Editing Fontainver

==Escape==

So many of my people had died in the mines of Yarlug. We were driven hard and with no concern for our safety. Hungry, exhausted and weak from constant chiselling, I had fallen like the others. That’s when something odd happened; instead of crashing to my death in moments, I managed to slow my fall – control it, even! That was not all, I had felt that I was flooded with energy, my bruises clearing and cuts binding, quickly forming scabs before disappearing altogether. I realised that I had a power – something my mind controlled. At the bottom of the shaft I had landed in, I found bodies... well, skeletons – some very old and some more recent, but all decayed. The lighting strung across the seam above barely reached the bottom of the pit here, but amongst the dead something caught my eye. It was warm in the dark, not like the Brightbane they had us mining, which was cold in the stone, no, this was warm.

I tripped as I moved quickly, drawn to the tiny glow, and the clatter rang out, echoing up the shaft. I had waited, holding my breath... the Devils would look for me now – nothing got out of the mines alive. I desperately looked around, scrabbling through the bones to try to arm myself. I would not die without a fight, I was an Ironcloak! I found weapons and some bits of armour, some of surprising quality and easily repaired. My hand finally rested on a long-extinguished torch, and I hastened to search for something to light it with. I found a small box, just as a screech from above announced that I was missed. A second came from the top of the shaft; they knew this place.

There was hope, though, it was a tinderbox! I thumbed what seemed like a flint and struck its sharp edge against the flat two-inch strip of cold steel. Sparks flew, illuminating my immediate surroundings and momentarily blinding me. In that instant I saw the small warm item; it was, even now, imprinted on my mind. Lying amongst the many skeletons at the bottom of the pit was the body of a dwarf or gnome who had once been an important figure. Whilst his armour was ancient and broken, it was clearly once of quality. Nothing much was left of his clothes except for a robe which seemed untouched by age. It was what was on one of the fingers of the skeleton’s outstretched hand that captivated me.  I still saw its warmth even though the sparks had died. Another screech focused my mind on the task at hand.

Striking again and again, I managed to ignite a piece of age-dried cloth. It gave enough light to pull together more combustibles and wrap them around the metal shaft of a mace. I quickly gathered other items, assessing quality, size and durability. Astounded by how many lay dead here, I found what I needed. I replaced my ripped and torn boots and my stained clothes with things that had lasted the years even at the bottom of this cold, dark place. Then it struck me: there was no water here. Yarlug had many underground streams which permeated all the rock – indeed it was the water erosion had revealed Brightbane. There was not a drop here, though. Things had begun to disintegrate but not rotted, no, not even mildewed - there was not even mould... nothing grew here.

Something told me to take the ring; surely a glowing ring should not fall into the hands of the Devils above. They would see its warmth, as I had, so I must hide it. Quickly I stole it from its long-dead owner and popped it in the pocket of his cloak, that I draped over my shoulders. Then it struck! Claws ripped at me from above, trying to lift me. The screech was unbearably loud and piercing. Somehow, though, the cloak denied its grip, and I did not feeling the stabbing pain those talons could have inflicted. Indeed, even its sharp-ended, poison-tipped tail failed to penetrate the magical weave.  Wingless it floated above me, bemused, hissing and screeching. I smashed it with a staff, knocking it to the floor. It was confused, not used to such resistance. I did not give it time to collect itself, striking again and again, pouring all my anger and misery into the smashing blows. Finally, I plunged a blade into the nape of its long, green-black neck. Its eyes bulged in pain and shock, piercing the dark with a pale orange light before it collapsed, taking up home with its fellow dead.
  
There would be more.  Dunsi desperately looked around for an escape.  She could not go up – certainly not unnoticed.  Using the light of her make-shift torch and scrabbing across the	bodies she found it.  A small fissure in the dry rock opened to her torch light. She crawled through, pushing the torch forward as she went, staff between her knees, knife in a deep pocket.  After what felt like hours of a slow ascent, she emerged into a lager chamber.  Her torch was spluttering and her back breaking, her knees scuffed and bruised. The room – for it was clearly an old entrance to Yarlug – was again littered with skeletons.  They had fallen when the devils came and here, she realised, may lie her kin.
She knew this way to the surface – for she had to get out into the light and away from these devil-held mines – and was glad to be able to pass without looking at her surroundings.  Eyes shut for the most part, she edged along the walls, turning and twisting her way up.  Another screech echoed through the caverns below – they had discovered what had happened in the pit. Every instinct told her to run, but she controlled herself – to fall here might spell her end.  Yarlug was full of hidden traps and pits, she had to be careful.  She finally climbed a shaft that few knew was more than a source of light.  As she begun, she felt – for the first time – the dampness associated with the porous rocks of gnome hall.  The dampness increased until water dripped down the dark grey surface up which she climbed.  Forcing her legs straight and pushing her back to the opposite wall shat paused, breathing heavily from the exertion.  A few years ago, before they came, she could have climbed this in less than an hour.  Now, she was weak.  She cupped her hands beneath a tiny stream on water and let them fill slowly, drinking before the liquid of life overflowed, leaving her grasp.
Her head emerged into a pale darkness, the fresh air breathing new life into her. She was free! The stars were so bright above – like the shining ribbon of party lights her mother had strung up for her 14 years ago. She shook her head and took another deep, calming breath before hauling herself out onto the rock-strewn, uneven grassland of what was once Amorsland.  
She recalled stories of a great castle to the north that may have weathered the storm brought about by the ‘surfacers’.   Her legs were wobbly as she set off, tired from pushing against the wall, they were not ready to lift and stride.  She heard and felt the rage of hundreds of evil voices fill the complex beneath her, reverberating against the stone making the rocks over which she walked tremble in fear.  She picked up her pace, willing her legs to get into a more natural stride. It was cold here on the surface. There were puddles and patches of dark mud which she instinctively avoided.
Dawn confirmed her direction.  Pale orange the sun rose to her right.  She must have been walking for most of the night.  The terrain had not changed much from that she remembered as a child; however, there were low mounds of earth raised near one another in clumps of five or six and covered with purple-red heather.  In other parts the earth was torn and rent, filled with water or churned up into some muddy gloop.  Foul odours rose from some parts, making her gag or feel dizzy.  Nothing now lived here and she dare not drink from the puddles.  Her mind drove her forward, overcoming all need for food, sleep or water…
Eventually she saw the partial ruins. It had withstood Ragnorak – Fontainver lived.  The river was drained, and the bridge thrown down, so she could easily walk across its ruin.  The many breaches in the walls were patched up, but she knew it could not withstand a determined assault for long.  The temple which once shone out high on the keep was no more.  The wharf were broken and thrown into the tumultuous sea. The once-proud race of sea elves that made this their home were long dead. But Dunsi was drawn here…Was this the salvation she had sought?  Would there be any here willing to help free her people?