Honesty begets wisdom.

- Handbook of the Keepers

“Everyone on your knees.”

A quick scan had shown the hopelessness of our situation. Surrounded on all sides, with no cover but our own. One false move, and we would be dead before we knew it.

“Keep your fists above your head.”

My commands were quickly followed as the rest of the squad followed my lead. (Even the imps, albeit it rather clumsily.) James earned a kick to the shin when he raised his hands above his head, palms open. “Close them, you idiot!” I hissed. Luckily, none of our ambushers had decided to turn us into pincushions for that mistake. They were too busy glaring at us with fear in their eyes. And something else which I couldn’t put my finger on.

I studied the face of the one that almost killed me. The thing was mostly obscured by an iron helmet that covered everything above the nose, leaving two, rectangular gaps through which his eyes peered. I guessed it was a he since a dark brown beard covered the chain mail guarding his neck.

What frightened me the most was that the man’s crossbow was softly trembling, fingers tightly clenched around the triggering device. Killed by a coward. A fitting end for you. I clicked my tongue, this was not the time and place to be dealing with my recent… distractions of the mind. I agree. Jacking off would send the wrong kind of message.

A harsh series of shouts broke me from my internal rant of creative curses. It came from the building Sly had previously pointed at. It can’t be… Standing in the opening were three armor-clad warriors which could only be described as a weird mixture between Sloth and Gluttony. They were small, smaller than the average human. Hells, even Pickle would have looked big in comparison to them. But they made up that difference in sheer bulk. Like someone had taken the hulking monstrosity that was Hammer, and condensed it to a smaller, walking, talking wall of muscle. One that was armed to the teeth as well.

The middle one barked another series of shouts at us, pointing his two-handed ax our way. I wasn’t a craftsman, but I knew what sold well. And that thing would’ve been enough to start a war over. Not to mention that fucking armor. Thick, engraved, metal plates covered every inch of the man, safe for the long, blond beard that stretched over his belly. The other two sported less impressive weapons and armors, though less than invaluable was still more than enough to make me drool. And not only me. It seemed our shared primal Sin had gotten the best of my party.

The man said something to the shield holding warrior besides him, the one without any visible beard, after which the warrior quickly retreated back into the building. A few seconds later he emerged again, hand grasping a piece of small, flat rock. One that had a glowing white character chiseled into it. Rune.  

Everything clicked. The armor. The weapons. The thick frame. Granted, I knew it the moment that trio stepped forth from the building. But it couldn’t, no…, didn’t want to admit the truth. Not until the Founder had donned the necklace, rune resting on his beard, and began to speak. “My name is Mogrim Deephelm, Guardian of this outpost.” He slammed his fist on his breastplate. “Identify yourselves.”

The man’s voice seemed less harsh and guttural than before, but that didn’t mean he sounded friendlier. A silent threat had followed his last words; one that hung heavy in the air. “I am their leader,” I said, locking eyes with the man. “Let me speak for them.” The man gave a nod, beckoning me forward. Ever so slowly, I stoop up before moving myself towards the front of our group, making sure to avoid any and all sudden movements. James and Mary were too busy silently whimpering to make much of an impression, but Dirk and Dagger had probably reached the same conclusion that I had. Dirk was still, safe for the occasional twitch of his antenna. Dagger, on the other hand, was rapidly blinking her eyes, brows furrowed in utter confusion. Shit, if I’d known that the Founders were still alive, I would’ve payed more attention during the Archives’ history lessons.

I calmly breathed out, panic wasn’t going to help me in any way. These were people, and people could be reasoned with. Let’s just hope I remember enough about their customs. I really don’t want to fuck this up. Don’t worry. Worst case scenario, you’ll just end up dead.

You’re not helping. And neither are you. Now, start talking or get skewered. I had been spacing out again, much to the ire of the man in front of me. “My name is Marcus Ashwood, captain, and current leader of this group.” Afterwards I began introducing the rest one by one, stating their names and ranks in order from the highest to the lowest. Such was the Founder’s way. I think…

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

At least it didn’t seem the wrong method since Mogrim signaled the rest to lower their weapons, taking his time to study our faces—especially mine. “Who are you?” the man asked. The question made me slightly panic. Didn’t I just tell you? Or maybe the rune didn’t properly translate what we were saying. Did he think I was lying?

“I-I, we… as I’ve said my name is Ma-”

“We know you Vyvaries don’t like stating your true names, but let me remind you that you’re trespassing on dwarven territory. Our treaties dictates that you identify yourselves.” He planted his ax into the ground, eyes squinted at me. “So let me ask again. Who are you? And more importantly, where did you learn that form?”

Vyvaries? Dwarven territory? What is he talking about? The Founder’s helmet obscured his face, leaving no clue to work with safe for the silent threat his gaze conveyed. I swallowed on reflex. “I don’t know what a Vyvary is, but I can as-”

“Don’t lie to me!” the Founder shouted, hefting his ax once more. Instantly all crossbows were aimed at our group again, causing Mary to softly start crying. Mogrim lowered his weapon as he gazed at her, letting out a long sigh. “I get it now… you’re just youngsters forced to do dirty work. I should be mad at your cowardly elders, not you.” He crossed his arms. “Still, I can’t give you the crystals. No matter how desperate the Vyvaries are.”

“But we don’t ne-”

“No buts.” He held up his hand. “Just tell your elders that if they want their crystals, they’ll have to get it the usual way. Oh, one more thing.” He pointed at my face. “I don’t know who though it funny to teach you that Mark, but I’ll warn you. Most dwarves would have struck you down for imitating a Sin-bearer.” A deep chuckle resonated from his armor. “Luckily for you, I’m not much of a traditionalist.” That remark caused a series of laughs among the other Founders. Their weapon lowered as the previous tension was all but gone.

Seeing the changed atmosphere, I lowered my hands. Not really sure how to proceed. Should I clear up the misconception? Or try something else? It did not take long to arrive at an answer, for Mogrim was already speaking to his guards about other things. “We’re sorry, Mogrim Deephelm,” I said. The man stopped talking before looking at me. “It seems there’s been a misconception. We’re not Vyvaries, we’re actu-”

“Yes, yes. I know.” With some effort I managed to avoid clenching my fists. “You’re totally not Vyvaries,” he said, rolling his eyes. If you would just let me finish for once. “Don’t worry about my report. I’ll make up some excuse for the short delay in mining. Nobody will know you were here, trust me.”

“If you would ju-”

“Listen, kid,” Mogrim sighed. “You’re lowlander disguise isn’t too shabby, though next time you should make yourself less… big. Lowlanders that matched dwarves in strength were an exception, not the rule.” He tapped the side of his helmet. “Still, that fake wound on your cheek really fooled me. If lowlanders existed in this forge forsaken place, you would’ve tricked me for sure.” He looked at Dirk, Dagger, and the other two imps. “Were it not for your companions’ choice of disguise.”

“Could you please just listen to me?”

“What more is there to discuss?” Mogrim asked, counting down fingers. “You’ve wasted several hours of precious mining time. I’ve graciously decided to overlook your attempt at theft. I’m willing to let you go despite clear violation of current treaties. I’ve complimented your ability at maintaining this unusual form, giving you some pointers for improvement. And no… you’re not getting any crystals.”

As Mogrim counted down his long list, the bearded Founder next to him had gone into the building before coming back with a bucket of what seemed to be water. Mogrim had barely finished his last sentence before the wooden container’s content was flung at my face. The complete absurdity of the action caused me to freeze into place, getting completely drenched in the process.

“Did I ask for your help?” Mogrim asked, turning towards the Founder in question. The man replied something in that harsh language of theirs, but I couldn’t understand. Whatever was said, it caused Mogrim to raise a tightened fist. One that froze mid-air as the non bearded shield bearer began to tap his shoulder.

“One moment, love, I’m busy,” he replied. Surprisingly, a short, high pitched voice came from the shield bearing armor. It sounded distraught as its taping intensified; shield pointed at me. Mogrim visibly deflated as he turned around. “What is it, woman?”

He froze once he laid eyes on me, the bearded Founder next to him showing a similar reaction. “Get me another bucket.” Mogrim said. The Founder remained stock-still. “Bring me another bucket, NOW!”

The man made a small jump before darting inside the building once more. Some of the other Founders had raised their crossbows in the meantime, whilst other just looked on stupefied. Is is supposed to be some special liquid? It didn’t smell. A quick lick of my lips revealed it to be tasteless, just like normal water. Its just water, why the big deal? Cause you look hideous without your makeup.

Before I could react, Mogrim had found himself another bucket of that colorless liquid. “Don’t you move,” he said. Not that I was planning it with all these projectiles aimed at me. The Founder threw the liquid, drenching me a second time. He eyed me closely, sporting the same stupefied look the other Founders were wearing. “Why doesn’t the water work?” He took off his helmet, revealing a large nose and thick eyebrows. Thick eyebrows that were raised in amazement. “You’re not reverting...” He pinched his cheek, blinking several times with his blue eyes. “And I ain’t dreaming.”

This time he furrowed his brows, hefting the priceless ax once more into the air, asking that same question—one more time.

“Who are you?”