B2. Ch 16. Of Gods and Bone

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I climb through the falling ruins of Arkashoth's kingdom, bones adjusting to navigate the crumbling passages. Dragon plates lock into position along my back, supporting my frame against debris that falls. Wolf claws extend from my fingers, digging into stone for leverage.

Below, ancient dust reclaims what was never meant to last.

The farthest tunnel narrows, forcing me to shift my form. I compress my frame, pushing Carida's remains deeper into the protective cage of my ribs.

A memory surfaces from one of the fragments, a soldier who once climbed cliff faces to flank enemies. His technique guides my ascent through the narrowest passages.

The dwarven mining equipment that lowered me appears ahead, now half-buried by fallen stone. I grasp the metal frame, testing its stability before pulling myself onto the platform.

The ancient mechanisms groan but hold.

I begin the ascent, metal cables creaking under my weight.

Halfway up, the platform shudders. Gears slip, dropping me several feet before catching. Below, darkness deepens as more of Arkashoth's realm collapses inward.

The platform won't last.

I abandon the failing equipment, leaping to grasp exposed rock.

Wolf claws find purchase.

Dragon bone reinforcements keep my frame from shattering on impact.

Climbing hand over hand, I reach the upper tunnel where Dwarves had directed me downward. The passage remains intact, untouched by the destruction below.

The tunnel trembles as I climb upward through the last stretch of ancient stone. Dust cascades in fine streams, catching what little light filters down from above. My bone claws scrape against rock as I pull myself toward that distant glow.

The first sign of dwarven presence comes not as sight but as sound—the soft hiss of steam vents and the mechanical click of exo-frames shifting in position. They have been waiting.

I emerge from the tunnel's mouth to find a half-circle of armored dwarves, their weapons trained on the opening. Silence falls as my skull breaches the threshold. Steam billows from their harnesses, mechanical joints locking as they register my form.

"It returns," one whispers, the words carrying in the hush.

Twelve warriors stand in formation, each encased in runic-etched battle plate. Not the damaged frames of earlier encounters, but pristine war machines bearing the mark of Maha Marr's finest forges. Hammers pulse with contained lightning. Axes gleam with enchantments meant to sever bone.

Their captain steps forward, visor hiding all but a bristling beard streaked with silver. Runes ignite along his pauldrons as he raises a hand.

"Hold," he commands, though none have moved. "Wait until it is fully exposed."

I continue my ascent, pulling the remainder of my frame from the tunnel's grasp. Bone plates scrape against stone as I rise to my full height. Aeternus hangs at my side, blade still bearing traces of ichorous residue from Arkashoth's demise.

The dwarves tense as one, exo-frames whirring as targeting systems lock on my form. One younger warrior's hand trembles on his hammer's haft. Another mutters prayers beneath her breath.

The captain studies me, head tilting to track my movements.

"Report," he demands, voice hard as the stone beneath us.

I shift, bones settling into more neutral stance. Carida's remains press against my ribs, their presence a reminder of what I protect.

"Arkashoth," my grave-voice scrapes, "is destroyed."

Murmurs spread through the dwarven ranks. The captain's hand tightens on his war-axe.

"Impossible," a veteran with a steel-gray beard mutters. "The dark below cannot be slain."

I meet his gaze, hollow sockets pulsing with blue-white light.

"It is ended," I rasp. "The deeper dark falls."

The captain steps closer, his exo-frame's hydraulics hissing. Steam vents from his pauldrons as he studies me. My frame bears the evidence of battle—cracks along dragon plates, wolf bones showing stress fractures, pieces still knitting themselves back together.

"Bring the truth-seeker," he calls over his shoulder.

An aged dwarf pushes through the formation. Unlike the warriors, his frame bears no weapons. Instead, arcane lenses extend from his gauntlets, focusing on my form.

Runes ignite along his helm as he conducts his examination.

"Residue matches the deep corruption," he confirms, voice cracking with age. "And there is... absence. Where before the sensors detected the ancient rhythm, now there is silence." He looks up at the captain. "It speaks truth. The deep one has fallen."

The captain's beard shifts as his jaw works beneath his helm.

"Then the pact holds," he says finally. "You have fulfilled your part dead thing.

The formation parts, weapons lowering but not sheathing. Their caution remains, but the immediate threat has passed. The captain gestures toward a tunnel branching left.

"Return with us to Maha Marr," he states. "The priesthood awaits."

We march through winding passages, the dwarven contingent forming a loose escort around my frame. Not prisoners and guards, but uneasy allies honoring uncomfortable arrangements. Their frames hiss with each step, hydraulics compensating for uneven stone.

"How did you defeat it?" a younger dwarf ventures, curiosity overcoming caution.

I turn my skull slightly, acknowledging his question.

"Aeternus remembers endings," is all I say.

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The tunnels widen as we near dwarven civilization.

Ancient mining shafts give way to worked stone, runes of protection and stability carved at regular intervals. Lights embedded in the ceiling grow stronger, banishing shadows that might hide lingering corruption.

We pass checkpoints where more guards wait in frames.. Each group stiffens as I approach, weapons half-raised before recognition sets in.

Word of my task, and its completion, has spread ahead of our arrival.

The captain maintains his position at the formation's head, occasionally glancing back as if to confirm I still follow.

"The priest waits at the Great Gate," he explains, voice gruff. "It is... unprecedented for your kind to enter. But the pact must be honored."

The tunnel opens into a vast cavern, its ceiling lost to darkness above. Ahead looms the Great Gate of Maha Marr—massive doors of blackened steel etched with the history of dwarven kings. Each panel stands taller than ten men, mechanisms the size of houses holding them in place.

Guards line the approach, hundreds strong, their exo-frames gleaming in torchlight. Steam rises from their ranks, creating a haze that drifts upward into darkness. Their weapons remain lowered, but tension radiates from each warrior.

At the gate's center stands the priest of Veradin, staff planted firmly before him. The hammer-head atop it gleams with inner fire, casting his features in harsh relief.

The escort halts, forming an honor guard of sorts.

"Go," the captain says. "The priest will guide you now."

I approach alone, bone plates shifting with each step. The assembled dwarves watch in silence, their collective breath held as death's champion walks among them.

The priest's eyes narrow as I draw near, divine light reflecting off my skull.

I stand before the priest of Veradin, my bones still bearing the imprints of battle with the Arkashoth.

The priest's eyes reflect the glow from my skull as he studies me.

Steam hisses from the exo-frames of countless dwarven warriors lining our path, their collective breaths held in anticipation.

"You have faced the deep dark," he states. "And you have prevailed where our finest warriors failed." His gaze searches beyond my bone and purpose. "The gates of Maha Marr open to you, Forgotten Thing. Such is the price of our pact."

I incline my skull in acknowledgment. The fragments within me shift—dragon bones hungering for the safety of open sky, wolf bones tense at being surrounded, Commander Ikert's legacy urging vigilance.

"The corruption below is ended," my grave-voice scrapes. "But your king still burns."

The priest's expression tightens. Around us, dwarven warriors shift uneasily in their frames.

"Brannug," the priest says quietly. "What remains of him and Domhrann awaits in the old city, in the Foundry where they merged." He lifts his staff, the hammer-head gleaming. "But not today. There is time, Forgotten Thing. One victory is enough to pay debts."

"To face what burns," I rasp, "requires preparation."

The priest nods, relief briefly crossing his features.

"Rest and recover your strength," he says. "The old city will wait. Brannug has burned for years, he can endure days more while you gather what you need."

He strikes his staff against stone.

The sound resonates through the cavern, not mere echo but command.

Behind him, mechanisms engage. Gears larger than war-wagons turn, chains thick as tree trunks pulling taut. The Great Gate shivers, then begins to part. Steam erupts from pressure vents as the massive doors separate, revealing the splendor of Maha Marr beyond.

The dwarven capital spreads before us—a city carved from the mountain's heart. Terraced streets wind upward, buildings of stone and metal clinging to the cavern walls. Forges burn at every level, their fires casting the entire city in amber light. Aqueducts of gleaming brass carry water between districts, the flow powering countless mechanisms throughout the metropolis.

"Come," the priest commands, stepping through the opening. "The Last Pantheon awaits."

I follow, Aeternus settling against my spine as I pass into the dwarven stronghold. The gates close behind us with the finality of a tomb being sealed.

Dwarven citizens line the streets, their faces a mixture of fear, awe, and curiosity. Children are hurried indoors as we pass. Merchants shutter their stalls. Craftsmen pause mid-hammer blow to watch death walk among them.

I follow the priest through Maha Marr's streets, my skeletal frame towering over the dwarven residents. Even as bones carry traces of Arkashoth's essence.

The crowds part violently before us. A blacksmith drops his hammer, reaching instead for an axe.

The priest leads us through the lower market district, where merchants hastily close stalls as we approach. Steam-driven machines clank and whir behind locked doors.

Apprentices peer through windows, hammers still clutched in nervous hands.

Shop doors slam shut as we pass.

"You are a thing of nightmares for many," the priest says, glancing back at me. His voice carries no apology, only truth. "They have never seen your kind before," he explains, though no explanation was sought. "Not one that did not bring destruction."

I feel the tension radiating from every corner.

Eyes peer from shuttered windows. Guards grip their weapons tighter, exo-frames hissing with shift of weight.

A young dwarf stumbles into our path, frozen in terror at the sight of my skull. His eyes widen. The priest steps between us, shielding the child with his body.

"Return to your mother," he commands gently.

The boy flees, never taking his eyes from my hollow sockets.

The dwarves fear what I am, not merely what I represent.

I am death walking among the living. The reminder of what waits beyond forge-fire and stone.

I adjust my frame, compressing my height slightly, drawing in the jagged edges of dragon plate and wolf bone.

The changes do little to ease the horror my presence provokes.

But still I try.

A prayer circle forms in a side alley, elderly dwarves clutching sacred hammers as they chant protection wards.

Steam vents from household shrines, carrying offerings to Veradin. Pleas for safety from the abomination in their midst.

"They will learn," the priest says, though uncertainty threads through his voice. "In time."

I make no response. Time is something I have in abundance. These dwarves do not.

We climb through terraced streets, passing forges where masters craft weapons of legendary quality.

The heat washes over my bones, though I feel no discomfort.

Dragon plates along my spine pulse in recognition of flame's power, ancient memories stirring at the scent of molten metal.

The road curves upward, leading to the highest tier of the city.

Here, grand structures of polished stone rise, their facades carved with the deeds of ancient heroes.

Dwarven nobles watch our passage, their beards elaborately braided with gold and gemstones. They do not hide like the common folk, but stand proud, hands resting on ceremonial axes.

"The Last Pantheon lies ahead," the priest says, gesturing to a structure that dominates the upper tier.

Unlike the practical buildings below, the Pantheon soars upward, its spires nearly touching the cavern's distant ceiling. Ancient stone has been carved with such precision that it seems to flow rather than stand, columns twisting like vines toward the heavens.

The approach is lined with statues—or rather, what remains of them. Most lie shattered, their plinths bearing only feet or broken ankles. Others stand partially intact, missing heads or limbs. A few remain whole, though weathered by time.

"The dwarven gods," the priest explains, his voice solemn. "Once, there were twelve. Now, only Veradin remains, the last to stand with his children."

We pass each broken monument in turn. A hammer-wielding giant, his head missing from the shoulders up. A sorrowful figure clutching scrolls, everything above the waist reduced to rubble. A female shape holding scales, only her lower body remaining.

"Dorhun, God of Earth, first to fall when the corruption spread," the priest intones as we pass a completely shattered plinth, only dust remaining. "Marradin, Goddess of Hearth, whose flame guttered when the first mountain holdfast fell. Gorrad, God of Depths, who drowned in black waters when the lower kingdoms flooded."

Each name carries weight, each broken statue a testament to divine abandonment.

An empty plinth stands between the fallen gods and Veradin's statue, its surface not shattered but deliberately empty, save a crafted flame and marks radiating outward across the stone.

"Domhrann's place," the priest says, voice lowering with reverence. "The Forge God who did not flee, did not fall, did not fade. He sacrificed his divine essence, merging with Brannug to create the eternal flame that still burns in the Foundry depths. Not lost—transformed. The only god besides Veradin who did not abandon us."

We reach the only remaining intact figure. Veradinʼs statue towers above the others, unblemished by time or corruption. Though I have already encountered his essence outside Maha Marr's gates, there is power here that wasn't present before, a fullness, a weight of divinity that presses against my bones.

"And here stands Veradin, God of Just War, the Last Flame, who alone remained when others fled or fell."

The statue depicts a broad-shouldered dwarf, his beard falling to his knees. One hand clutches a sword, the other raised in judgment. His eyes, though carved from stone, seem to follow our movements.

I feel fragments shift within me—dragon bones recognizing an ancient power, wolf bones bristling at an apex predator's presence, Commander Ikert's fragments remembering prayers in battle. Carida's remains pulse against my ribs, resonating with something beyond my understanding.

The priest approaches the Pantheon's entrance, massive doors of bronze etched with scenes of creation and war.

He places his palm against the metal, and runes ignite beneath his touch.

"Veradin waits within," he says. "He would speak with you alone."