Death to a dwarf is to have wet fingers reach out and snuff the flame of a wick only just alighted--incidents natural and in the comfort of their own homes and holes excluded (wicks long and brackish). To see out the length of such a stem is the unspoken goal of all dwarfen societies: live long years out and die surrounded by those with centuries more to go. As far as mining operations are concerned, dwarfen-ran institutions consistently produce the safest underground working standards of any known civilizations. To die in a wet hole without a gray in one’s beard would be widely considered a preventable tragedy. Such is the tragedy a recent dwarf anticipated, neck deep in his doom.
Whether the storm had faded or night began came difficult to assess from so far down. It was dark all the same. For two nights now, the dwarf realized. He shook his head, the only part of him dry. Even his brand new beard could not be kept safe from the stagnant water. As if the dwarf were being dealt a consolation prize for his misery, occasionally his ‘SWIMMING’ level would climb another rung. Indeed, by this time he had amassed fifteen levels in the skill. He wasn’t certain which milestone in particular would be cause for celebration.
As if tearing apart binding ropes, the dwarf violently shot up, water splashing at the wall the dwarf resumed flinging himself towards. It was cool this low into the ground. The dirt making up the dwarf’s natural prison had not grown any less wet, reminding him with every thunk and splash. Dripping from the top of his wet head--undaunted--the dwarf flung himself out from the frenzy that stirred within him against sickening mush. And again, and so on.
Without repentance nor reluctance, the dwarf climbed--unfortunately, in vain. Despite such effort, he failed to generate enough ‘ATHLETICS’ experience for even a single level. But he raged on, determined to resist his neck-deep embrace of death. Surprisingly, this manic state proved its worth: an uncountable attempt caused the earth to groan as if in agony from flesh torn, and so dirt slumped downwards nearly drowning the dwarf in a miniature mudslide. The resulting sludge was not its worth--what was glowed and pulsated.
Pulling himself up from the muck, he--the dwarf--sat next to a rune etched slab. He--the drenched--studied it with ignorant curiosity. Something compelled thoughts but they could not articulate in his head. The dwarf laid a filthy hand against the stone and, as if his father lit the family parlor, he felt warmth. For a dripping dirty farmer’s son--shivering, chattering--this proved to be his first legitimate boon. He curled up in a fashion spent on his parents’ bed once upon a time. The dwarf’s back against the pulse, he looked upwards at the dirt that formed a canopy of sorts, a result of the slide. It occasionally, worryingly, dripped. The possibility of collapse did not elude the dwarf. But he closed his eyes regardless...
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Sunshine spurred the dwarf to ignore the dull pain he awoke to--some from his initial transformation, much from the physical lengths he had stressed himself to. With the light warmer, stronger than yesterday, dirt dried. Starting with the wall that had yet collapsed, the dwarf threw himself upwards, another fervor that could only be quelled by death.
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 7”
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 8”
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 9”
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 10”
Despite his impassioned ethic resulting in countless falls, the dwarf hardly lost a drop of health. What he came to realize in this world illuminated with every splash from every fall: water, even muddied, even filthy, negates all heights. The dwarf found himself ascending higher and higher than the night of storms previous, the new veins that decorated his large arms popping near to burst. He’d fail and fall to do but another attempt--if he managed to land into what remained of the pool, the dwarf understood, no disregardable portion of the hole having recently been replaced with wet roof.
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 11”
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 12”
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 13”
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 14”
The sun drifted. The dwarf had yet succeeded nor yielded. He climbed as the hole basked in inbound dusk. Even from afar, the blue and purple dotting, lining his body could surely be seen bare. He knew he held little reserves, and he considered whether rest was an option. The possibility of a subsequent rainstorm too failed to elude the dwarf. So his bruised form regardless ascended.
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 15”
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 16”
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 17”
“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 18”
After an immeasurable amount of attempts, failures, crashes, splashes, and near death by drowning, as his lungs collapsed and contracted with a struggle his farm never found, the dwarf’s hands seized the mouth of the hole.