The Collapsing Tunnel - Chapter 5

 

5 – Mosek / Ashke – Healing in the Deep-deep

“Time to wake up, you old sleepy bear,” a warm, familiar voice says in Mishikwe.

Mosek opens his eyes. He’s still in the healer’s room. The mixture of golden lamp light and blue/green phosphor is something he’s getting used to.

“Are you here to wash me or feed me?” He asks with a smile.

“Time for you to wash yourself. Though you might be pleased to know that you still have some Protectors who volunteered to help you.”  Ashke says with a friendly grin.

“Female Protectors? I haven’t shared a bed in a while, and as much as I enjoy your company, someone younger and softer would be welcome.”

“I haven’t said you can do things like that yet, Mosek,” Mihkwa says from his other side. Mosek feels fingers on his back, softly examining the area.

“How does it look, honored Mihkwa?” he asks politely.

“The spider silk stitches are holding better than I thought.” The Binder-of-Flesh says.

“Spider silk? I thought you used the ‘Blood of Bruna’?” Mosek asks confusedly.

“I had, but we use the wire to fix what does not easily close. Silk finishes the healing that gold has begun. When the danger passed, I switched them out as you slept.” Softly, he continues checking the closure. “Beneath all that hair, your skin is smooth. I thought it would be tough like bark, but you, trusted traveler, continue to surprise me.”

Mosek understands what he means and simply nods.

“Mihkwa, how much longer shall I stay on these pillows?”

“That is why I wanted you awake. Let us have you roll over and sit up. You will feel pain, but I need to check the healing.”

Mosek nods and stiffly rolls over. There’s pain as the weight of his body presses on the wound, but he sits up, which relieves it.

“Lean forward and let me look.” The Binder says.

Mosek once again feels the fingers gently probing the area and checking the sutures.

“Nothing came loose and nothing separated. Ashke, hand me one of the new bandages. There are some Miskwa‑bishikaabe‑winiin. I need one of those.”

“Mihkwa, won’t that stick to my skin and rip things open?” Mosek asks.

He hears the Binder softly chuckle, “No. The honey in the bandage will prevent infection and aid in healing. I had to shave all the hair on your upper back, so it won’t pull out hairs either.”

“At least right now.” Ashke jokes.

After they apply and wrap the bandage, Mosek asks, “Can I stand?”

Mihkwa nods, “Yes, let us see if you can stand.”

He helps to steady him from one side as Ashke assists with the other. The stone floor of the cavern feels so hard compared to the pillows he has been lying on for so long. He takes a few gentle steps to get used to being upright again. He can move, but slowly. Trying to stretch, he stops as he feels pain where muscles are still trying to knit together.

He slowly walks to the wash basin against the cavern wall and dips a woven cloth into it.

“The bandage appears to be holding Mihkwa. I think we can move him to the main hall.”

The wet cloth feels good as he rubs it against his face. Seeing a small patch of the cultivated fungus known as ‘Bruna’s Hair’, he pinches off a tuft and rubs it into a lather, then washes his face. Soapy drops fall from his beard and mustache. Ashke holds out a woven towel. “You can do your face, but for a while, you might need help with other parts.”

A broad smile splits Mosek’s face, “Which female Protectors do you have lined up?”

“Did I say there were female volunteers? Your translation skills are fading, Old Bear. I lined up a number of strong, male Protectors who all want to feel the warmth of your fur.” Ashke jokes.

Mihkwa turns to leave.

“Honored Mihkwa. I need to give you something in exchange for what you have done. I know you won’t take payment, but I have items that will be useful to you. Can we go to my cart?”

“Yes, Ashke explained what you need to do and why. You are always a welcome member of our family, but I know your ways are different, too. Yes. Let’s go to your cart.”

They all slowly move to where the cart has been placed. As Mosek walks, Mihkwa watches carefully.

“Would a staff or stick help?” Ashke asks.

“Let him decide. If he feels unsteady, we can give him one.”

Mosek leans against the cart and takes a few slow, deep breaths. “The Hairy Old Bear is now just a Tired Old Bear.”

“You did well, my friend. I’ve seen many who were hurt less than you, cry like a babe to just sit up. Rest for a moment. I will set out your items.”

Mosek nods as Ashke takes the blanket from the center of the cart and lays it out. He then lays out the various metal trade goods and glassware. Finally, he lays out Mosek’s personal items, including a small purse of gold coins.

“Honored Mihkwa, please choose what items you want and will make use of.”

He points to the collapsible chair hanging on the cart, “Ashke, can you unfold that for me?”

His friend sets the stool by the blankets and then helps him sit down.

They watch as Mihkwa ignores all of the metal items but slowly picks up three glass jars with lids and latches. “Amazing. Like living crystal but smooth and clear.”

“Yes, we got those from The Weaving River School.”

Mihkwa lets out a small gasp of amazement, “From Ziibi‑Aashkibwe‑Gamik? They came so far.”

“If they please you, take them. I know you will use them well. Do you see anything else?”

Mihkwa sets the jars down on the blanket and looks at the small sewing kit and spool of dwarvish linen thread. “Mosek, you bind with this?”

“Yes, these are the items of my people. Very commonly found and easily used. If they give you pleasure, take them. I would be honored.”

Looking closely at the metal needles, he touches the tips, frowns, then sets them down, slowly shaking his head, “Dead metal, sharp but no life in it.” But he unspools a section of thread and pulls it. It holds under the tension of his pulls. “Not as strong as spider silk but finely made.”

“Yes, Mihkwa, we call it 'flax-drath. ' It comes from a plant the Hill people grow and harvest. I think the students of Two Forges told me your word for it is zhiibaa‑wiiyaab‑oonh.”

“You have a spool of river plant fibers? You are amazing, Old Bear.”

“If these please you, keep them. I know you will use them for the betterment of all.”

Mihkwa gathers up the jars and the spool of thread. He makes the old traditional trade sign for “an exchange is complete”.

Mosek smiles broadly and makes the same sign.

After he leaves, Ashke asks, “Are you strong enough to do more trading, or shall we try another time?”

Mosek slowly exhales. “I need to rest, but I have one more debt. Do you know who the Protectors are who pulled me from the stones?”

“Of course, why?”

“I remember hearing the sound of tools against rock and want to gift each one a dwarven-made steel tool, if they will accept them.”

“We will be honored. The tools you brought in the past have been used and shared. More would be well received. I will talk to them during the next meal.”

Mosek takes his slate and marks next to each jar: Khur-dathun – paid to honor a debt.

The Collapsing Tunnel - Chapter 4

 

4 – Ana – The Hall of Disputes

Ana stands outside the doors of the Hall of Disputes. The doors always look so imposing and solid. The Hall was the one place where goblin custom and dwarven law met as equals, and every ruling inside shaped the fragile peace between their peoples. She adjusts her red sash and badge denoting “guardian of the border”. She is always so uncomfortable wearing the formal uniform. Its wool fabric always feels limiting and looks so much like the Peacekeeper’s.

“Stop fidgeting, Ana.” Waad comments, standing next to her.

“I know Waad. I prefer our silks to this.” She says as she moves her shoulders. “This always feels so limiting.”

He smiles, “Imagine wearing Peacekeeper’s armor instead.”

She visibly shudders. “I’m uncomfortable when they wear it. It reminds me of furnaces at Two Forges.”

Waad shifts the beaded Aashkibwe‑maan belt across his shoulder and rotates the rough slag bead in his hand. “If this were the early days of peace, they’d still be in armor.”

“Yes, but we’d be in body paint. Can I change into that instead?” she brightly smiles.

Playfully mocking, he responds. “Of course. We’ll both enter wearing body paint, silk ropes, and strung bows across our bodies. Looking like the ‘shadow warriors’ they fear.”

She likes the thought of wearing only body paint, but also knows how zhul-durak – shadow warrior – of legend can easily be twisted into zhul-rakkaz – shadow killer – whispered about in fear. She rotates her neck and pulls at her uniform collar as the announcement bell sounds.

Straightening up, she holds her barkskin pad.

The large stone doors open, held by Hall Protectors. Ana rarely entered the Hall—border guards only come when a violation is serious enough to threaten the treaty itself. She lets Waad enter ahead of her. He silently holds up the Aashkibwe‑maan belt. Clearly and loudly, he announces, “This is the official record of Aniniwiin Sukaniniwinin. We come forth seeking justice.” The Truth-Speaker and the Stone-Judge both nod, each from their seats. Waad then turns to the Listener-of-Bruna, who nods, followed by the Priest-of-Durn, who also nods. While staying on the Goblin side of the chamber, he approaches the dwarf Record-Keeper, who nods, and finally the Weaver-Who-Hears-Meaning takes the belt and lays it on the table below the Loom of Peace. Every bead added to the Loom became part of the shared history of both peoples—an unbroken record of the treaty’s survival.

Ana silently walks into the great circle, staying on the goblin side and waits.

Two Peacekeepers enter from the other side. The senior one holds up a glass bowl with three large beads. “This is the rule of Law. We await the decisions of Truth and Justice.”

He offers the bowl to each member of the Hall, who ritualistically nods until he moves down to the Loom and waits next to the Record-Keeper.

One of the Peacekeepers whom Ana handed the miners to enters the circle and stands silently on the dwarf side. This is followed by the two miners being escorted in by two more Peacekeepers. The Protectors who were standing by the goblin hall door move to stand just outside the circle as the prisoners are put into it.

The Stone-Judge hits his mallet twice, and it echoes in the Hall. He looks directly at Ana. “You bring a grievance into this Hall. Do you require a translator?”

Her hand nervously tightens around her notes. “No, Great Stone-Judge and Truth-Speaker. I will make my words heard in Durask, so they know what they are accused of.” She says as she points her empty hand at the miners.

Both the judges nod at each other. The Truth-Speaker also directs, using Durask, “Bring forth your grievance, Aniniwiin Sukaniniwinin.”

“Thank you. I am Noonda Ashkwa Mishig and monitor the treaty border. These two were found in violation of that border, with picks and mining tools. One drew a knife, but both were safely subdued and handed over to the Dur-khazrim.” She then holds up her barkskin notes. Both justices nod upon seeing them, but motion for her to continue standing in the circle. Waad holds up the rough slag bead and hands it to the Weaver, who adds it to the Loom of Peace, as the Record Keeper takes notes.

The Stone-Judge looks to the Peacekeeper. “What is your role in this?”

“Stone-Judge and Truth-Speaker, I am Dulmir Iron-Vigil. My partner, Kavran Stone-Oath, and I received two border violators from this Zhul-durak.” He holds up a slate with notes marked on it. “And these two men are those violators.”

Ana flinches when she is called a “shadow warrior”, but she’ll worry about that later.

The Stone-Judge addresses the miners. “What do you have to say in your defense?”

One of them clears his throat. “We followed the will of Durn. We seek his gifts in the unmined lands. We did not know we crossed the border.”

“Yeah, we didn’t see any signs. We were just following a shaft.” The other one comments.

The Listener-of-Bruna asks, “May I read the notes from the border?”

The slate and the barkskin are collected and handed to him. He reads them and then has them taken to the Priest-of-Durn. The Priest reads them and scowls. “I think the border guards overreacted. These appear to be lost lambs following the voice of Durn.”

The Listener-of-Bruna shakes his head. “I disagree. The notes are clear. These men were well beyond the border in clear violation. But, as always, I respect the judgment of Justice.”

Both the Stone-Judge and the Truth-Speaker request the notes from the Priest. A few moments after reading them, they whisper to each other. Ana is unhappy with Priest’s argument, but she, like the Listener-of-Bruna, trusts the justices.

She sees them nod and then deliver the notes to the Record-Keeper.

The mallet bangs again. “Thank you, Noonda Ashkwa Mishig, and thank you, Dulmir Iron-Vigil. Step from the circle.” Once they do, the Stone-Judge continues, “Brokkan, son of Durvak, and Helmir, son of Thuldren, you have both been found guilty of willful violation of the border and disregard for prohibitions of mining in goblin lands. You are both sentenced to a year of hard labor in Mining Guild monitored tunnels and barred from working near the border lands for five years.”

The Hall Peacekeepers escort them out as the Senior Peacekeeper holds up the bowl, and a polished iron stone of “guilty” is placed in the Loom. Ana looks at the beautiful patchwork of beads hanging down from the statues of Bruna and Durn holding hands. The Loom of Peace is beautiful to behold. Waad picks up the Aniniwiin Sukaniniwinin belt. They silently leave the hall. 

The Collapsing Tunnel - Chapter 3

 

3 –Tesh – The Grand Market

As an apprentice rope-maker, Tesh Varu Dagan helps to lay out the items that they carried from the Two Forges School to the Grand Market. His master, Varu-Gashki, hangs up a couple of nets and then fastens overhead ropes so items for trade can hang. Tesh unrolls the sample trade goods and ensures that the stock items are properly rolled and tagged.

He listens to the chatter of the Bimkor market kids as they share gossip faster than the elders.

“Silent ones caught two stone sniffer cross-border, down-below.”

“Trussed ‘em like spider food, I heard.”

“Runner says one of us got hurt down below, too.”

“Border down-below or Deep-deep?”

“Deep-deep.”

“Who and how?”

“A hairy-bear Bimkor crushed by stones”

“Not a Half-heat?”

“No. Runner says he still breathes.”

“Must be a big hairy bear.”

“Mosek.”

 Tesh stops checking the stock and looks for the speakers. He is about to leave the stall when Varu stops him. “Where are you going? We’re not done preparing, and the market opens soon.”

He wants to explain what he overheard, but realizes his Master is right. As an apprentice on Market Day, it is his turn to learn and practice the skills of trading and exchange. Everyone in the school does it. Spinning, braiding, and weaving are done at the School, and trading is done at the Market.

“Yes, Master Varu. You are correct. I was distracted by the gossip of the runners. I won’t let it happen again.”

Once the Market opens, there is a mixture of voices. Mishikwe, Durask, and “Market Speak”. Tesh wishes he were a runner again. Then he’d know the latest rumors, but his place is in the stall.

An old goblin, with the earthy reek of damp fungus, walks up to Varu and begins making hand gestures. Tesh moves closer and says in Mishikwe, “There is no need for the old trade language. We speak the words of the Children of Bruna.” But the old goblin glances at Tesh, wrinkles his nose, and focuses on his non-verbal discussion with Master Varu.

Tesh is used to dwarves looking at his mixed-blood heritage as ‘impure,’ but not goblins. Regardless, he steps back and waits for Master Varu to tell him what to do. Soon, the elderly goblin holds out small bags of dried powders. Master Varu examines samples of each one, then nods silently and makes a number of hand and arm gestures. Finally, they both clasp arms.

“Tesh, he gets one net and two of the short coils.”

“Yes, Master,” he replies, pulling a net from the cave wall and then removing two red-tagged rope coils, using the shears to cut the tags. Handing them over to the elderly goblin, he says in his most polite tones, “May the blessings of Bruna be on you as you return home.”

Silently, he nods, but still has that look of uneasiness at being so close to a Naawaii-wakwan. A moment later, Varu quietly strokes his intricately braided beard and says, “Tesh, don’t take it personally. They rarely leave the swamps and almost never see your kind. Let me show you the rare dyes he brought.” Varu shows him a small pinch of each: The Wahkom Blue, Miskwa Red, Mashk Brown, and Zhingwa Purple. Each is highly valued by the weavers and cloth merchants. A valuable exchange, benefiting the whole school.  Master Varu locks them in a storage trunk.

The rest of the morning is less exciting. Dwarves are buying ropes with gold.

“Master Varu. Do you think most of them were miners?” he asks after selling his fifth coil of rope.

“My young apprentice, we are not to judge who we trade with, are we? Isn’t dwarf coinage as useful to use as goblin-traded goods?”

“Of course, Master, but after the news this morning about stone-sniffers, I mean miners who were captured by scouts…”

“Tesh. Don’t worry yourself. We craft fine items and exchange them at the market. We don’t worry who uses them.”

Tesh has heard this before. “Don’t judge. Don’t assume. Don’t fear.”

 It isn’t until the Market pauses for Mid-Bite that Tesh hears how Mosek was hurt and had to have a “binder-of-skin” heal him. If he were a runner, he could visit Hairy Old Bear, but he’s no longer a child. He has responsibilities. The large tables are pushed to the center of the market space, and food is set out. Varu and Tesh unwrap the platters of “Fry-Flats” they kept covered at the back of the stall until now. They also place their personal bowls and carved utensils on the table. Tesh hands the platters to the other merchants.

When he was a child, he would have taken a fry-flat fresh off the plate, but now he has to wait until they come back around to get one. A hot earthenware pot of Stone stew is passed around, and he quickly ladles some into his bowl. A pot of warm root-tea also makes the rounds, and Tesh unfolds his waxed cloth cup. Varu uses an old stoneware mug, but most of the cloth-craft apprentices use their handmade cups as a sign of their skill in crafting and proof to their masters that they can make something that can even hold liquid. When all have filled their plates or bowls, the Bimkor Mid-Bite Caller offers a blessing of thanks to the workers who prepared the meal that they will share. Dwarven merchants make the sign of Durn while Goblin traders tap out blessings of Bruna. Then they all eat.

As bowls are emptied and platters are passed, news and rumors are shared. Tesh keeps listening for news on Mosek.

“You look disturbed, my apprentice. What weighs on you?” Master Varu-Gashki asks Tesh.

“Master, I heard that the old trader Mosek was gravely hurt. I wish I knew more.”

Varu lifts his mug and slowly sips his tea. “He’s a good man. I’ve known him for years, too. He’s carried many of the School’s goods to both the Clan strongholds and the Deep-deep. But if he’s being tended by a Mihkwa, he’s under the best care he can receive.”

Tesh looks sadly at his cloth cup and the texture of its tight weave. “I just wish I could help.”

“When we return to Two Forges, spend time at the loom, and weave bindings and clean wraps. We will send them the Deep-deep. That way, if fresh bandages are needed, you’ve supplied them. Does that help?”

Tesh thinks about it for a moment. As a child, he would have yelled and cried, ‘But he’s my friend. I want to go to him.’ But he understands the meaning of his master’s words. So, he softly smiles. “Thank you, Master. When we finish, I’d like that. Yes. I want to be helpful any way I can.”

The Collapsing Tunnel - Chapter 2

 

2 – Mosek / Ashke - Rendering Aid

Mosek happily pushes his cart deeper into the goblin tunnels. If he were in a Dwarven tunnel, he’d be whistling, but the Goblins taught him to “rhythm tap”, a form of music that is less harsh in the “smoothed through wear” pathways. Gently drumming a tune on the handle of his cart, he knows it will mark him as Bimkor – ‘Between Folk’ – those who freely share the border. He enjoys moving among the “Children of Bruna” even though his long beard marks him as “other”. But he also knows that there are those who want dwarvish-made iron and glass, but fear leaving the safety of their caverns. Besides, to get freshly made mushroom flatbread, you must be in the Deep-deep Caverns. The wheels of his cart squeak, sending a gentle echo down the dark tunnel. His eyes search for the blue‑green glow of the fungus trail markers. He chuckles as he taps each one — his cousins still think he’s mad for going without even a miner’s lamp. He tried to explain that to earn access, he had to pass the “scout’s test”: walking the paths in total darkness, finding the unlit cave markers by touch alone. It took time, and he failed the first attempt, but the older Scouts and Protectors encouraged him. They wanted the Truth-Seekers and Listeners-of-Bruna to meet honest, friendly dwarves in a safe place. “Bruna, protect the soul of Zima,” he whispers, thinking of the aged Protector who vouched for him, long dead now.

 “Greetings, Mosek,” a voice quietly but quickly says behind him. He notices a runner and pauses to let them pass and move ahead of him.

“Tell them, I’ll be there soon”, he says in his accented Mishikwe.

“I will. Don’t trip in the darkness, Big Hairy Bear,” the youth says as they sprint ahead.

He smiles and nods as the runner is out of sight. “Yes, that’s what I am to them.”

Soon, instead of just faint blue-green trail markers, the bluish glow of a large, communal cavern is visible.

 At the entrance, he is greeted by Ashke Wenii-Gwewin or Ashke, “I heard the big, hairy bear was on his way.”

He extends his arm in greeting. Mosek takes it and then moves into a full hug. “It brings me much happiness to see you. I was thinking of Zima, on the way in.”

“My mentor’s spirit is always with us, as his body fed the spores,” Ashke replies.

He leads Mosek to the center of the cavern. Children of all sizes and ages duck in and out of the shadows to watch as Mosek unpacks his cart.

 Ashke is an Ashini-waki-mishig – a Protector of the people. He helps him by spreading out blankets and rugs. He frowns a little at seeing the red merchant tag attached to items. He knows it isn’t Mosek’s doing but that of the merchants who produced them. All Protectors and Scouts know dwarven laws, but it always saddens Ashke to think that a person will not freely share items with those who need them.

 The children circle closer, but Ashke keeps an eye on them. For some, living in the Deep-deep, it is a game to take an item without being seen, remove the tag, then wear it as proof of quickness and stealth. Protectors, Scouts, and Peacekeepers, more than once, in the Grand Market, had elders punish youths for attempting it. Luckily, now Bimkor children are more common in the Grand Market, and lessen such games just out of peer pressure.

 Mosek lays out pots, pans, and other cooking utensils, then the steel tools — hammers, saws, axes, and knives. Last come the glass storage jars and bottles, which he unwraps carefully from their wool and silk protective coverings.

 “My friend, should I call the elders and tell them you are ready to trade?” Ashke asks.

 But before Mosek can respond, a goblin child runs up, grabs something from a blanket, and runs away.  In a playful laughing tone, Mosek yells, “You lose, little scamp. I saw you. Bring it back, or the Hairy Bear will catch you.”

 The child ducks into a cubby along the rough wall. Ashke starts to move, but Mosek tells him, “I’ll get them.” He moves his bulky form into the mouth of the cubby and sees the child trying to bite the braided cord of the tag of a ladle.

“Give it to the big Hairy Bear, or I will eat you. I am still hungry from my trip.” He jokes, but instead of laughter, he sees fear in the youngster’s eyes. “No! Children of Durn eat us like wild bears.”

The child cries and throws the ladle at him. He leans forward to get it. “Don’t cry, little one. I was only joking. I don’t eat the Children of Bruna. Let’s have some fresh mushroom bread and stew.”

As he picks it up, he braces against what he thought was a rock but was just a dried calcium deposit, which gives way. The area shakes around him as rocks loosen and fall. The child screams in terror.

Mosek hears metal tools against stone as rocks are pried up and then pulled free. Multiple Protectors come to clear the area, checking Mosek and the child for wounds.

“Bring the Binder-of-Flesh. Mosek is bleeding.” Ashke yells as he applies pressure to the large gash on his back. Soon, the crying child is consoled by elders while also being chided for causing this. Mosek tries to defend the child’s youthful prank but is given an herbal tonic to drink as he is carried in a blanket to a healer’s tunnel.

The last thing Mosek remembers is “Hold still, old friend. This will hurt.” Then there is pain and blackness.

 He wakes lying on his stomach, in a soft pallet of stuffed silk pillows. The room is lit with a mixture of fungi pods and oil lamps. The lamp wicks are set low, but the gold and brass reflectors amplify even this. “The big bear will live, but maybe I should hibernate some more?” he tries to joke, unsure who is in the room.

“Yes, you will live, my friend,” Ashke tells him. Mosek tries to roll over, but a firm but reassuring hand presses on his lower back. “Please don’t move. Mihkwa said you must stay still. When the rocks fell, your upper back was cut open.”

“Oh.” Mosek, lies still. He thinks about Mishikwe words for a moment. “I am cut so deep that a 'binder-of-skin' was called for?” The pressure on his lower back eases, and Ashke moves where he can see him.

“Yes, hairy, old bear. We feared our silk wrappings weren’t enough. He had to use some of Bruna’s holy blood to help repair the damage.”

Mosek thinks about this for a moment. He’s always heard of sacred golden tools made from Bruna’s holy blood, but he has never seen any used. His throat tightens; tears sting his eyes.

Ashke holds a cup of medicinal tea near him. “Are you in pain?”

Mosek shakes his head. “I’m not worthy of such a gift from the Children of Bruna. How can I—”

“Hush, my old friend. You are part of us. You bring us items for trade that the elders would never see otherwise. You are welcome at circles, and you play with our young. You are the ‘Hairy Old Bear’ of our stories. Saving you is saving one of us.”

“But I must repay….” He tries to protest.

Ashke nods. “Of course. You explained how Children of Durn must do equal exchanges. Let Mihkwa weigh the value of it, and we’ll have the Listeners-of-Bruna agree. Does that seem fair?”

He thinks it over. It is almost dwarven in its proposal; the healer will decide the cost of the treatment, and the priests will oversee it. He smiles and extends his hand. “I agree. Shall we shake on it?”

Ashke gently takes his hand and squeezes it. “Now drink some tea for the pain and sleep. I soon need to check that your cart has been moved to an alcove.”

“Who picked up...”

“The Protectors carefully repacked your cart. I found your slate list and accounted for each item. The elders declared your cart a ‘red tag item’ and scouts have told all the children that any caught trying to play the ‘red tag game’ will be punished in the ‘Hall of Disputes’.”

“But..that… seems…harsh,” Mosek tries to say before the medicinal pain tea takes effect and he drifts off to sleep again.

The Collapsing Tunnel - Introduction and Chapter 1

 

Introduction

My Dear Reader, welcome to this story. Before you begin, I’d like to give you a few things that will help you in this world.

I: This is not an allegory. At the time this was written, yes, there were events in various parts of the world that were similar to what takes place in this story, but what I wrote was based off of historical trends, not specific acts at the time of writing. Whether you choose to believe this is up to you, but I am a student of history, languages, and culture, all of which influence my writing.

II: In this world, dwarves and goblins evolved from a common ancestor and can intermarry and have children. Before you cry “Blasphemy!” because this differs from the versions you know, remember that many cultures across our own world have stories of “little people of the mountains.” They go by many names. For this story, I chose Dwarf and Goblin. That is all.

III: The languages are fictional but inspired by real ones. Durask, the dwarven tongue, draws from Icelandic, Norse, and English. Mishikwe is shaped by Algonquian languages. The cultures in this world grew from the logic and rhythm of these languages.

IV: Everything is translated into English for the reader, except for certain names, items, and terms that lose their texture when translated. You will also encounter people using formally structured phrases at times. This reflects characters operating in official spaces or showing honor and respect through formal speech. If you find yourself thinking, “They’d be more casual than that,” remember: that is your expectation. In this world, the speaker at that moment would choose formality.

V: This story is part of a larger world, and there may be more tales set within it. After the epilogue, you will find glossaries and world‑building notes if you wish to explore further.

Welcome, and I hope you fully enjoy this story that takes place in a mountain range shared between the Children of Durn and the Children of Bruna.

 

1-Ana - Guarding the Border

Ana moves like a breath of cool air through the stone. The tunnels of her people curve and dip around her, familiar as the lines of her own hands. She keeps low, letting the rough cavern wall brush her shoulder as she listens. Noonda Ashkwa Mishig or Ana is Aniniwiin Sukaniniwinin, “one who guards the border”. She is deep in the border tunnels, where the lands of the Children of Bruna press against the carved domains of the Children of Durn.

 A narrow ventilation shaft opens to her left. She pauses, sniffs, and feels the faint pull of moving air. A larger tunnel lies ahead. She slips into the shaft, climbing downward with practiced ease. Her climbing claws find every ridge; her spider‑silk uniform whispers against the stone.

She stops and presses her listening tube to the wall. Voices. Echoed. Distorted. But unmistakably Durask. Harsh, clipped, like stone cracking under strain. She thinks of Waad’s voice: ‘Peace comes from understanding. Do not judge. That is the Speaker’s duty, not yours.’ She continues, stopping now and then to listen again. Yes, Dwarf voices — but whose? She slides the tube back into her belt and moves on in silence.

Lamp‑light glows ahead. She wishes she had more scouts with her — a runner to send for aid if needed —, but it is only her. ‘Don’t give in to doubts or fears’, Waad would say. ‘A single silent scout is more than a match for anyone who crosses the border. Trust your skills and knowledge’. Her uniform, dyed to blend with the stone, makes her a soundless shadow as she approaches.

Lamps mean Dwarves. If it were the blue‑green glow of glow‑moss, it might be Bimkor traders or tunnel keepers. But dwarven lamps mean miners — those who dig into Bruna’s flesh. “I see a quartz seam here. There might be some gold,” one voice says.

“You’re dreaming. There’s never gold in the gobblers’ tunnels. That’s Durn’s gift to us. Besides, what would animals like that do with gold?” the other replies.

 ‘Two treaty breakers’, Ana notes silently on her barkskin pad. She moves closer, using stalagmites and rough walls to mask her approach.

“Ding.” The iron pick strikes stone.  She moves faster.

 Two dwarves come into view — miners, no guild insignia. ‘Lone‑wolves’. She makes more notes, then draws her speaking horn. In her best Durask, she calls out, “Stop. You are in violation of Goblin lands and the peace treaty. Drop your tools and prepare to be arrested.”

Her voice echoes. The dwarves freeze. One lifts his lamp, searching the shadows.

“I don’t see a Peacekeeper. Must be a goblin guard.” He draws a knife. “I bet I could find and skin it.”

His companion turns, pick still in hand.

They are broader and a little taller than she is. Stronger, likely. Waad’s teachings steady her: ‘Shadows have no substance, no strength, yet can cover the strongest object’.

 She pulls her bolo free. “Stop where you are or you will be stopped,” she warns, projecting her voice off a different wall. The shift in direction makes both dwarves hesitate.

She steps into the center of the tunnel and throws. The bolo wraps the knife‑bearer’s legs, sending him crashing down. His knife clatters across the stone; the lantern shatters.

The second dwarf drops his pick and raises his hands. “Don’t kill us! We were just prospecting. We didn’t see the border.”

Ana is already behind him, binding his wrists with spider‑silk ties. “You can tell your story in the Hall of Disputes.” She secures the fallen miner as well.

She blows her security whistle and taps the code into the stone: “Violators captured. Meet at the border post”. The vibrations carry down the tunnel walls. In near‑darkness, she guides the prisoners, a rope linking them, their tools bundled in one pack. The dwarf who surrendered carries the other pack on his back.

 Closer to the border, she whistles again and taps the message once more.  A whistle answers, followed by the tapped reply: “Message received. Awaiting prisoners”. Ana exhales in relief. The Peacekeepers she has met before deal just as harshly with dwarf treaty‑breakers as with goblin ones.

 The rough natural walls give way to polished columns and carved stone. Border lamps cast a bright reddish‑yellow glow, harsh compared to the deep caverns’ darkness. The dwarves squint; Ana slips on her slit‑eye carapace shades.

 Two Peacekeepers wait, clad in dark blue wool and leather, armor‑styled but helmetless, their beards tightly braided. One lowers a lamp shade to soften the light.

“What fish have you caught in your line today?” he jokes in Mishikwe. One miner scowls at hearing a dwarf speak goblin.

Ana answers in Durask so the captives will understand. “These fish swam in dangerous waters. I saved them for you.” She drops the pack; the broken lamp rolls out, the pick clanking on polished stone.

The other Peacekeeper manacles the prisoners, then returns her silk ties and rope. “We’ll inform you when to be at the Hall of Disputes.”

She nods and hands over her notes. One Peacekeeper copies them onto a slate. “These will be added, along with the evidence, to the charges.”

Ana rolls her rope and lines. “Thank you. Let me return to my watch.”

“Return to the shadows, vigilant watcher,” the first Peacekeeper says in Mishikwe.

She replies in Durask, “And maintain the steadiness of watchful stone,” before slipping back into darkness as the lamp shade lifts and bright light fills the cavern.

Building Worlds

 

I’ve spent the past couple of days editing and working on a polished version of my novella “The Collapsing Tunnel”. I also know that I have subscribers who enjoy my smutty and erotic stories. So I am torn in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

I want to write a smutty pick-up story, but when I do the descriptions leave the modern world and switch to either the fantasy or sci-fi worlds I’ve been working on. The simple answer is “write another sci-fi sex story” or “write some descriptive dwarf on goblin porn”. As many of my readers know, I try to write a variety of styles and genres. But when I also want to write stories that the readers want too. My “Random Encounter” stories always have higher reader rates than my “Couple’s Tales” and are always double or triple the readership of my genre stories.

I could just stop creating erotica. But I feel like that’s ignoring the couple hundred of readers out there who enjoy my work. Realistically am I changing the world with my smutty little stories? No. Writing consensual stories about loving couples or adults who ‘hook up’ are just a tiny segment of the wider erotica and smut community.

In point in time where AI programs are generating smut faster, cheaper, and as detailed as what I create, do I need to still be here? Probably not. But I enjoy it. I enjoy the community. I enjoy the engagement of readers and other writers. This has never been about money. Yes, I’d love to earn a bit for the stories I’ve written. I have over 150 posts on the various platforms and have earned enough for a 12 pack of soda.

But I don’t want to disappoint the readers either. I don’t want to produce slop just to make a schedule. I’ve worked too hard the past couple of years to make interesting and unique stories in a landscape filled “cuckold tales”, “stepping out stories” and “true confessions”, to just quit.

Yes, changes in my personal life have changed a few things and the schedule I had, which was dictated by being a care-giver has been modified. So I’m faced with the broader question that I really want to hear answers from you - my readers, What do you want me to write?

I look forward to your comments (I might have to find the Mishikwe word for “throbbing cock” or the Durask word for “wet cunt”. Mmmm Goblin grunts and dwarf moans and vice versa).  

Oral Sex with a Married Man

 

Tonight, you are at the bar. You are meeting up with the man you have had sex with a few times previously. You are wearing a sexy black lace & satin bra and panty set, with matching garter belt and stockings. These he bought for you last time. Your dress is white cotton. Perfect for the warm weather tonight. And easy access for him.

You light up your cigarette, and enjoy the smoke, as you see him walk in.

He’s still wearing his business coat & tie. “He must have come here straight from work.” You think. Holding the cigarette to your lips, you slowly suck in the smoke. Your lipstick marks are on the tip. It reminds him of your lipstick on his cock when you suck him. You tap the ash into the ashtray. 

“Should I order a drink, and dance with you to the music? Or just go to a hotel room?” He asks, removing his sport coat. Under his white shirt you can tell he’s not wearing an undershirt. You can almost see his hairy chest through the light cotton fabric.

Taking his hand, you lead him to the dance floor. The music is fast. You move against his body. As you grind against him, you feel the texture of your lingerie against your skin as you dance. Also as you rub against him, you feel him get hard. Pulling you closer, he kisses you passionately.

The next song is slower. He holds you close, his hands on your lower back as you put your arms around his neck. You kiss him, and press your chest against his. You feel the pressure and texture of the fabric rubbing against your nipples.

His hand grabs your ass firmly, like he doesn’t want this to end. “You are wearing your sexy gift I bought you. I’m glad.” He says in a deep sexy tone.

The song ends and you go back to the bar for your drinks. Sitting on the stool, you raise your dress to show him the tops of your stockings. You feel sexy and naughty.

“Those look so good on you. I knew they would.” He says into your ear. “You look so sexy, I want to fuck you here.” You feel his hand up your dress. You are thankful that everyone is watching either the band or the dance floor. You feel his fingers rub your panties. “Oh, yes, you are getting wet. You like the idea of me fucking you, in front of everyone?”

“But I like this club, and don’t want to get kicked out. Shall we go? Or dance again?” You playfully protest.

He pays for your drinks and you leave. The hotel is nearby so you walk. The evening air feels good. At the hotel, he uses the key to the special corporate suite, used by his company for special clients.

In the elevator, you stand in front of him. He raises the back of your dress, and you feel his cock still inside his pants, press against your exposed ass. “You love when I take you from behind. If there weren’t security cameras. I would fuck you here.” He whispers in your ear.

The doors open to his floor. You go to the room and he unlocks the door. Once the door closes, you kiss his mouth hard.

“Yes, I want you to fuck me, but I want to suck your cock, then I want you to lick my pussy until I cum.” You say.

There is a couch in the suite and the king sized bed. You’ve had sex on both previously. “Where do you want to do it?” He asks as he removes his tie and unbuttons his shirt. Removing his shirt, you have him sit on the sofa. Slowly you remove your dress, doing a striptease to tease him.

You wiggle your hips as you unbutton each button of your dress.

He unzips his pants and pulls out his hard cock.

You slowly slide one side down your shoulder…

And then the other.

As you slowly slide the dress down your body, he licks his fingers and slowly strokes his hardening shaft.

As the dress hits the floor, he’s fully hard.

You sexily walk over. Grab grab his prick… “Do you want a hand with this?” You ask in a seductive voice. He nods and you get on your knees. Licking the tip, you slowly stroke the shaft. You look into his eyes as you suck it. “Whose cock is this?” You ask playfully but firmly as you squeeze it.

“It’s your cock. My wife hates it. She won’t suck it, and only wants missionary sex once a month.” He replies as you continue licking it.

“And what about my pussy?” You ask. 

“Your pussy is the tastiest and most beautiful there is. My wife won’t let me lick her. She says oral sex is sinful.” You suck his cock deeply, “Oh God, that feels so good.”

You stand up and he kisses your pussy through the fabric of your panties. You feel his mouth press against your damp lips. He licks up and down. His tongue pressing the satin fabric against your damp cunt. It feels so good.

He slowly slides your panties off and you feel them slide down your legs. Grabbing his head, you press his face against your pussy. “Lick me until I cum.” You command.

You then lie on the couch with your legs spread. You feel his head rub against the tops of your stockings and his warm breath on your pussy. Slowly he licks up and down your exposed cunt. 

Up… around…down… and across.

Then he licks between your lips. You enjoy the feeling of his smooth wet tongue on and in you. Grabbing his head again, you hump his mouth in pleasure. He licks deeper and harder. Grabbing your hips as you feel his tongue thrust deeply.

He rubs your clit with his tongue still deep inside of you. Rubbing faster and harder until you cum. His mouth is filled with your juices.

He then moves up to your mouth and kisses you passionately. You taste your pussy on him. “I love just doing oral with you, so much more than straight sex my wife.” He says and hugs you tightly.

“That was just the warm up. Show me how much more you love me.” you tell him in a wicked tone, before moving off the couch to the bedroom.