I was beginning to really loathe the feeling of realizing that I should have anticipated something. The local clue-by-four retailer must’ve been doing some sort of buy-one-get-one-free bargain or something. Because as soon as Trisaldan began going into depth about what an undercyst was, I started getting a real solid sense that I knew where this was all going. Hearing the description of how undercysts and wildlings were related drove the last nail in the coffin on the dead horse’s corpse, and then burned the coffin at sea in a proper Viking funeral while it was at it.

Undercysts were dungeons.

The bloody alfar had intended to steal a march on me and start farming the dungeon that would form as a result of the chaotic spiritual energy slash anti-natural pollution that my buildup had started to produce. Apparently, when that energy reached a certain concentration in a local area, through some process that the wood elves at least didn’t understand, that energy would bind somehow to a rock or just a crevasse or something and begin to grow as a sort of spiritual cyst in the ground. As it grew, it would ‘feed’ on the pollution energy and over time grow. The more of the ‘chaos energy’ it received over time, the bigger it could get. Somehow -- maybe as a process of digesting that energy? The details were murky -- that cavern-system would start to spawn wildlings. The older or larger the dungeon, the more exotic and potentially powerful the wildlings might become. If they got too powerful, they might spill over and start raiding the local countryside, seeking concentrations of that energy that had spawned them the way a lizard might seek a sunny rock.

So of course, to prevent that kind of desolation, dungeons were conventionally raided by whatever village or population happened to be in the area. The problem there though was that without wildlings -- monsters by any other name -- the cyst would start to go out of control somehow, possibly even spawning massive numbers of creatures or an exceptionally powerful one. So one had to be careful to only cull back so many of the critters at any given time, for fear of everything going nuts on you. Worse still: since this was all happening as a result of local stimuli, if some random source of ‘chaos energy’ were to spill over from somewhere else -- a dungeon might spawn a raid event while your dungeoneers were actually within it.

There were, however, stories that some of the exotic wildlings might have some harvestable body parts that might be useful in creating potions or talismans or the like that might somehow empower those that partook of them. Trisaldan himself had been on numerous raids on the dungeon of the capital city and while he’d found a number of adventurers who claimed to have benefited from such, he never saw anyone doing something that couldn’t be explained by good equipment, solid training, or simple talent.

Still. It was an interesting concept. Not one I’d be willing to risk my own hide over, mind you -- with everything already on my plate it was just damned foolhardy to throw away everything I’d built just so I could take up a new and exciting career as a filth-covered vagabond murderhobo. I still recall the exact moment I put on linen underclothes after wearing burlap for more than a month. I should give up that kind of luxury and comfort for a mere rumor that I might level up or something? To anyone suggesting that was a good idea, I could only say: pull the other one; it has bells.

Still, though; when I told Trisaldan to not worry about any potential interference on my part with regards to their plans to camp on the spawn point of any dungeons that popped up in my vicinity, I felt no small amount of vindictive pleasure in the sheer confusion that was plastered across Orelme and Eildan’s faces at my utter and complete disinterest in exploiting any such phenomena directly. Even Trisaldan was perplexed when I told him that I’d even be interested in providing a certain amount of logistical support to any groups that intended to lay up camp for that purpose.

It was rather obvious to me -- the only really useful elements I might get would be from purchasing the odd wildling corpse from the adventurers, or renting out hunters or guardians to accompany any groups that went danger-spelunking. That last would even be a double-bonus for me for the simple reason that my minions would gain combat experience that would facilitate my defenses further. But to the wood elves somehow my reasoning was utterly alien. I chalked that up to a lack of study of the economic sciences. Couldn’t really expect much in the way of mercantilism or capitalism from people who lived off of acorns and fought using bows and spears when you get down to it. Even if they did have arcane forces at their beck-and-call.

~~------------~~

The pot of tea on the table around which the four of us were seated -- myself on one side, the three alfar on the other -- was long since cooled off by this point. The sheer volume of information and personal experiences the trio had related to me with regards to the history of undercysts as they understood them was rather remarkable. Trisaldan in particular seemed to take it as an excuse to wax nostalgically about former compatriots in his more adventurous days before becoming something like Annaka’s personal aide-de-camp.

“... He was a thing to behold. We used to rag on him so hard about how much of a waste of his coin it was to purchase two blacklances. I remember, Janel used to tease him about overcompensating with fancy spears to make up for the one he ‘clearly’ lacked in his britches. Nobody was laughing that day, though. Bloody bastard proved us all wrong, on that day. Stood his ground in the tunnel even as that thing shredded his spear-wielding arm into bloody chunks, drew his second spear with his free hand and stabbed it in the throat and made it choke on the bones of his own hand. Even pulled it back on top of himself to block the tunnel… gave the rest of us the only chance at a fighting retreat we were going to get. We should have all died in that ambush. Saved our lives.” The Warden-sergeant made a show -- however legitimate -- of wiping a tear from his eye at the memory of a long-fallen companion.

We had at this point been discussing the various elves’ war-stories of their time served in the undercysts. The more interesting thing to me was less the exact details of the individual creatures they’d faced -- and that was saying something considering how few details their stories shared in common between them -- but rather the little things in the way they related their stories tied much of it together. The way that it was just assumed by them that joining the Wardens was something that only adventurers could do; the way that they described their childhood training from their parents for their ‘time in the trenches’. The way that they described the rare instances of ishuata joining them down below.

Things they didn’t even realize they were telling me, if you got right down to it. More about the unthinking assumptions and beliefs about their stations in life. These were men who were born to soldier or ex-soldier parents and expected their own children -- should they have any -- to be the same. Orelme had even mentioned passing down his trusty dungeoneering spear to his brother as a good luck charm to his brother’s daughter, as she was soon to come of age. Apparently it had been in the family for over five hundred years. And never used except by adventurers getting their dungeon-raid on. There was never a chance I would actually recall all of this if I’d just been sitting there myself, and having a homunculus in the room transcribing their words down as they spoke them would’ve been a touch gauche. So instead I made a point of exercising my multitasking capacity by using a manual to sign to a homunculus acting as scribe the words of the alfar as they took tea with me. Not a system without flaws, but it was a good practice exercise for stretching my mental limits as it were, so I couldn’t really complain about it in the long run.

Ultimately, however, it was time to redirect the conversation into broader territory. I waited for Trisaldan to finish recanting the most recent of his experiences in the varied and storied career of dungeon raiding, and once it became clear that he was about to start in on another one, I raised my hand to show I wanted to say something again rather than silently observing-slash-listening to them. “Gentlemen… thank you for telling me about your experiences. Now. I know I haven’t previously shown much interest in the topic, but at this point I’m beginning to get a sense that it might be rather more important than I’d otherwise been thinking. What can you tell me about the … damnit, how do you say ‘geopolitics’ … the nations and peoples of the lands in the areas that surround my home here? Other than your own Alfarhame Wood, that is? Why do you call this area the ‘Treatied’ Wood?”

There’s a somewhat pregnant pause before Orelme starts to speak, only to be silenced by Trisaldan raising his hand if only slightly to indicate he intends to speak for the trio. “Sir Vincent. Much as I don’t want to rouse your ire with us, there are some things we of the Alfarhame Wood just do not speak of, unless we can help it. It’s … just not done. But I can already guess that merely saying as much to you doesn’t mean a thing to you -- you don’t share our sensibilities and there’s not much reason why you should. So … please forgive my companions and I for not really discussing this topic in detail. By now I’m sure you’ve noticed that we of the Wood have a singular relationship with the ishuar. What you may not fully understand is that this relationship comes from the bond between the ishuata and Rishuata herself. These woods are hers. We are merely the servants that tend to them. The embodiment of her will in the material and transient realm so that she might … thrive, I guess, is the right word.”

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

Trisaldan paused for a moment to sip at his tepid tea. A corner of my mind signed to one of my homunculi to have a new pot brewed; I had the sense that this would be a longer conversation than I had anticipated. “We arrange the affairs of the material world as best we can in alignment with her nature, or will. This fact is most true in the Alfarhame Wood; her presence is never entirely absent there. One cannot help but always know that she is present, that you are touched by the grace of something far greater than we mere mortals. It was her will that created the forests here. I mean this in the most literal of senses; the lands that now border the Treatied Woods and the Alfarhame Wood within them -- they used to be much closer to one another, according to the oldest of tales. With each passing generation the Treatied Woods expanse is that much greater, yet the travellers and merchants who travel it claim that the towns and cities beyond it have never had to relocate. I’ve heard the legends the ishuata teach, and they say that this growth is much slower now than it was in the time when the Alfarhame Wood itself was founded. When Rishuata claimed us as her children.”

He let that statement sink in fully before continuing. I was struck, as he did, by how matter-of-fact this statement was. It wasn’t a thing of reverence, or of origin myths -- not exactly. It was more … King Charlemagne than King Arthur, to the grizzled yet unscarred wood-elf. “This begins to get into the territory of conversation that just isn’t discussed. What came before we were touched by our Goddess. Before we were… whole. Or, more precisely, the fact that there are those who still live, out beyond the forests, that did not join the Pact. That did not become alfar. They are -- they are our greatest shame.”

I quirked an eyebrow. “Old hatreds die hard?”

He shook his head. “Because of what happened to them. What was taken from them.” Trisaldan drew his breath in, slow but harsh. “There are those beyond the Treatied lands who use the ishuar as I taught you to do. But without the aid of one who bears the blessing of Rishuata, the bond is … usually much more dangerous, to form. But there are those beyond the Woods who covet that blessing. And find ways to bind ishuar to relics of our cousins who have passed. Over the years, or centuries, our cousins beyond the Wood have had to either fully purge themselves of their kinship to us -- either by binding themselves to some other God, or less savory practices -- in order to protect their families from what would be done. There are a few communities, like the Sun-touched Ones, or the High shen, who thrive. But for most? Their lack of power has made them… chattel.”

I could only nod to affirm that I had heard what was said. After a few moments, though, a consequence of his statements began to sink in. “Wait. So … ‘Treatied’ Woods. ‘Relics’ of those who have passed. You mean their remains, not their possessions, I take it? And these are … what… used to ensure better crop yields? You’ve fought entire wars just to not be used as fertilizer?”

Trisaldan and the others just lowered their eyes.

I gathered myself together, rather than let my vague nausea at what I was hearing grow further. “Okay. That’s just … well. I guess I can’t even be all that upset about some of my other guesses about you folks now. I knew that you folks were isolationist for whatever reason; back on my old world we had a concept that I suspect is similar to what these Treatied Woods are to you lot. We called it … gah, again I can’t find the right words. It was a no-man’s land where neither side would be allowed to develop in. A buffer, to prevent conflict through simple distance between sides. I had been wondering why you people weren’t that upset with my presence here. One of the ideas I had knocking around in my head was that you were totally planning on using my being here as a … proxy, or natural hazard, or something like that, between your home Woods and whoever or whatever was outside of these lands. The main thing I worried about was your trying to play a game my people call Let’s You and Him Fight. Where you redirect someone else’s antagonism onto an innocent third party and take advantage of the chaos to your own gain.”

I locked eyes Trisaldan, as if I could will my distaste for that thought to be conveyed through pure psychic force. Who knew -- maybe it could be, in this world. “If that were to happen, I would be… annoyed. And I guarantee you, you do not ever want to see what happens when I decide to release self-replicating weapons of war.” I paused to ensure I had control over my tone of voice. I was in dangerous territory here -- I knew that for all the personal impressiveness of what I had built, I would lose a raw numbers game right now. And, very likely, an ‘exotic tool’ game.

“If, however, you simply want a powerful entity between you and someone who wants to collect your children’s bones as trophies, who isn’t interested in doing that, as a way of just having greater distance? I’m game. But that doesn’t mean that I’m your tool. Or your weapon. Or your hero. I’m just me. I do want what I want and I do not want what you want. Where our interests coincide, I’m happy to know you. Where they do not -- as long as neither of us gets in the way of the other, I can live with that. One thing I do not want is to have to fight anyone if there’s another way to get what I want. I want to learn about this world. I want to … to build up upon what I have gained. To… learn. I’m happy to let you alfar gain from that process. But only as long as I run the show. You lot have your way of doing things and I have mine. They are already extremely different -- and the thing of it is, I have my eyes set on accomplishments that I very likely expect you folks can’t even begin to comprehend. You didn’t even know what steel is, let alone how to create it. I couldn’t even begin to explain to you what a logic circuit is. Or a Babbage Engine. Hell, I don’t even know how to make them myself… yet. But I’m going to. Come hell or high water, I’m going to.”

Even as I said the words, I knew that it was strange for me to be so motivated. I never was, in my old life. It was almost disturbing as I thought about that fact. Since coming to this new world I was driven in a way that I had never been before. It wasn’t just the building trance-fugue mental state that was the extent of how much I’d changed in the months I’d been on this planet… and the hell of it was, the most disturbing aspect of that realization? I did not care. Given the choice of going back to who I was on Earth, and who I now was? It was not even a contest. In a strange sort of detached but absolute, cold, clarity -- I knew that I was bordering on some kind of monomania.

Something that was the product of more than merely isolation and attempts to stave off boredom or existential horror by throwing myself into my work and exploration of the rules of this new world. Something that I couldn’t even bring myself to genuinely be upset or worried about despite knowing how incredibly dangerous it was to develop that kind of mental state. Sitting there, staring at the three alfar who were staring at me in kind, a lump formed at the bottom of my stomach in the form of an absolute and total certainty that my change in personality was irreversible. And the hell of it was, Trisaldan himself had warned me: Voidborn go insane.

All this time, I had thought myself immune or safe from that effect. But I wasn’t. And perhaps that was part of why he’d been so willing to teach me how to get myself possessed by the nature spirit. Complementary forms of madness, maybe? A way to delay my degeneration at least. One thing was absolutely certain, however: I now had yet another problem to pile onto the growing list of issues that I would need to resolve.

Weakly, I decided to take a few steps back from the intensity of tone I’d allowed to slip into my words previously. “So… speaking of things I want to learn about. One of your fellow wardens, back at the mining colony, mentioned the fact that you folks use cooking oil. I was wondering -- where do you get it from?”

Eildan tittered weakly at my attempt at humor. His response, however, was like nails driving into my temples. I was once again hit by a massive clue-by-four. “We press acorns.”

Face met palm.