Deephouse: Further adventures involving the employees of a mid-level adventuring corporation. New to Deephouse? Start here.
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“Finally—some intrigue to dine upon.”
Durgin startled, spilling mead down the front of his shirt. He’d remained by the fire after the orc departed, silently weighing portents and plans.
Blasé’s head and torso drifted into view. His airy shirt was open to the navel, revealing a forest of fine, ghostly hair. He stopped floating when he was level with Durgin’s crotch.
“Were you spying on me?” Durgin was too surprised to be angry. He twisted his legs to the side and clumsily crossed them.
“Well, of course. I am forever interned here, and it is dreadfully boring. I was hoping for a bit of sport, something to stir my cold dead heart. Alas, you’ve yet to disrobe.”
“Excuse me?”
“No need to apologize. There will be much time for the peeping. Time is my one true possession. But this is better, I think. There is no fruit so sweet as anticipation. And the orc was a welcome surprise. It is not every day you meet someone named Elf Splitter, no?”
“It was a first for me,” Durgin muttered.
“Surely not?” Blasé tilted his head. “What could draw a Dwarf out of the mountain, save to dabble in more risqué pleasures? I see the denial on your face, but do not voice it! I know the heart of the city. None can resist its lurid call. We are men of passion, no? Of verve. We come gladly to the orgy, and drink our fill.”
Durgin didn’t know what city Blasé was referring to. The only frenzied displays of communal passion he’d witnessed had been the Mid-Summer’s Eve pie-eating contest. “I’m a married dwarf, and true,” he said brusquely. “You have me confused with somebody else.”
Blasé looked at him slyly. “Ahh, but of course. We are gentleman, and will not speak of prior dalliances. Though if you insist, I will indulge your curiosity—what you’ve no doubt heard is true, I once lounged at the heart of a three-way tryst with a treant and a mermaid.” Blasé winced. “I would not recommend crossing swords with a treant. Exotic, yes, but oh, the splinters.”
Durgin stood suddenly, toppling the chair. “I’m sorry—Blasé, is it? I must demand you take your leave. I have… things to attend to. Decisions. Things.”
Blase’s good humor vanished. “Life is wasted on the living. You fritter away these precious heartbeats, worrying over little nothings. Deep Ones, cartels, interdimensional shapeshifters… these are all triflings.”
“Inter-whats?”
Locked in a monologue, Blasé did not seem to hear. “Do you wish to know the secret of life? What am I saying—of course you do. Even a dour dwarf cannot help but wonder. Where do we come from? Why are we here? I do not hate you enough to ruin the surprise. As they say, the journey is the destination. Here’s a hint: it doesn’t involve tedious reports and crinkled brows. No! Surely you must—”
“Enough.” Durgin’s voice rang like a hammer striking anvil.
Blasé drew back, his hand dramatically groping his own throat. “Was it something I said?”
“Your endless prattle makes my head hurt. Your assertions about my character are unwelcome. I don’t know why you’re here, but you will serve Deephouse. Or I will find a way to remove you. Is that clear?”
Blasé inclined his nose with all the aristocratic disdain he could summon. “Perfectly. Sir.”
“And stay out of my chambers. No more peeping. On anyone.”
Glaring daggers, Blasé drifted through the floor. “One day you will have want of a friend.” His disembodied voice whispered through stone. “And your apologies will fall upon dead ears.”
Apologize? For what? Durgin sank into the chair behind his desk. “For not taking life advice from a dead man? Madness.”
His thoughts untethered, drifting like soap bubbles. The Deep Ones. The sad state of Deephouse. The orc’s gift that was no gift at all. His majordomo, who enjoyed haunting bedchambers. Each time he tried to focus on one thought, it spun out of reach.
He drew his LiveScroll from a drawer, thinking of sending Elryn a message, check on her and the kids.
A fist thumped on the door. Heavy with urgency.
A dwarf in chainmail stood without. Eyes wide and nervously gripping the heft of a battle-axe. “Apologies, sir. It’s Sergeant Mountainfist.”
Durgin sighed. He wasn’t ready to have it out with the sergeant. “It’ll have to wait till morning.” He started to close the door.
The dwarf put his boot in the opening. “I’m afraid it can’t wait.”
Durgin’s face flushed. He didn’t appreciate the implied summons. “Then tell the sergeant to get up here.”
“That’s impossible, sir. Sergeant Mountainfist is dead.”
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