“You know,” she whispered softly, “I had a kitten once…”
TALLFOLK TALES
So it’s a guide you’re wanting, is it? Well, if it’s Araumycos you’re going to, that guide won’t be me. Regardless of the rumors you may have heard around town, I’ve had my fill of that place. Why, even the smell of mushroom wine Now hold on, elf. Don’t be so hasty to leave. I didn’t say there wasn’t a guide to be had. You’ve come to the right person. I know someone who’s as familiar with the twists and turns of Araumycos as that barkeep over there is with this tavern. And best of all, she won’t cost you a sack of coin, the way someone from the guides’ guild will-assuming they’d even take you there. No, she won’t charge a thing. And reliable? Well, listen to my tale and you’ll see that Rook is the person you want one pace ahead of you, if you’re venturing into Araumycos. And I’m the one who can tell you how to find her.
Fetch me some ale and sit down here at my table, and I’ll tell you my tale. But none of that spitfroth the humans try to pass off as lager, mind. Nor any of that honeyed cider you elves seem to love so much. Make it dwarven Samman ale, bitter and brown.
Ah. That’s the stuff. A meal in a glass, as they say.
You’ll be wondering at my taste in drink and my thick red beard. I’ve seen you note the silver hammers braided into it and my iron bracers. The star on them, just above the wrist, is part of my clan name. It’s Morndin you’re talking to, son of… well, son of Moradin, you might say. It was the Dwarffather who forged my soul anew, after whoever I was in my last lifetime died. He took my dwarf soul and cast it in a human mold, this time. Although if you ask me, it’s likely Vergadain had a hand in it too. They don’t call him the trickster god for nothing.
So here I am in this lifetime, a human. That’s why my shield brothers call me Morndin. Compared to them, I’m high as a mountain.
Now don’t raise that eyebrow. Just because it’s odd doesn’t mean it isn’t so. The Dwarffather must have decided there’s something I had to learn in this lifetime, something I could only discover in this body. Or perhaps there was some deed he wanted done. Something it would take this towering, narrowchested human body to accomplish.
I see that smile you’re trying to hide. I know what you’ll be asking next: how is it I came to believe such foolishness. You’ll be wondering if someone cast a befuddlement spell on me, or some such. The short answer is no. The long answer has to do with that footman’s mace leaning against the wall beside me here.
My parents-also human-had a provisions store in Hammergate, down by the Rift. They often took items in trade. I’m told that, a year or two before I was born, a creaky old longbeard said his adventuring days were behind him, and asked my father if he’d like to buy this mace. It’s pretty battered looking, isn’t it, with that slight bend in the handle and one of the flanges missing from the head? My father thought so, too. He didn’t want to take it in trade, but the longbeard said coin would comfort him in his final years more than any weapon would. And so my father bought the mace, tucked it away in the storeroom, and forgot all about it.
Turns out it was a magical weapon forged by the Ironstar clan-light as a feather, and capable of dealing a blow that calls down Moradin’s thunder, if you know the right word to say. But I’m getting ahead of myself.
Years later, when I was seven, a half-orc tried to rob the store. He held my mother at knife-point and demanded all the coin in the lockbox. I was in the storeroom, and heard the commotion out front. The mace was the closest weapon to hand. I rushed into the shop, swinging it like a kuldjargh-that’s Dwarvish, by the way, for “beserker.” They say I wielded the weapon like I was born with it in my hand. And here’s the part that will lift that other eyebrow of yours. As the mace cracked against that half-orc’s head, I shouted a word that filled the room with magical, booming thunder. The crack of it split his head wide open.
Once I recovered from the surprise, I wondered how I’d done it. I knew a little Dwarvish; I’d grown on the Rift’s edge, in a shop that catered to dwarves, after all. Both of my human parents spoke Dwarvish, if a bit brokenly, and could read a little. But there was no explaining how I knew what word to shout that day. It wasn’t a word you’d expect, like corl or raugh or rorn. It Yes, yes, I’ll tell you about the guide in a moment. It’s just that you need to know this piece of it, so you’ll understand all that follows.
Could I have another Samman? My ale cup’s gone dry.
Ah. That’s better.
You’re obviously an elf of the surface realms, judging by that longbow you carry. That won’t be much use to you, down here in the Underchasm. And that leafmottle cloak won’t be much use either. Not here in Gracklstugh, where the buildings are as gray and gloomy as the duergar who built them. Nor will it aid you within the musky embrace of Araumycos. Most of the fungus is gray-white, dotted with orange puffballs. That’s what you have to watch out for, by the way. Blunder into one of those, and you’ll die a slow, choking death with spores that clog your nostrils and fruit deep in your lungs. Even a little whiff of it’s enough to scar the lungs for life. And a man whose body is erupting from the inside out with puffballs is a shuddersome sight, I’ll tell you.
But Rook will steer you clear of those.
You obviously have some passing familiarity with the Underchasm, to have made it this far down. And I see by that shield ring on your finger that you know a little about Araumycos’s strange pull. The closer you get to Araumycos, the more vivid those nightmares become. Even with magical protection, they root in your mind by night and fill it with strange whispers by day, telling you to join with… something. Whatever’s at the heart of the thing. Some say it’s a patch of the fungus that’s afire with spellplague and needs live fuel to stoke it. I couldn’t say if that’s true, myself. I just know you have to beware of the golhyrrl’fhaazht.
I see that frown. You’re wondering why I speak Drow. Short answer is, I don’t. They’re a race that’s evil through and through-cruel and depraved-but that word they coined is the best fit I know.
“Dream trap.” That’s Araumycos, all right.
Given their fear of it, the drow normally avoid Araumycos like the spellplague. That’s why we never expected to Yes, yes, I’m getting to the part where I tell you about Rook. But first I have to set the stage.
I won’t ask why you want to venture into Araumycos. Your reasons are your own affair. The reason we went in, my shield brothers and I, is best told by what’s in this pocket, here.
You ever seen one of these? It’s a rock gourd-a tiny one, no bigger than a walnut. They’re usually much bigger, at least the size of your head. Shake ’em like this… and there you go. See the water dripping from the stone? That’s what makes a rock gourd so valuable. Get lost in the Labyrinth, or trapped by a cave-in-or, I suppose, get lost in one of those deserts you have up there on the surface-and you’ll at least have all the water you need until you find your way out again.
’Course, this one’s too little to be worth much. Takes half a day to fill a thimble. But you get the idea.
Sad thing is, it’s the only one I was able to bring back with me.
Rock gourds are the reason we ventured into Araumycos. A patch of Araumycos had died off, and Gamlin and Farrik-two dwarves I once counted as shield brothers-figured they’d make their fortune before it grew back again.