#he sleeps in plant magic class. its not his fault that the garden beds have such soft dirt in them

[puppsworld]

just a lil fella who’s crazy uncle tried to kill the entire realm.  he does ballet on the weekends.

[ofgoldenblood]

Underneath the Apple Tree

Shadowhunters AU Ship: Jace x Alec

See tags for trigger warnings. Also, I listened to this a lot during writing, so if you want background music while reading: click here.

          Jace had always loved the apple tree the most. You could see it from almost every room on the east side of the house, its wide branches embracing the mansion like a gentle giant. It was the one living thing in the gardens that Mr. Lightwood had to look after the least and yet it was the first thing that came to Jace’s mind when he thought of their groundsman. The Lightwoods had always been there to look after the gardens surrounding Herondale Manor, just like the apple tree had always been there. To Jace life at the mansion was unthinkable without either one.

He loved everything about the apple tree. He loved its white blossoms in spring, its green leaves in summer, its delicious apples in fall and even its knobby naked branches in winter, that turned from black to white with the first snow every year. Countless memories hung in those branches, like forgotten fruit. Memories of a little blond boy who climbed too high and broke his arm when he fell, of three children - two siblings and their best friend - shaking the trunk with all their strength until an apple hit one of them on the head and they laughed until their stomachs hurt; memories of faded letters carved into dry bark and of promises whispered and carried away by the wind.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          Alec had been Jace’s friend for as long as he could remember. Despite belonging to different social classes they had grown up together and spent their whole lives in each other’s company. Life had been easier when they were children, no rules standing in their way that went beyond ‘don’t eat this’ or ‘don’t ruin your clothes playing in the dirt’. It hadn’t mattered that Jace was the son of a Lord and Alec the son of his servant. They had just been Jace and Alec.

Two boys who had played together, laughed together, learned how to read and write together. Two boys who had brought home an injured fox cub and insisted on keeping him as a pet during the winter, both hiding their tears when spring came and it was time to let him go. Two boys who had looked at the world with the same innocent eyes and believed that things would always be the same.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          They started treating them differently when Jace turned twelve - Alec was thirteen then - and he was given a private tutor. Mr. Starkweather was a strict but kind man, relentless and patient. Jace would have liked the lessons he taught him if they hadn’t taken up the time he’d used to play outside with Alec and Isabelle. Often Hodge would rebuke him for not paying attention but rather staring out the window, watching Alec walking around the garden, carrying tools for his father, planting flower bulbs or moving around carts filled with earth. The time for games seemed over and soon Jace began to yearn for a childhood that had ended too quickly.

Their friendship didn’t end but where they had spent time watching worms squirm around in the rain-damp earth or fought wars with their brave toy soldiers Jace was now reading books and practicing the piano while Alec learned everything there was to know about his father’s trade. One day Jace would be lord of the manor and Alec would be his groundsman. It was a game they had played as little children but a reality neither of them were prepared to live.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          They first kissed on the day Jace left to stay with his uncle in the city. It was only for two months; to see the capital and the world of business - and to learn how to be a proper gentleman. Sixty-one days, Alec told him, and Jace would never forget the way his hazel eyes shone in the early light of the sun, or the way his lips felt against his when he had stood up on the tip of his toes and claimed them as his. He’d smelled like rain and earth and something sweet. With fifteen Jace was too old to cry about leaving home, his mother said, but she did not know that it was not the house he would miss.

He kissed Alec sixty-two times when he returned, for every day he had missed him and one extra because he had never been good at math. Alec didn’t complain.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~ 

          The following summer they cleaned up the attic together. Jace’s mother did not like to see her son do a servant’s work, but she could see there was no stopping him. For days and days Jace and Alec looked through dusty old things, forgotten and abandoned, discarding many and keeping a few. To Jace those days were a blur of happiness and joy and kisses that tasted like dust and ancient wine (one of the things they kept).

Their efforts were rewarded with a place they could call their own; with a bed and a pile of books and a wall for pictures and photographs they liked. On many nights to follow they would sneak up to meet there, to get lost in their own little world and forget what was expected of them. The bed stood right underneath the window so that in the mornings all Jace had to do was lift his head and he could see the apple tree in the garden below. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Aside from Alec sleeping in his arms.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

         When Jace turned 17 he was set to marry a girl he had never met. Her name was Clarissa and her hair had the color of rust. She was the daughter of a man of influence and power in the capital, and their union would be appropriate. The only person more upset about this arrangement than Jace himself was Alec.

Two nights Jace spent alone in the attic, waiting for his love in vain. On the third night he saw him outside by the apple tree. That night Jace gave away his family ring: dangling from a silver chain he put it around Alec’s neck. It is yours and no one else’s, he vowed. Like my heart, now and forever. They kissed, and Alec swore to kiss no other as long as he lived.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          As the wedding moved closer Jace became restless. He cried and refused but his parents insisted. No man or woman is truly free in this world; bound by duty and expectation we are but caged animals, his father said. Two nights before his coach to the city awaited, Jace begged Alec to meet him by the old bridge that crossed the river near the woods. It was the place where they had found their fox cub and where they had spent many summers trying to catch fish. A place of magic and freedom and innocence.

Run away with me, Jace pleaded. I’d rather die a beggar in your arms than live a life of wealth and never be allowed to kiss you again. And what reason had Alec to refuse? They agreed to meet a night from then, taking nothing but what they needed to live.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          But they had more than the stars and the moon to witness their encounter. Isabelle, woken by her brother’s disappearance had followed and overheard their whispers. In fear for her brother’s fate Isabelle ran to their mother, recounting what she’d heard. And the following night Alec would scream and cry and hit his hands against the door of his room until they bled, but it would not open.

And Jace would wait an hour, two, his hope slowly fading - until he heard footsteps on dry leaves. But it was not Alec who came to him. It was Max, the youngest, with the Herondale ring in his hand and news of Alec’s change of mind on his lips. Perhaps in another life, he recounted his mother’s words, disguised as his brother’s.

Heartbroken Jace stayed behind, praying the winter cold would take his life and with it his misery. But he was not so lucky, and in the morning it was time to go home and get on his coach. He did not look back at the house or the attic window, the brown leaves of the apple tree looking lifeless and still from the corners of his eyes.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

         For weeks there were no news from home, yet Jace could not forget. More often than not he found himself wishing he could go back, back to the little room in the attic, to their books and their dreams and the warmth of Alec’s embrace. His marriage was one on the paper, no love lost between him and his wife. It was not her fault that she was bound to him, but he could not give her what he had given away a long time ago: his heart.

One day his parents arrived in the city, like refugees, bearing news of a dreadful sickness. Like a plague it had taken over the house, they said, leaving nothing but death in its wake. Never in his life had Jace felt greater fear and all warnings were ignored and all vows to Clarissa forgotten as he took his father’s horse and stormed back over icy roads to the home of his childhood.

Take what you must, o death, he thought, but please spare my love.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          The house had never been so quiet. Where once laughter and joy had prevailed only dread and loss were present now. With trembling hands and an aching heart Jace visited the stage of his childhood, the rooms that told the story of his life. One by one he found them. Mr. and Mrs. Lightwood, still and mute, as if they were sleeping. Isabelle, her black hair held in a loose braid, lips once red and full of life now white and silent. She was beautiful as ever, like Snow White preserved in her casket of glass. And little Max, his hand wrapped loosely around the wooden toy soldier Jace had given him for his birthday a lifetime ago. They all had died in their beds, trusting in the one who’d cared for them, who had brought them sweet smelling tea and promises of painless sleep. The one who could not forgive.

With an aching lump in his throat Jace stumbled through the graveyard he had once called home, yelling the one name he could remember in his horror, the one name that still mattered.

Alec. Alec. Alec.

He never received an answer nor found another body. When he reached the attic his mind played cruel tricks on him, maddened by fear. There he was: Alec, as pale as his sister, a twig from the apple tree in his hands that stood in full flower, his eyes closed in a peaceful expression. A blink, a beat of his heart later and he was gone; nothing but an empty bed that held the happiest memories of Jace’s life between its dusty sheets with him in the room. And outside the window, the apple tree.

Jace had never seen an uglier, more horrific thing in his life.

It was a mockery, a cruel ridicule of something once pure and innocent. Jace ran, faster than he ever had, even though he knew it was too late. He fell and tripped, his knees covered in dirt and snow by the time he reached the tree. He felt no pain or cold as he wrapped his arms around his lover’s legs and pushed him up, as if that would bring the air back into his lungs or the life back into his body. He couldn’t hold him for long, his shoes slipping on the wet ground and his strength failing him fast. The world was blurring before his eyes; the image of Alec hanging in his beloved tree swimming away--- and Jace screamed.

He screamed until his lungs burned and his throat was sore.

~ + ~ + ~ + ~

          The ground was hard and frozen and by the time Jace had dug a hole deep enough his hands were bleeding. There were no flowers to adorn his lover’s grave, no letters to be buried with him and no words of love to be spoken. So many things were left unsaid between them but Alec couldn’t hear them where he was now, and Jace’s heart was too broken to believe his prayers would reach him. The small hill of black earth beneath the tree stood out sharp against the white snow around it, the only thing remaining from the story of the three little children who had shook the apple tree for its fruit, and the two lost boys who had found love in one another.

And like the others, Jace disappeared. His feet carried him away from the tree, away from Alec, away from the house. All he left behind was a trail of footprints that was quickly covered when the snow began to fall again. A trail that led through trees and bushes, all bare and dead now, down to a little bridge that spread across the icebound river.

And half-way across, the footprints ended.

[ink-consequential]

Ink Consequential: Autumn 2017

Home

Jana A

When you ask me what it’s like where you’re from, my tongue stumbles against the words. I’m unable to understand the question.

Do you mean, what it’s like in my childhood bedroom where my walls are painted pink and yellow and my stuffed animals have been discarded to the top shelves? It was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter, and I miss my bed dearly. No one in my family would remember to knock before opening the door to tell me that it’s time to eat or to check if I have enough blankets or to ask me about my day.

Do you mean, what it’s like in the house I was raised in where the stones are colored with age and my grandmother’s garden spreads like the gardens of Eden? Full of life, full of noise, full of love, full of family. Each apartment is a foreign country, but my grandmother and uncle and aunt and cousins were frequent travellers. There was always food to be shared; there were always loud arguments to be had, blaring in my mother tongue.

Do you mean, what it’s like in the city I loved and hated? The traffic is always awful and obnoxious men throw “compliments” like grenades, but it has the prettiest sunsets I have ever seen. The dusk makes everything golden: the old white stone buildings, the cracked pavements, even your own skin will glow with the day’s last remaining rays of sunshine. Downtown, people sell used books on the sidewalk. They sell brightly colored spices in glass jars, and the doorways of those little shops always smell like a feast. I miss the call to prayer, taking over everything for just a minute, five times a day. I miss the music they play in coffee shops, violins and heartbroken sighs that are somehow always full of hope. I think the children in my city all have the world’s brightest eyes and most mischievous smiles. Sometimes they will try to sell you roses or gum or bitter chocolate and you should always refuse. Sometimes old men or women in my city will invite you in for a cup of tea, and you should always accept. The deep wrinkles in their brown skin seem as though they might gather dust, as though they have been forgotten for hundreds of years. You could live to be a thousand and you would not have know half of the long lives they have lead. They have seen the world pause its rotation and turn the other way. If you start to smell smoke, you should pause and turn the other way.

Do you mean, what’s it like to have this passport? What’s it like to live in this country with its imaginary borders drawn on our behalf with an invader’s pen? What’s it like to see the barren deserts and urban crawling cities and little villages around the olive tree fields and know that it’s all home? Well, I always complain about the weather, but I wouldn’t prefer any other climate. We are millions and millions of people, some of us who have nothing, but we collectively chose to open our doors for people in need.

It’s a lot like a warm embrace. It’s a lot like you.

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Keep reading for poetry, short fiction, and more!

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Our Goodbye

Elise Alarpy

I cannot hold onto you, You are footprints on the sand. Fleeting and washed away, I hope you understand.

I loved you so fiercely, More than you could know. But I must give you up now, It's time to let you go.

You are nothing but a memory, A wound that cannot heal. Time took you too soon from me, But what we had was real.

I feel your loss so keenly, My heart is a phantom limb. The world has lost its colour, And now everything is dim.

But I know I must move on, There are battles to be won. I am a wilting flower, Slowly blooming in the sun.

Despite how much I miss you, It is time to say goodbye. Just know that you are in my thoughts, And no one loved you more than I.

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A Salesman’s Game

Esther C

The tornado sirens were blaring across the parking lot, but she wasn't afraid; it was Wednesday. The last sounds echoed against the storefront in time with the twinkling fairy lights in the window. The door dinged when an elderly woman walked in, supporting herself with a cane.

She greeted the customer with a plastered-on smile, adding just enough crinkle to her eyes to make it seem genuine to older eyes. They exchanged pleasantries, and she left the woman to shop.

The game had begun.

She offered assistance in any way that she could. Some things were easy to convince the woman to buy, especially when she whisked things away to the checkout counter before the lady had a chance to second-guess herself.

The game was about fear.

Fortunately for her paycheck, the elderly were often easy marks. Buy the candles, she'd suggest. You'd hate to be caught without light in a power outage like the one that happened last year. Some took more convincing, but most were happy to follow the suggestion.

The game was about doubt.

Winter's coming up here pretty soon; are you sure you have enough blankets? You know how heaters like to go out at the worst possible moment, and fireplaces can only do so much.

The game was about influence.

Now this, this was the fun part of the game: it was where all of the pieces landed on the same square and affected the other decisions. This was the element that changed with every mark. Once the fear and doubt are planted, then the player knows that they have influence. There's a sale going on if you get just half a pound more of sugar; it'll only cost a few more cents overall. Reaching out for the canister, obeying the command to wait to dish it out, but not moving to put it back.

The game was about patience.

A beat or two pass, and the player stands a little straighter. She mentally urges the lady to get the half pound more, gently shaking the scoop to level it out, the sound of the sugar filling the silence.

You'd better make it an extra pound while it's on sale, the woman says.

She smiles and acquiesces.

The game had been won.

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On Divorcing My Father

Katherine Sorensen

Do you see my father over there? He is the man his daughter mourns, the memory of a superhero, the man she loves in vain.

His pride is too loud, he can’t hear the sound of his daughter telling him that he broke her heart.

But his daughter glued her heart with the help of her mother, the wisdom to know that women don’t need men to make them strong.

My father ended the conversation, forcing a girl too young and polite to say things she didn’t mean, because a man’s ego is too fragile.

Do you see my father over there? He is the one talking to the girl who is smart enough to know she no longer needs him.

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Haunting

Danielle Jeanne

Despite what many believe, it is not in the middle of the night when the supernatural roam the streets. The supernatural, being what they are, are not constricted to time or circumstance like the mere mortals they live with seem to think that they are. Ghosts are especially terrible at doing what humans expect of them.

It was reading three fifty-five in the afternoon on the clocks around the city on a sunny Saturday when the street lights on 23rd Street began to flicker on and off. A baby begins to cry across the street as it feels a rush of energy flow through them, making the child’s father confused by the sudden outburst from the once happy child. The little nightlight in the corner of the room turns on.

The apartment below doesn’t appear to fare any better from the curious little spirit. Maxwell begins to bark at the lamp in the corner of the room, giving away his owner’s secret of harboring an unregistered pit bull in her home. She gets up from her bed to calm down her dog (god? Her dog god? The spirit isn’t sure) down enough for her to go back to sleep so she can worry about the consequences in minute detail later.

The couple on the first floor, however, is not amused. Simon huffs out a breath, muttering mild profanities while Irena finishes loading the laundry. Upon inspection of one of Simon’s shirts, Irena notices a few specks of crusted, rusty powder on the left sleeve. Heaving a sigh, she liberally applied the peroxide she kept near the washing machine just for cases such as these. She knew Simon was out with the boys this morning, but he had sworn to go meatless until the witch hunt had gone down.

“Hon, why is there blood on this shirt that I know I saw you wear this morning?” Irena asked him.

“Blood? What bloo—Oh! Blood! Well you see, today’s Henri’s birthday, and he wanted to celebrate the traditional way, and we, we—I mean he—he got a little out of control, you see. He might be on the news tonight, just so you know! He has gained so much weight, I doubt you will even recognize him, sweetheart. Going pig’s blood has really done a number on his metabolism,” Simon answered honestly. There was no point in lying to someone who had been able to hear his pulse for the past 50 years.

As Simon explained himself, Irena heard the cackling in the wires. Mimi was laughing at Simon through the lights in the building. As she chuckled to herself, the lights began to flair again causing the dog-god-dog to start barking and child to throw another short fit. Irena groaned, placing her head in her hands as she counted backwards from ten. If Mimi was here, then Simon and Henri had really messed up this morning. “I told you that the witch hunt had picked up! Why did you even try, huh? Why put yourself out there for the cops to get a hold of? You know what they did to Oskar last weekend! It was a total horror show!”

“Hey, what they did to Oskar was no one’s fault but Oskar’s! Oskar was a literal witch who was doing literal blood magic to get that girl in his human ethics class. I kinda think the irony was lost on him with that one, but hey it ain’t anyone’s problem now. What Henri and I did was fair game. She was homeless—”

“She? She?! Oh, no sir! That is almost asking to be drawn and quartered by the cops. You know the high value they put on their women here—”

“Their women’s bodies is more like it.”

“All the same to them! Mind, body, the whole package! Serious jail time for you if we’re caught, mister! And don’t forget that I know you’re still here, Mimi! I got some words for you! If you were there to see them do it, then you were there to tell them to back off! ”

“Wait, how come I would be the only one in the apartment to get jail time? You’re an accessory and an actual witch! You’ll be facing twenty to life with me, babe!”

“Oh, don’t you call me ‘babe,’ you son of a…” The conversation faded out as Mimi left the building the way she came, through the wires and back to the light post across the street. Mimi began to make her way to the station to laugh at Henri some more before Irena found a way to summon her back to the apartment. The clocks in the city read four fifteen in the afternoon as Mimi continued to live her death as she’d died in her life—hanging from a wire as she waited to see her friend’s reaction to the chaos that they themselves had caused.

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I Dated A Girl

Adrianna Nine

I dated a girl once who was a real peach. She just about smelled like one, too. And even on bad days or ones filled with rain Her smile lit up the room.

I dated a girl once who said she was haunted. Where she went, a ghost also came.  She was so cute that if it weren’t creepy I’d honestly do just the same.

I dated a girl once who loved to paint. On her canvas she’d copy the sky. And when she asked if next she could paint me I blushed so hard I thought I might die.

I dated a girl once who traveled the world. She practically lived on a plane. I would’ve asked her to live with me But she needed a spur, not a chain.

I dated a girl once who dressed in all black Even when it was a hundred degrees. My cats left fur all over her dress And unfortunately oft made her sneeze.

I dated a girl once who was a barista. She tasted like sugar and cream. The first time I saw her was at her café And the whole day then felt like a dream.

I dated a girl once who loved to write. She said it made her feel free. I came to her once with a poem I’d written her And it turned out she’d made one for me.

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Editorial

Esther C

Those of you who follow Ink Consequential closely know that I finally gave up the ghost on my pseudonym with our last issue, which is equal parts terrifying and freeing. Sure, I’m still a person on the internet, but isn’t everybody reading this? I must admit that I do like clinging to my anonymity, to that name I’d chosen for myself. Amelia has twice the syllables that Esther does, but it rolls off the tongue a little better without any plosives and doesn’t have any silent letters lending itself to misspellings.

Amelia means industrious or hardworking, and that’s an image I like to portray. I mean, I’m definitely at work enough to give off that particular vibe, but it’s not just about work. I run a litmag for fun, for goodness’ sake, and it’s been an enjoyable adventure thus far. Speaking of adventure, it was Amelia Earhart who said, “Adventure is worthwhile in itself,” and it’s one of my favorite quotes that isn’t from the Bible (but is anybody shocked by that?). I must admit that I admire her life. Amelia was truly adventurous, pushing and stretching the limits of what it meant to be a pilot and a woman. She wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she never gave up on anything.  She disappeared living her dream, and, while it’s tragic, it’s also very cool. But then we come to Esther.

Queen Esther, a woman formerly admired for her beauty, became a woman admired for her courage. Haman, one of the king’s highest officials, set out to wipe the Jewish people from existence. (In my opinion, he often sounds like a petulant child whenever I read the story, but that’s up for different interpretations.) Anyway, Haman successfully convinces the king to allow the annihilation of the Jewish people through some underhanded means. Chosen queen by the king himself, Esther was in a unique position of power for a Jewish woman: it becomes her duty to beseech her husband to revoke the order. Mordecai (Esther’s cousin who raised her after her parents died and the discoverer of a plot to murder the king) has to convince her to speak before she’s willing to go to the king (something that can bear the penalty of death if done unbidden) and reminds her of something that I often hold close to my heart: “Maybe you were chosen queen for just such a time as this.” So, Esther goes to the king, and (skipping over some events) Haman ends up executed, Mordecai takes over his position and issues a new edict to counteract the old one, and the Jewish people are saved.

With those stories in mind, what do I want people to think of when they think of me? Do I want people to think of Amelia, a woman who dared to dream and was willing to give her life to fulfill it? Do I want people to think of Esther, a woman who dared to stand up for what was right and was willing to give her life to live it out accordingly? I think the answer is both and neither. I want to be a woman who dares to dream, who dares to stand up for what is right. I want to be a woman who lives life boldly, letting faith dictate her steps, relying on compassion to guide her words. I want to be ardent and considerate, someone known for her ideas and the follow-through as well as kindness.

Am I any of those things right now? I couldn’t tell you with certainty. I think I already am a dreamer in that I have hopes for the future. I stand up for what I believe is right by preaching peace and love to those around me, by speaking when I feel called to speak. I don’t know how boldly I live life right now, but I definitely see that the path of faith will take me to that place of boldness. I looked up the definition of ardent to make sure I had the word I was thinking of, and it seems to fit me already—having intense feeling, passionate, devoted, eager—though I have plenty of room to grow into it further. I feel like my kindness can only be judged by the people around me, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t strive for it in my life (usually; I am only human, after all).

I started writing this by asking myself the question, What’s in a name? Just as Amelia means hardworking, Esther means star. Sometimes, I overthink it and feel as though it gives me a deeper connection to the cosmos, to the universe that I believe God created. Sometimes, I think it means that I should be willing to shine in the darkest of times even if my light is only minuscule. Sometimes, I hope it means I’m destined for notoriety and fame—but that’s a little far-fetched even for me. Sometimes, it means that I may never learn everything about the world around me, but that feeling of excitement and wonder is definitely still there. Maybe it means all of these things; maybe it means none of them. But maybe, just maybe, it means that I should be myself, whoever that woman is.

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[jotawakening-blog]

23 Fentuary, 5A 169: Today I Fucked Up

As soon as it’s light, I take advantage of the fact that the sea remains calm to get back to where I left Erjolf and bring him the Muspah tail.  Sure enough, he’s there waiting for me, or, more specifically, waiting for the trophy I’m bringing back.  Well, I show it to him, and he gets excited!  Rather than thank me, though, he asks me to keep this whole business on the down low, just in case the Fremennik elders find out that he didn’t score this trophy alone and make him do the rest of the trials in the usual manner.  Given how he sponged on me this entire time, I tell him I can make no promises.  

Well, he heads off to Rellekka to become a Fremennik, and I’m left trying to decide where I want to go next.  One thing I could do is check in with the natural historian, and tell him that the Muspah sighting was… not of an actual Muspah at all.  He’s disappointed by this, but I manage to fire up his excitement again by telling him where the Varrock museum might find that Muspah statue I unearthed in the desert.  Pleased, he gives me a spirit lamp he’s been keeping around.  I inhale… and am treated with brief flashes of visions of a craftsman at work.  Interesting.

Since I’m already here in the Fremennik Province, I get it into my mind that I might want to see if the ban on entering the city has been lifted yet.  So, I go through the mountainside tunnel and down to the river Kelda, and inquire about passage at the ferry dock.  The ferryman is most obliging, explaining to me that the Consortium’s travel ban has cost them a lot of business, so they decided to rescind it, and are even allowing humans to travel in and out of the city for free, to make up for lost custom!

The boatman starts up the paddlewheel on the boat and casts off.  Once we’re floating down the river, he tells me about the history of Keldagrim.  It’s been 500 years, he says, since the reign of King Alvis, known to history as the saviour of Keldagrim and the victim of his own inventions.  He explains: The King federated the city’s mining companies into a body called the Consortium, which was meant to serve the monarchy.  But in time, it was the monarchy that became subordinated to the Consortium.  Now, Keldagrim has no kings, and only the statue of King Alvis stands to remind its people of the old days, the dark days of monarchy.

The statue is right there on the approach to the city!  We would be passing it, but as we approach, the engine of the boat emits a disconcerting noise and the craft begins to veer erratically hither and thither.  And then the prow crashes into the statue and it falls into the water, shattering into fragments.  Well, shit.  What a start to my visit.

It gets worse, though: the moment we dock, a squad of Black Guards in gold-trimmed armour runs up and places us under arrest.  I am separated from the ferryman and dragged to the guard’s headquarters, where its Commander, Veldaban, interrogates me.  Or, rather, he wants a chat.  See, it turns out I’m not actually under arrest: the statue was due for replacement anyway, and besides, it’s the ferryman’s damn fault for losing control of his boat.  Still, he says, it would be good if I helped in the effort to recreate the sculpture, working as the assistant to Blasidar, Keldagrim’s finest sculptor.  His workshop is on the eastern side of the Kelda.  I reply that I’d be more than happy to help, which pleases Veldaban.

Before I go off to explore the city, I hang around the Black Guard HQ for a bit, even stealing a few words with the Supreme Commander, a black-bearded dwarf named Bisi.  I ask him about his relationship to Veldaban, and he explains that, while Veldaban commands the Black Guard in Keldagrim (by far the largest command), he oversees all the Black Guard regiments all over the dwarven realm.  For instance, Commander Lawgof is of equal rank to Veldaban, and subordinate to Bisi.  Aha, that makes sense.  I ask Bisi whether he’s heard any news around the city.  Of course, he says, the biggest and latest news is the collapse of the statue, but he can’t shake the impression that it’s somehow connected to the other disturbances that have taken place around here recently. The ones that led to the city’s closure.  Hm, if there’s anything to that theory, perhaps I shall find out as I work to rebuild the statue.

For now, though, I have a city to explore!  Keldagrim is a marvel to behold, a city the size of Varrock built free-standing in a massive, vaulted cavern.  The buildings are dour, squat affairs of grey stone reinforced with metal that exude solidity, and the streets are brightly lit with lantern-light.  A remarkable place, but very, very dwarven.  Even the heights of the storeys in the buildings are all wrong, my head bumping almost up against the ceiling of most of them.

I begin my tour of the city by walking about the western side.  The first building that captures my attention is a small armour-shop run by Saro, who stocks it with high-quality wares— even adamantium, which is rare in human lands except by special order from the Grand Exchange.  It would seem he’s working on something even better, a system of lightweight metal plates meant to increase the durability of armour, but all he’s got now is prototypes, and they’re extremely expensive.

The building next door is something of a dwarven stereotype: an inn called the King’s Axe, serving up dwarven stout to dwarves in search of the good stuff.  I don’t know whether it’s the time of day (do dwarves living underground follow a day-night sleep cycle?) but it’s pretty empty right now.  Still, I have a glass of dwarven stout along with a fun-loving dwarf named Gauss.  After I’ve finished my pint, I go looking for the innkeeper to inquire about lodgings.  He offers me a room, and lets slip there’s a gnomish delegation staying at the inn right now, come to negotiate with a cartel known as the Red Axe.  I’m in pretty good stead with the gnomes, so I decide to have a chat with them.  They are pretty aloof and standoffish, more so than most gnomes, though I figure they may be some of Glough’s flunkies.  After talking to them for a while, though, I get the feeling that there’s something more sinister going on: I ask both gnomes I meet where they’re from, just casually, and they give me two different answers!  The official story is that they’re from the Grand Tree, getting much-needed supplies of an unspecified nature, but the junior of the two delegates tells me they’re from Tree Gnome Village and is instantly corrected by her superior.  I don’t know what to make of it, and can’t think of any way to press them into telling me the truth, so I move on.

Along the street to the south-east, I stop by a stonemason’s workshop to see whether he would consider selling stone to a human interested in furnishing her house.  He tells me he sees no problem with that, and walks me through the varieties of stone he’s selling, from common limestone to vastly expensive magic stones.

On the same street is one of the entrances to the former royal palace, a grand hall that dominates the skyline and straddles the river.  On this side, there are the gardens (a rather shabby affair by surface standards, with only a few fly-eating cave plants and an unkempt soil-bed), where I run into an uncommonly tall dwarf named Tombar (not really the talkative sort, though) and Rind, the palace gardener, who talks to me about the intricacies of growing anything so deep beneath the mountains.  I ask him where the dwarves get their food supply, and he tells me they can grow a bit here, but most of Keldagrim’s food comes from trade via the mine cart tracks that run deep beneath the earth to various outposts.  In the Era of Kings, though, technology was more primitive, and the food situation was worse, but the dwarves never considered abandoning the underground.  I ask him why that was, and he replies that food shortages were preferable to being in the thick of the God Wars.  This state of affairs continued well into the Fourth Age, and only after King Alvis’ glorious victory over the mountain trolls did the dwarves send scouts to the surface to check on the situation.

On the northern side of the west bank, I find a bank, staffed by dwarves but fully connected to the Bank of Gielinor network.  Quite convenient!  Further on, I make a few more stops.  For instance, there’s a store selling quality weapons that even has runite longswords in stock: quite remarkable given the rarity of the metal.  I also pop into some private dwellings to ask the locals what the gossip around town is.  It doesn’t go too well.  Some, like a certain Dromund, tell me to get out, and others, like a quarrelling dwarven couple, are too absorbed in their own quibbles to spare me any time.  Fortunately, there’s a library nearby, and the librarian, Hugi (the name means ‘personification of thought’ in Dwarven) is pleased to have someone to talk to.  I ask him about the collection, and he says it’s been accumulated over centuries, from the Era of Kings, to the Rise of the Consortium, to the present day, the Era of Prosperity.  I glance through the books, but find nothing so exciting that I would put aside my exploration of the city to ensconce myself with it, so I make small talk with a human researcher— the first human I’ve seen in the city besides myself— then continue on my way.

Rather than visit the palace, which I expect will take a long time, I decide to cross over to the east bank via a bridge just upriver and look for the stonemason’s workshop.  On the banks of the Kelda, I notice a section of the cavern wall that positively gleams with rare ores.  I try to take a closer look, but a dwarf stops me, saying I’m trespassing on public property.  Okay, fair enough: access to all that ore would have been too good to be true.

East Keldagrim is a bit of a different world from the west bank.  The buildings here are smaller, shabbier, working-class.  There is no public street-lighting, only lanterns hung from houses, and even the street is a bit of a foreign concept.  Right by the bridge is a dock where I run into that damned ferryman and his boat.  I give him a piece of my mind about his shoddy piloting, but he doesn’t seem fazed; he just caustically reminds me that I got my money’s worth for the journey.  Grr.

I don’t know if it’s just my imagination, but the locals around here seem to be friendlier than the well-heeled lot over in West Keldagrim.  There’s this one dwarf, Karl, for instance, who’s not angry at me for knocking on his door, but listens raptly to my firsthand account of the collapse of the statue and my subsequent arrest.  Then, to the north of his place, there’s a shop selling kebabs, whose owner complains to me about some particularly drunken dwarves who live in the area.  In fact, I run into one of them soon afterwards: as I’m passing by his house, he throws an empty bottle in my direction!  I barge in to confront him, but see that he’s drunk well past the point of throwing the bottle maliciously: he’s hallucinating about dwarf-eating kebabs that have arrived to invade the city!  Oh dear, I hope he will be all right.

On the far eastern edge of the city are the actual slums, little dwellings carved straight out of the rock, interspersed with some actual buildings.  In one of the buildings, I find a dwarf selling decorative armguards, but he won’t sell to me, because apparently they’re not the right look for my arms (I don’t have forearms the size of a tree branch!).  Oh well, should probably have seen that coming.  Behind his house is a small coal mine where some of the locals from the cave-homes make their living.  They say I can mine there as long as I don’t draw too much attention to myself.  Alright, good to know.  

The colourful sociological observations don’t end there.  One of the locals is a dwarven male wreathed in smoke, who looks completely out of it.  Is he doing some kind of drugs, I wonder?  There’s also the mostly-deaf owner of a pickaxe shop, who sells remarkable-quality wares (even runite picks) but is burdened by his son, who is supposed to be helping him run the business but is actually kind of a layabout.  I also encounter a dwarf who’s wallowing in self-pity because after ninety years mining, all he’s got is a small house on the east bank.  I would tell him to count his blessings— it doesn’t seem like too bad a life— but I doubt he’ll listen, so I leave him be.

Further south, the character of the district turns from residential to industrial, with a number of important enterprises all located close to one another.  There’s the lava flow mine, for instance, which is off-limits to humans but provides geothermal power for the mine cart network, so is of crucial importance to the functioning of the city.  Then there’s a brewery, which advertises its alcohol by way of a drunken dwarf who walks around with a placard: apparently this is the only job he could get after being fired by the Red Axe for… not showing up to work in uniform one time too many, the brewer believes?  Anyway, their profit margins are low, so they pay him in beer.  I ask the woman at the bar if I can use the brewing facilities for my own purposes, and she tells me to go  ahead: her husband Blandebir will charge me an appropriate amount for the yeast.  I have it in mind to brew some cider, and unless I take another trip to Morytania (which, actually, I well might) this would be a decent place to do it.  But for cider, I’ll need apples, and I don’t have enough right now to make any.  What else?  Oh, the brewery has a cat, but it’s big and mean and even when I speak to it in cat through my amulet, it just glowers at me.

South of the brewery is the rail yard, a sprawling tangle of mine cart tracks that spreads its tentacles to all corners of the dwarven realm.  The main trunk line goes all the way to the Grand Exchange in Varrock, with a through stop at the Ice Mountain mines.  I ask a conductor how much it would cost for me to travel by mine cart and learn that it is free for humans: another part of the city’s bid to get business booming again.  Very useful stuff, though I still have a statue I’m duty-bound to rebuild before I feel I can leave.

Right by the rail yard, I notice a large factory building of some kind.  The foreman outside isn’t very communicative, but he lets me know that this building houses the blast furnace, which the Consortium has opened up to all and sundry (even non-dwarves, which he’s displeased about) so that it can secure the manpower needed to run it.  Since no one is stopping me from going inside, I head in and try my luck talking to the dwarves inside to find out more.  The shop floor workers aren’t much help, but I finally manage to convince a foreman to talk to me.  He tells me that the blast furnace is the pinnacle of dwarven metallurgy, cutting in half the amount of coal needed to refine ore.  The downside is that it takes a five-man crew to get the thing going, and since management refuses to pay workers anything (they argue it’s a privilege even to be working on this technological marvel!) the furnace runs idle a lot of the time and requires human volunteers at all others.  I question the logic of this business strategy, but hey, if it works for these guy, who am I to question it.

A few other dwarves are hanging around the blast furnace to support operations.  One of them is an ore merchant, who sells large quantities of ore of various kinds (nothing rarer than mithril, though) to smiths who didn’t bring, or cannot procure their own; the other, meanwhile, is a quartermaster for the Black Guard, who buys top-quality armour from smiths who can’t be bothered to market the wares they produce here.  Since the furnace isn’t running right now, though, his stock is all empty.  Well, there’s nothing really for me to do here, so I go out again and look for that sculptor.

I find his shop right by the eastern entrance to the Consortium palace.  Blasidar is a middle-aged dwarf with a greying beard who greets me with courtesy, but no special warmth— but that’s only to be expected from the dwarves, really.  I tell him why I’m visiting him and ask whether there’s anything I can help with as far as rebuilding the statue goes.  Blasidar thinks for a bit, then tells me he’s already got an assistant and a model, but could use an errand girl.  I tell him to go on.  He explains that his brief was to rebuild the statue exactly as it was, but, the dwarves not having much of a painting tradition, there exists no visual record of it.  So, we’ll have to make do and produce a plausible facsimile using ornate, but probably ahistorical clothes.  Specifically, he wants me to find a pair of boots, the fanciest I can find; robes in the royal style; and King Alvis’ axe, which is said to still survive.  He has no idea where in Keldagrim I can find these items, but wishes me best of luck anyway in finding them.

That’s… more of a challenge than I expected.  But I shall try to make some headway tomorrow (or at least, after I’ve had what would be a full night’s sleep above-ground).  I’ll begin at the King’s Axe (I’ve a feeling the inn I’m staying in has that name for a reason) and move on to the Consortium palace: if there’s one place that’s bound to have rich dwarves and fancy clothes, it’s there.