Deephouse: Further adventures involving the employees of a mid-level adventuring corporation. New to Deephouse? Start here.
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“You wish to know everything?” Yeji smiled broadly. “Allow me to crack a bottle. This will take some time to tell.”
The gnome waddled to a small wine cabinet, returning with a bottle of dark liquor. “Dublait, 723.” He popped the cork and took a long sniff. “An especially auspicious vintage.”
They lifted the glasses. Yeji swirled, sniffed, sipped.
Durgin drank half of it off in a gulp. He belched. “Not bad.”
Yeji cradled the glass against his chest, his eyes unfocusing as he fell into memory. “I have been stationed at Deephouse nearly a decade. Not long by our accounting of years. Only a breath compared to the centuries this fort has stood. But long enough to reach an understanding and form some theories.”
His eyes flashed to Durgin. “I won’t be able to assuage all your doubts or answer all your questions. I retain many of my own. But I can tell you what I know, what I suspect, and what remains a mystery.”
Durgin nodded in agreement, but the gnome didn’t notice. He was wandering the spaces between now and then.
“Most believe the cartels run Underearth. Certainly, they’re the most organized and the singleminded in their pursuits. Their interests run the gamut of organized crime: racketeering, elixir-running, extortion, trafficking… Everything up to and including murder.”
Durgin winced inwardly. Just hours ago he’d had a cartel member in his office, trying to intimidate him. He’d said as much to the orc and had been a bit short with someone who killed for a living.
“The cartels are not to be trifled with, but they’re also motivated primarily by profit. That makes them predictable, to a degree.” Yeji leaned forward, setting his glass on the desk. “The representative they sent—what did he want?”
Durgin summarized the exchange. “Assurances we’d not meddle in their business.”
“A little enough ask. You told them yes?”
“No.”
Yeji blinked and just stared at Durgin. “That was… probably unwise.”
Durgin didn’t disagree.
“We should discuss which clan approached you. That will frame our response. But allow me to first finish setting the scene. The cartels are just one of several factions jockeying for position here in Underearth.”
Yeji sipped his wine. “Deep Ones are the most dangerous. Apart from their appetite, their motives are unknowable.” He smiled tightly. “Our deal with the Deep Ones gives me pause. I do not believe they are motivated only by their stomachs.”
Durgin wondered what could possibly be worse than something wanting to crack his head open like an oyster. He held out his glass for a refill.
Yeji looked at his half-empty bottle of Dublait, 723—a rare vintage wasted on someone who couldn’t tell the difference—and refilled Durgin’s glass.
The gnome continued, counting off with his fingers, now up to three. “Shadow Elves, like Klyde. They come sniffing around Deephouse every fortnight. We tolerate it. I wouldn’t go so far as to call them allies, but they’ve been known to aid us in the past. Letting them snack on our emotions is the cost of maintaining that relationship.”
Yeji flicked up another finger. “Gremlins: the little nuisances of Underearth. Kobolds, Goblins, Halflings.” He scowled. “Not a unified faction, just a convenient way to group them.”
His thumb made five. “Spiderlings. Sentient creepy crawlies with the capacity for speech. They serve the Queen Mother, a spider said to be the size of a castle. Terrifying thought. Fortunately, she mostly seems interested in insect rights. She sent a delegation here some months ago. Wanted to put posters on our walls. The tagline was something like: ‘Don’t step on me.’ Your predecessor sent them away, against my better judgment.”
A sixth finger. “Last and certainly least are the Cavebillies. Stooped humans with sloped brows and a disinclination for bathing. Refugees from a surface war some centuries ago, left to degenerate here in the crushing dark. Feeble-minded, offensive, blatantly racist. They seem interested only in relitigating their lost war, getting drunk on mushroom moonshine, and racing souped up mine carts.” Yeji made a face. “Avoid at all costs.”
Durgin sat with all of that. He took a drink of wine, slower this time. “Which of them would’ve sent a black curse against Sergeant Mountainfist?”
Yeji nodded, satisfied. “Good: we come to the important question. I have a theory.”
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