Work Text:
The green light coming from the lantern strapped to the stranger’s belt cast an ominous gleam onto the walls of the tunnel and left one feeling paranoid for their own life and safety, for it felt like the stones that the ceiling was littered in were going to come loose and pour down upon the heads of those walking the tunnels this very moment, merely on the behalf of being illuminated a moment too long.
The trio following their quaint guide had been trying to keep each other’s spirits high from the moment the lantern had been lit and the man begun walking, leading them into the underground labyrinth, yet it became more difficult with each step they made.
The Barbarian Warrior King of Unst, or the Hootsman, for short, appeared in particular to be fond of drunk stories and saucy jokes that he had displayed truly extensive knowledge of, only to become more and more silent and contemplating the longer and deeper into the tunnels they went. Eventually, he fell a couple steps behind the already small group, to keep an eye out for enemies and make sure there were no nasty surprises waiting to ambush them while their back was turned.
The Knight of Crail, Ser Proletius, had taken over entertaining (in his own quaint manner) his companions with stories that were more so lectures about all things heroic, which unfortunately included the ugly side of said heroics as well. It was, in its way, endearing, even if his companions would have most likely preferred if he did not attempt to use stories of bloody battles, to lighten the mood of people currently walking into one such battle.
His Highness, the Crown Prince of Fife, or Angus (to relatives, friends, barbarians and now also random hermits who appeared to have zero respect for any and all titles), had been listening, absent-mindedly, to them both, until he found himself less concerned about the stories and more concerned about the situation and the place it had brought them to.
In the prince’s defence, the dwarven tunnels, while they ran under most of the country, were a terra incognita to anyone not of dwarven origins (and for the most part only accessible to the dwarvenkind), and humans were rightfully advised to stay out of there. The dwarves had never been ones to think much of humans, or “surfacers”, as they were called down here, and they would not tolerate strangers lurking around in their empire. Not to mention that their societal structures and hierarchy appeared strange enough, to the people above ground, for the kings and princes of Caledonia to avoid long-lasting alliances with their underground neighbours.
Not that having any kind of long-lasting diplomatic relationship between the two realms would have helped right now, for outside of the dwarven settlements the tunnels were a dark, cold and wet place with none of the famed glory and even less of the presence of the dwarves themselves. There was mould on the walls, the distinct smell of wet dust in the air, somewhere in the distance water dripped from the ceiling, and the sound of wind that found its way inside had turned into a hollow, empty noise that made the travellers feel like the walls were pressing down on them. Some beastie passed by, right outside the circle of light; unnoticeable, were it not for the skittering that its numerous feet (and quite possibly other body parts) made against the stone floor.
Their guide walked on, paying no attention to anything surrounding them, as though he passed by here every single day.
Angus caught himself wondering whether there was a possibility that he had been hit over the head with a stone back there and maybe he was hallucinating all of this. Or maybe he was already dead, not just being led into something that could kill him, by a strange man they had come across in the tunnels beneath Cowdenbeath and who somehow appeared even less thrilled to have them as companions right now than he had been back when they had started out.
The only thing to save the situation (and everybody’s self-esteem along with it that had been lingering somewhere above the bottom line ever since the last remains of daylight had faded behind their backs) was that they had encountered exactly one goblin patrol that consisted of three beasties whom the Hootsman had caught up with and dispatched to the hunting grounds of their ancestors easily – and with a merry laughter at that. It had reassured the trio that they were still very much in the land of those living and mortal, rather than having been abducted by a malevolent fae and being lured into its lair.
There was, however, a question that hung in the air, unasked yet looming over their heads.
- You, guys, - the Hootsman finally breached the subject, - I know I’m not the most perceptive lad, and kinda the butt of the jokes, too, but did you see how fast these things run off when they saw him?
For a moment, there was an uneasy silence.
- As long as he’s on our side… - Angus finally began, clearly trying to pick words that would not offend anyone.
- That’s what I mean! – as polite and discreet as a battering ram at the city gates, the barbarian cut the prince off. – How do we know that? Could be a trap, for all we know! Don’t tell me that’s not on your mind!
Their guide stopped in his tracks, and so did they, and the Hootsman run into Ser Proletius and almost landed on his ass as he stumbled backwards, cursing up all hells possible and then some. The knight appeared as though he had not even noticed the impact, all of his attention bound by the hermit, fingers tight around the grip of his sword, while his other hand held onto the shield he had been carrying at the ready ever since they had embarked on their journey underground.
Maybe the Hootsman was right, and they had made a mistake by trusting this “Ralathor, and that’s it”.
- If I wanted you dead, - the man spoke without looking back, - I would have left you where you were. People who get lost down here don’t normally come out again. At least not alive.
- Even wizards? – Angus could not resist asking, even as the barbarian and the knight groaned in unison. It was the kind of starry-eyed, childish wonder that was not easily snuffed out; despite the horror that his beloved city had seen at the hands of the dark sorcerer, there was a kind of wondrous, magical aura in his mind still surrounding the legends of old. After all, wizards had helped him in his searches for the magic dragon.
Their guide turned to look at the prince, and the part of his face not obscured by the hood sported a grin that was in no ways less feral than what the Hootsman was able to produce at will.
- Especially wizards, - he answered and continued walking as though nothing had happened. *
The Hootsman bumped his elbow into the prince’s side, as though saying “I’m telling you!” before Ser Proletius reached over and unceremoniously smacked the back of the barbarian’s head, with that drawing a string of protests from the man that had little to do with pleasantries and everything to do with words that Angus had never heard before but could guess their meaning based on the situation they were in. At the front, the Mysterious Hermit of Cowdenbeath (their words, not his) made a sound that was the verbal equivalent of rolling one’s eyes.
Ser Proletius raised his hand again, for prophylactic reasons, only for the Hootsman to avoid it, by hastening his step until he had caught up with their guide.
- Hey, you! Just so you know, - the barbarian flashed his most charming smile; the one normally only reserved for people that were moments from being acquainted with the sharp edge of his battle axe, - if you set us up, I’ll chop that head clear off your shoulders.
Their mysterious guide did not appear in the slightest to be bothered by the threat, or the glare. He merely cast a look at the Hootsman, before rolling his eyes, physically this time, and turned around the corner.
- You’re welcome to try. Now shut up, unless you wish to announce our arrival to whoever is listening. Down here, even walls have ears.