’s forehead--smooth and furry. The dwarf took another glance at the glass cage and discovered little else than droppings. But all the better, he thought, to be rid of the problem completely.

“Dwarf,” came Doetrieve in the gape of the cavern’s unattended maw. “I’m to bring ya back.”