Open Chronicles In Hushed Whispers

Wind danced in the mountain pass, surrounded by jagged rock at the flanks. Difficult to scale unless one had wings to fly between, but some might consider that cheating. Sunlight glowed in the sky above the throat of the valley, and further beneath was the mountain’s ground, on which any footstep would be surrounded by unforgiving rock for the one who ventured further into the deep.

Above the foundation, beneath the peak, somewhere in between the versant green as verdant woodland, and brown as bark in darkness, was stone shapen. As if the remnant of a giant golem, only frozen, and just as much was viewed as the limb of a statue, one abandoned with the wind, transfixed with time’s sigh.

Between four fingers and a thumb, however, hovered a landmark carved by hand, just like those digits from the wrist to the nail. Only it was different. This was no simple representation of a limb. Rather, within the vale, a bridge had long since been built, tethering one end of the mountain pass to the other flank, and that itself was a distinction to be reckoned with.

The wind whipped, shrill as a bird of prey, became its own predator to blow away anyone dumb enough to step too close to the railing and lean over. Peering into the depths of the valley was a curiosity to rob the heart, betray the brain, but the drop was far, and the base was deep.

From one end of the bridge, rock formed within the mountain, spread like a tongue over the depths of the mist beneath the feet, stretched to the other end and ran between the fingers and the thumb of the carven construct.

On the other end was another manmade countenance; the arched doorway of a dark chamber, manmade, leading into a vault unexplored before this moment. Pillars flanked the temple’s entranceway, cracked and jagged like stones left to a temporal echo.

On the bridge? Maybe a dozen figures, summoned to this position for one reason or the other, whether for the sake of adventure or to claim treasure. In their midst? A dwarf, garbed in armor, the color of charred copper, with a large hammer on his back beside a pack, and an axe on his hip, dagger adjacent, with other weapons and then some.

“This wind is treacherous,” the Gemheart told no one in particular as he made his way across the bridge from the base, toward the stone hand that centered it. “I warn you all to make no haste,” he finally decided to call so as to be heard.

“Wind like this can become a torrent before storm in only a moment.” Though, whether his traveling companions listened was their own decision. In this expedition, they weren’t his friends so much as company—hushed whispers in the wind.

If they fell then the Spine would take their cries, but the dwarf would not wait. Torin would make his way to the other end of the bridge and take his prize one way or the other, whatever it was.

Torin kept his gaze forward toward the gate. Before him, an amalgamation of explorers and warriors, all of them adventurers and treasure hunters, stretched from end to end of this treacherous bridge.

Swordsmen were in their midst, human and elf and orc, or even dwarf like him. Others were sorcerer, sorceress, and still more traded hilts of blades and hafts of axes for daggers. That was if his assumption of a certain robed figure who approached front and center as an assassin was correct.

But it wasn’t this particular dwarf’s position to judge. Such a sentiment applied to the other figure beside him. There was an elegance to her step as much as eminence. Others worked across the bridge with punished footsteps as they attempted to cross it against the wind.

Her? She was different. Indifferent even. It was the kind of strength that a guy like Torin Gemheart appreciated. He was the type to be cautious around those who practiced magic in whatever form. For this expedition? He wanted it nonetheless.

“Aye,” he replied with no grin, no frown, only rigid lips like the countenance of this mountain. “This wind picks up,” he hollered across the bridge. “It might not matter how tightly we grip the railing!” And walked onward before the wind became a storm. “Wait for the grace then make haste!”

Moments later, the gale charged, failed to take a traveler’s heart, then died down all around them like it had for just one person whose eyes were sharp as scimitars. How we carve our path into the mountain.

Granted, someone had since built a bastion in the Spine long lost to time, but it was hard to identify the craftsmen. “Push forward! NOW!” He suggested. Commanded? He wasn’t the captain of this group even as they moved under his roar.

Past the hand of stone with its frozen fingers, the air quiet if close, no tempest to contend with them in this environment at the moment. Torin Gemheart was, after a manner, tempted to lead this host, though it wasn’t his intention or position. He served a different purpose.

Beneath the archway of carven rock engraven with inscription, with only shadow to grace the gateway, darkness tall as the hall, the dwarf arrived at the back of the line, unswept off the edge. Perhaps his companion, sapphire eyes with a sapphire medallion, had her own light. Torin? He lit his torch and firelight guided him inside.

Archanae

The gateway and archway were as impressive as the fingers in their own right. Sure, weather had created cracks in the surfaces, but the mighty hand and the entrance remained standing under the test of time, even a biting wind. Inside? It was different, which was an understatement. Torchlight guided Torin. Beside him? Sapphire light. Vibrant.

Impressive? No. Not this structure, not these pillars covered in iron, nor floor and ceiling hewn from stone. Rather, there were no words for a dwarf like him to conjure. Light might shine, from fire or magic, illuminating the great hallway before his very eyes, but his mind could not quite describe the majestic sight.

This was glory vaulted, inscribed, and each column was a monument to the test of time, to the architect; to the builders and the dwellers of dwarven might. There was otherwise no denying the hands of the craftsmen behind this grand bastion.

“The Age of Wonders…” The dwarven merchant, smith, warrior, explorer, any version different from lord, nevertheless whispered in wonder. Generations upon generations, like bridges atop bridges in the deepest caverns, marveled with technological imagination. The torch in Torin’s hand would expire, its firelight would die, but the lamps of this wondrous past would blaze for days and days.

Whether practitioners of magic like her, sorcery of some sort, or his very own race, the Gemheart wasn’t one to dictate blame. He was here, purely and simply…he was here. “Ingenious traps indeed,” he agreed with a slight hint of admiration in his speech.

“Whose traps likely won’t discriminate between the species of trespassers,” someone uttered further at the front. “Including you.” It wasn’t the one Torin might have taken for an assassin if with discrimination.

“Check your flanks,” the dwarf advised, eyes peeled, ignoring the former. “No one venture too far forward unless advised—”

-SKRANGG!-

Just then, something metallic split like a knife in the wind, and someone screamed, their cry just as short-lived. A spike had thundered from a pillar’s center, steel as ever, and penetrated a traveler in the side. She died.

Archanae

Torin was not the kind of guy or dwarf who liked it when anybody died, even his enemies. However, he could not help but curse under his breath at the blunder of this other person. If only they had taken his advice then, not only might they be alive, but perhaps these ancient traps would not be awakened further in.

Traps. Tricks. Magic. It was all too much nonsense for a simpleton like him, same with what happened next.

“STAY THIS MADNESS!” Torin roared but his warning was in vain as other traps were activated. With the pillars that surrounded them, the cacophony was louder; an amalgamation of rings and screams. For a blacksmith like this dwarf, he was used to shrieks, but death and pain were unique.

At once, as blades jutted from the contraptions at his flanks, Torin hunkered down, banking on already being shorter to evade them. He aimed to lean away from one blade at the same time as planting the flat of his ax-head against the other. However, something different happened—nothing did, courtesy of his protector.

“You have my thanks,” the warrior told the sorceress with her sapphire. He meant it for her words as much as actions. There was no time to assess the death and damage of the others. He heard them: legs scurrying across the rock higher than frightened screams or chiming blades.

“SPIDERS!” The dwarf cried, sheathing his smaller axe to grasp his great hammer in his hands. He had no shield but his armor was its own tank. “Magic and arrows if you have them!” He flexed his fingers over his haft. “Hands, fists and axes if you don’t!”

At that, it wasn’t from the floor but from the ceiling above his head that chelicerae all but chattered from an arachnid approaching from the stone. It wasn’t alone.

Archanae