Deephouse: Further adventures involving the employees of a mid-level adventuring corporation. New to Deephouse? Start here.
The return to Deephouse took 30 days.
They passed through enormous caverns grander than any king’s hall. Forded underground rivers softly lit by sapphire lichen. Shimmied on bellies through breathless pockets squeezed by inhospitable rock. Places unknown by time and man alike.
It might’ve been a grand adventure, but Durgin was miserable.
He was bruised and bloodied in a dozen places. Even when they stopped for the day, there was no rest. The bedroll was too thin, the ground too hard, the darkness too complete.
Yeji weathered the journey without complaint, so Durgin kept his suffering to himself. His pride had taking a beating these last years, but there was no world in which he’d be emasculated by a lawyer of all things.
He felt a great swell of relief when Deephouse’s leaning towers finally came into view.
His euphoria didn’t last. A crowd waited in the Great Hall.
They sat at several tables. Less than 20 in all, dwarves and gnomes. They fell silent as Durgin stepped inside.
He stopped in surprise and cleared his throat. “Hello. I’m Durgin, the new foreman.”
Yeji edged around him and disappeared down a corridor without a backwards glance.
“I imagine you have many questions. They’ll have to wait—I am weary from the journey. We’ll reconvene tomorrow, after breakfast.” Durgin started toward the stairs.
“Oy—new guy.” A broad-shouldered dwarf with salt in his beard stood. His nose was a lumpy red bulb. “Is it true, then? Dealing with Deep Ones?”
Durgin turned. “Aye, we just returned from meeting their representative.”
The dwarf spit. “Deep Ones? Are ya daft?”
“They only want one thing,” a female shouted, “and it’s disgusting!”
A murmur of agreement swept through the crowd.
Durgin held up his hands. “Deephouse is in dire straits. We need to turn a profit or we’ll be shutdown. All options are on the table.” Brutal honesty probably wasn’t the best approach, but he was too tired to care.
The dwarf crossed his arms. “Even dealing with them that would drag us from our beds for a midnight snack?”
Durgin hadn’t the patience for this, and didn’t appreciate anyone undermining his authority, new as it was. “What’s your station, friend?”
The dwarf’s chest swelled. “Tharmond Mountainfist. Sergeant at Arms.”
“So I have you to thank for our crumbling defenses?”
“Bah!” Thurmond spit. “What would a city dwarf know of it?”
“Little enough, yet I am the foreman. That is all, sergeant.”
Silence followed Durgin up the stairs. Provoking someone he’d need was probably not an ideal way to start this job. Distracted, he didn’t notice someone waiting in his office until he was halfway into his private chambers.
He stepped back.
An enormous orc sat watching flames dance in the hearth. His features were chiseled out of stone, gray and unyielding. A black mohawk, edged sharply, tapered to a point at the base of his skull. He was dressed in an impeccable three-piece suit. All black, save for an emerald tie.
A bowler rested in his lap.
The orc looked up and smiled. “G’day, Mr. Grimforge.”
Durgin froze, trapped between confusion and panic. “Uhh… I’ll be right with you.” He indicated the bag on his shoulder. “Just got back.”
“Sure, take your time.” The orc turned to the fire.
Durgin slipped into the quiet dark of his bedchambers, heart hammering at his ribs. The confrontation with Tharmond had barely stirred his blood. This was different.
This was terrifying.
What does the cartel want with me?
“They only want one thing,” a female shouted, “and it’s disgusting!”
A line cut from an early draft of "Monty Python and The Holy Grail"?