Persepera
The 16th of Thargelion
The Year 4631 in the Era of Mortals
The dwarves delved deep when creating their mine. The temperature should have grown colder the further into the stone they dug, but the passages they carved were warm. Even in the early hours of morning, after a long night with no sun shining, the rubble and stones were warm. Inside, the change was difficult to notice immediately, the air was too stagnant. Over time, the heat was undeniable.
When Lyssa woke from her Exhaustion-fueled sleep, she noticed three things simultaneously. The first: her Exhaustion debuff had disappeared. The second: she was covered in a fine layer of stone dust. The third: she was drenched in sweat. The second and third had mixed to form a stony mud across her face, neck, and hands, which she smeared away with more than a touch of disgust. A bath seemed the most wonderful thing in the world, but she was awhile away from such creature comforts.
She stood from the hidden crook that had been her resting place, still wiping the sleep and muck from her eyes. A small cloud of stone dust rose with her and she stifled a sneeze. It was impossible to tell exactly how much time had passed, but her best guess was five or six hours, which put her on the other side of midday. No doubt her absence had been noticed. It was growing annoyingly difficult to get away from people without concerning them. Of course, she hadn’t been the only one leaving.
Elpida. Sweet, stoic, and foolish. Humans were incapable of comprehending an elven perspective. Any courtship would end in heartbreak. Later, if not sooner. It was simple fact. Elpida was young, relatively, but her lifespan was a candle next to the Everlit Lantern of an elf’s. There was a reason, after all, that the elves were not counted among the mortal races. Whatever happiness they found would be momentary. Transient and fleeting. A smile today and buried tomorrow. Lyssa couldn’t afford to give out her heart like that.
But then, hadn’t she already done so in other ways?
Arche was bound to her as her Companion. Despite the few months they’d been together, she had already come to regard him as something like a brother, though he was not an elf. His relationship with death was tenuous, to say the least, but that did not mean he would be granted an elf’s lifespan. His time would come to an end, eventually, and she would bury another piece of her heart. Time would tell if she had the strength.
Then there was Myriatos. She had agreed to become archousa. To do that effectively, she needed to develop working relationships with the people of the village. She had to care for and about them, knowing that, with few exceptions, they would all die before the century was out. Could she love a thing knowing it lived to someday die?
Could she say with any honesty that she was any different?
Lyssa did not have answers, so she embraced distraction. One readily appeared as she exited the smooth-cut mine and into the rocky cavern of the natural cave system. Nothing remained of the basilisk now but a dark stain against the ground. The dwarves had carted the body out for meat and materials. Lyssa didn’t know if basilisks carried rare resources but, considering the hardiness of the creature and their difficulty to kill, she had no doubt that some of its parts were highly desirable. The eyes, perhaps, or the tongue.
On the far side of the cavern, about fifty meters away, was a passage. The basilisk had come from somewhere further in, so Lyssa headed toward it, determined to test her hunch. She wove her way between stalagmites, all the while keeping an ear out for any sounds that were not her own. For good measure, she activated Stealth, choosing her steps with care. Before she entered the passage, she listened in front of it for a full minute. No sound echoed to her, and no breath of air blew against her face. This passage was as dead as the rest of the mine, but she did not trust it to be shallow.
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You have entered Hyperion’s Tangle.
This is a Proficient Dungeon.
Recommended Level: 40
Lyssa stopped breathing and listened again. The sudden roaring of her own blood was all that met her ears. Taking even greater care, she backpedaled until she had reached the smooth stone of the mine, then she raced along the passages, not stopping until she reached the basecamp. Throughout it all, her heart leaped like a hare outrunning a fox.
The guards at the mouth of the mine raised their weapons and quickly lowered them again when they recognized her. Lyssa didn’t slow. She burst into the planning tent and caught herself on a table. Grimmolt, bruised and bandaged, jumped at her sudden entrance and swore heavily.
“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded, clutching the bandages over his chest.
“We need to block the mine,” Lyssa said, her voice hollow and breathless. “There’s a dungeon. A Proficient Dungeon.”
Grimmolt’s face turned ashen, his annoyed expression giving way to fear.
“What? Here? How?”
“I don’t know, but we have to block the entrance before something worse gets out.”
Grimmolt’s eyes grew wide, and he dragged himself out of the tent on legs that clearly hadn’t healed. Within a minute, he returned, looking ragged.
“My kin are closing the mine. We’ll collapse the entrance. Nothing will get in or out.”
“I want to know the moment it’s done.”
“It shall be so.”
Finally at rest, if only for the moment, Lyssa allowed herself to breathe. She would be the first to admit she didn’t know much about dungeons, but she knew they were dangerous and commonly under-communicated that danger. To be a Proficient Dungeon meant an adventuring party of five dungeoneers would need to all be between levels forty and fifty to have a better than equal chance at surviving. Lyssa was the highest level in Myriatos at only thirty-one. The basilisk they had killed was level thirty-four and that had taken careful planning and a group, and even still it had killed three people and nearly killed Grimmolt. A Proficient Dungeon would have monsters just as dangerous as a standard inhabitant. If they left the mine open, one of those creatures would inevitably wander outside and notice the largest nearby sign of life: Myriatos. If that happened, nothing they did would be enough to stop it. It was too dangerous and too much of a risk.
“We’ll have to make do with what stone and iron we have,” Grimmolt said.
“What cursed luck we have, that there would be a Proficient Dungeon right next to the village,” Lyssa spat.
“What cursed luck we have, that it would be my kin who stumbled across it.”
A crash of stone outside drowned out any response, not that Lyssa tried to make one. Grimmolt’s grief at the loss of his kin was one she identified with all too well. Once the noise outside settled, a dwarf appeared to inform them both the mine was sealed.
“Let’s return to Myriatos. We’ll have to find resources elsewhere.”
“You can do that without me and mine,” Grimmolt replied, his voice firm and harsh. “We will work the material but we will collect no more. We have enough to bury as it is. I was willing to throw my lot in with you, elf, but I will not bury my entire clan for you.”
Grimmolt’s pain was self-evident, but there was a burning anger inside that had not dimmed with the death of the basilisk.
“I can ask no more of you. Words are hollow after a day like yesterday. My gaze is fixed toward tomorrow. I hope one day you will join me in looking for it.”
“We shall see.”