Deephouse: Further adventures involving the employees of a mid-level adventuring corporation. New to Deephouse? Start here.
Durgin’s first impression of Deephouse was one of complete disbelief. “What a piece of junk.”
“She’s fallen on hard times,” Perlen said, “but that just means you have nowhere to go but up.” He fell silent for a moment. “Unless the foundations completely erode. Then you’ll probably plummet to your death.”
They rode a steam-powered lift into the black depths of the earth. Deephouse was located several miles underground and accessible only by a rickety lift or an impossibly long flight of stairs. They’d taken the lift upon Perlen’s assurances that it was probably fine, just needed a tune-up.
Halfway down, after the engine had sputtered out for the third time, leaving them stranded over a precipitous drop, Durgin had decided fixing the lift would be his first order of business.
Then he laid eyes on the fort itself.
It was a squat stone structure, 2 stories tall, leaning dangerously over the edge of a cliff. Steam drifted from a burst pipe running alongside the fort, shrouding the area in ghostly vapors. If someone climbed up from below, they’d be at the doors before they were spotted. Not that there was anyone to see—the towers stood empty, nobody minded the gates.
The lift jolted to a hard stop. Perlen fought with the gate a moment.
“Well? What do you think?” Perlen stood with his hands on his hips, radiating with obvious pride.
“I think it should be condemned. Not even Phantom Hollowkeep would bother with this.”
“What! It’s not that bad. Just needs a little paint.” Perlen slapped the side of a wooden outbuilding. The wall collapsed inward, taking the rest of the structure with it. “And maybe some nails,” he said from within the cloud of dust.
Deephouse’s crenellations were worn, rounded nubs. The eastern tower had partly collapsed, and the entire northern wall was blanketed in gray fungus. Less than half the lanterns were lit. A pair of massive ballistas sat on the roof, but given the state of everything else, Durgin doubted they were usable.
He peered into the gatehouse. Random junk filled it to the ceiling. “How long has it been abandoned?”
“It’s not abandoned—it’s just been a little mismanaged.” Perlen was coated in black dust.
Durgin took a second look at everything. “For how long?”
“6 months? Not that long.”
Durgin cast a doubtful glance at Perlen. This was years of neglect. Decades. And it’d take just as long to correct. He supposed he should think of it as job security. “Clearly the first order of business will be shoring up the defenses.”
Perlen winced. “First of all—love the enthusiasm. But I should warn you that Deephouse has been operating at a loss for months. Corporate wants to shut it down completely, write it off as a tax break or something. A real waste if you ask me.” He shrugged. “The suits have no appreciation for history. For legacy.”
There it was. The boot Durgin had been waiting to drop on this too-good-to-be-true opportunity. “How much time do I have?”
“Technically I was supposed to have shut it down already.” Perlen held up a finger, forestalling Durgin’s complaint. “If you hadn’t shown up for the interview, I would’ve been forced to. But now you’re here, so…”
“Let me get this straight: your bosses ordered you to salvage some value out of this ruined fortress and instead you decided to find someone to run it?”
Perlen nodded. “Exactly! I knew you’d understand.” He checked his pocket watch. “Wow, it’s 5 o’clock already. Time flies when you’re miles underground, cutoff from everything that makes life worth living.” He started backing toward the lift. “Go inside, meet everyone. And get to work! While you still can.” Laughing nervously, Perlen shut himself inside the lift.
Durgin watched him ascend in disbelief. He thought to follow, to complain, but that would only waste time he didn’t have.
“Tell my wife I’ll be late for supper.” He shouted to be heard over the lift’s engine.
Very late.