For over a minute, you stare at the bundles of jars and rods with explosives, struggling against the encroaching fear paralysis. You, after all, are just a historian: an archeologist, not a fighter! But as anxiety slowly builds up in your heart, your mind evokes all the efforts and the material and emotional costs you've sunk for this expedition. You can't let them go to waste. You can't go back empty-handed because of some foul cavernous vermins!
As you gradually fire up emotionally, your hand drifts over runic fire wands, brushing one of them as you contemplate "lighting" up those cells infested with incessantly hissing menaces.
"Dave," You finally whisper to your iron companion, "Be ready to fight as I'm about to scorch them out of their crevices." In a familiar acknowledging gesture, the chassis tilts forward for half a heartbeat, with you shortly opening the lid of Davon's cockpit and staring into the hisses-animated darkness.
Finally, you muster your resolve and nimbly crack the safety seal on the wand, lighting up the stairway with warm light emitted from the activated rod. Its tiny amber fire consumes the wood, inching closer and closer and closer to its rune-inscribed core segment. Perfectly aware of what happens when a rune comes in direct contact with its conceptual element, you toss the projectile into one of the holes from where, according to your hearing, most of the hisses were coming. Sharp like a crack of a lightning strike, the chorus of hisses turns into unholy screeching cacophony, and you see the distorted shadows of the miniature but numerous and ill-tempered creatures dance on the walls of the infested stone-cut cell.
Wasting not a moment, you dive back into the safety of Davon's hull and lock the lid securely shut as the audial chaos ensues, muffled by the isolation of Davon's steel. You hear clicks of claws against the ancient stonework, startlingly loud, pained screeches of the vermins outside, and a few heavy metallic thumps against something fleshy, with shrill screeches following right after. The pungent smell of smoke and burnt flesh soon makes it through the slits and cracks in Davon's shaking chassis, confirming the macabre butchering scenery with pyromaniac vibes outside that your imagination was painting. But just as the stampede seemed to slow down, you heard the curious roar, most likely voiced by the larger creature from the opposite side of the divide. Not taking any chances, you unroll from the semi-fetal pose (in which you waited through the bacchanalia), reach for Davon's controls, and pilot him away through the tall gateway to the lower levels, not bothering to look back.
You have little clue how long you spurred your steel companion at joints-integrity-threatening speeds through the long-dead hallways of the complex. Your mental faculties begin to return only when the surroundings change, and you find yourself on a spacious new floor, starting at an intricate effigy doubling as a signpost with partially-preserved engravings. As you hold your breath to listen to the surroundings, the absence of the visceral screeches finally encourages you to open Davon's top lid and assess his status.
With the alchemistric-mechanical lantern in your hands and on still-shaky legs, you hit the surface to make a quick roundelay around Dave, who courteously lowered his hull to facilitate your disembarking. A quick inspection reveals that your chariot golem sustained no damage besides a few minor scratches on the shield plates and a few particularly gross gore splatters on his mechanical limbs. As you wrap up this little inspection satisfied, a certain sense of pride resurfaces: you made it through the first encounter with hostile beasts unharmed despite not having the budget to hire Rosanrican mercenaries for this lengthy expedition and not trusting any of the local sellswords. Ha!
But a short moment of internal jubilation concludes with a pat on Davon's hood shielding, and you turn around to flush the light at your immediate surroundings. You find yourself standing at the center of a vast hall with many arched side gateways to smaller subsections, somewhat reminiscent of a conventional library or a gigantic warehouse layout. And apparently, you stopped exactly where a reception or redistribution desk might've been eons ago, with a wide column carrying direction pointers and other essential trivia towering above.
This new floor appears to be more intact than the previous one, with most arches, columns, and internal walls between the sections featuring only minor signs of damage. The space looks carefully planned, and glancing at the floor reveals signs of a peculiar gutter or chute - too geometrically correct to be something without a utilitarian purpose, such as rail transportation or fluids drainage. But there is only so much you can study without moving further from the central aisle into the side branches and corridors. Before you do so, you carefully climb atop a well-preserved heavy desk made of a weird, ceramo-metallic obsidian-esque material and stare at the column's inscriptions. But alas, the symbols are faded, and all you can make out from the precursors' late common language are the word "storehouse," a suffix of a word related to manufacturing or processing, and an even more degraded couple of symbols related to water.
You sigh in mild frustration from being unable to decypher the worn-down signs, which makes you register an oddity: the air is still fresh relative to the depth at which you are right now! There must be a concealed air shaft nearby or a multiple of them, still passing breathable air down to these subterranean-pests-infested halls. A faint grin creeps as you realize the testament to the late Reisorians' and Almafey architecture that endured tens of thousands of years as derelicts. Thrilled by the prospect of diving deeper into a well-preserved historical site you uncovered, you somewhat clumsily crawl up into Davon's piloting cradle, prompting him to march beyond the now-familiar aisle.
And with the measured, methodical stomps of your walking fortress, you come across increasingly more findings in the interconnected floor section, which you surmised to be storage cells. Most of them host nothing but the rack carcasses made out of the same mysterious material as the main gates, filled with rot that, at some distant point, must've been containers stored at them. You come across several sealed containers made out of this decay-resistant metal. Yet, you cannot open them nor locate any inscriptions describing their contents. In more than half of the storage sections, the floor is buried under the tides of weird, puffy beige rot of unknown origins that resembles heaps of particularly puffy snow. Passing those, you hold your breath and cover your face with a handkerchief, protecting yourself from ingesting the clouds raised by Davon's marching.
But nothing makes you stop in awe like passing to the rear section of this gigantic warehouse and witnessing the vast "sea" of this alien rot, stretching across multiple separate cells, with some effigies, furniture elements, and other artifacts sticking out of it like from under a landslide or quicksands, with only carved columns in intersections protruding from the submerged bottom all the way to the ceiling like mythical titans, immune to time and the literal tide of decay caused by it. You spend no less than half an hour starting at it, noticing sporadic chunks of machinery and containers sticking out of it. Whatever this particular floor was keeping, it wasn't cultural artifacts or knowledge. However, on the opposite wall, separated from you by this "sea of rot," you spot the vague outlines of Pheotor carved as a part of an enormous relief etching. But as enticing as these findings are, you dare not submerge even partially into these cotton-like waves, begrudgingly turning away to explore the rest of the floor.
Mulling on how significant of a discovery a glimpse at the precursors' geographical knowledge could've been, you barely restrain yourself from marching Davon through the dust & rot tide. Yet, another discovery soon wash the persistent idea out of your head: you found precursors themselves! Well, not alive, of course: in one peculiar storage cell, both entrances of which were obstructed by makeshift barricades, the light of your lantern brushes against seizable bones.
Having Davon bulldoze through a minor hill of debris, you soon get a better view of the scene. You register a pile of ancient bones by the wall, and half of them look too large to belong to contemporary roths. By the direction of, presumably, thigh bones, you get the impression that these two precursors died leaning with their backs against the barricaded wall of this storage cell. The smaller person probably leaned onto the larger one, who, judging by the skull shape and presence of horns, was a reisorian. Were they... hiding from something? The placement of the crates and the haphazard obstructions reinforce this theory.
Looking around, you noticed the second - a smaller - pile of bones in one of the corners, hidden behind the rubble. Leaving Davon in the cell's entrance, you carefully sneak to the third deceased. The skeleton was less scattered than the other two, and you could make out its posthumous pose: curled in a ball as if in pain, crushing terror, or both. Judging by the sizes and characteristic flanks of the skull, it was an almafey female, possibly a relatively young one. Looking closely, you notice something else: there's something faintly glittery under her palm bones.
Giving it a thought and then biting your lower lip pensively, you procure leather gloves from your pocket and don them before reaching for the object. As the bones, with hushed clutter, give way to what looks like a golden fetish of sorts, you can't help but feel somewhat guilty for taking away the last solace of a girl that died thousands of years ago. But the scientist in you takes reign over Katherine-the-girl, and you shed more light on the artifact.
The object in your hand, albeit dirtied and mildly deformed, is unmistakenly made of either ancient gold or a gold-based fusion. It is delicate and resembles a geometrical pattern reminiscent of a lily or chaliced dancing flame. At the back of your mind, you recall seeing this pattern somewhere, but the details elude you. Tantalized by the missing context, you dig deeper into your memory, and, finally, you remember: you saw this symbol on one of the ceremonial urns recovered by Kathorian scriveners. Yes - it began to resurface: quite uncharacteristically for themselves, daevish scholars from Ussar decided to attend Lund's exposition of precursors' artifacts, bringing some from their homeland for the expo! It was quite a misguiding show: most attendees and scholars were more interested in the exotic guests than their contributions to historiographical and archeological exchange. But not you, evidently, as you managed to imprint fragments of lore on the cult of the life-giving flame practiced by many almafey in ancient Eucad.
Long-range travel was standard in the late eras of precursors' reign up to their mysterious collapse, which led to significant foreign population enclaves in the larger settlements. This ceremonial - most likely prayer - fetish only reinforces your assumption that this place was inhabited during the precursor's last era and might have seen its collapse around the time of the extinction event or maybe even after it to some degree, ultimately succumbing to a cascade failure or some freakish force-measure, the marks of which you now observe.
Satisfied by your archeologic acumen, you sigh and look at the object in your hands again: its delicate weave shaped into a burning flower almost makes you feel a bit warmer and safer in this kingdom of dust and darkness, and your glance slips down to the object's "owner." A brief moment of contemplation follows, and, with the utmost care, you lean over the antique almafey girl, carefully returning the trinket to her dead grasp. You came here for the metascope, not to rob the deceased.
Then, after hopping back into Davon and leaving the peculiar storage cell behind, you spend about an hour and a half slowly riding around the enormous floor level, searching for other peculiarities and exciting spots. Still, you don't find anything except for small fragments of bones - likely remnants of the stragglers from the floor above and the sounds of water from one of the lengthy, half-collapsed corridors. Also, to your great confusion, you register faint air currents in one branch of the level, but your attempts to find the source of ventilation fail once you start feeling light-headed, and your body hurries to inform you of the last time you rested.
Succumbing to the needs of your flesh, you break down an improvised camp in a storage cell not far from the one you found the living blaze effigy in. You may not be of the most skittish sort, especially compared to the Rosanrican court darlings and socialites, who wrinkle their noses whenever the name of your house is mentioned, but the assumption of sleeping among the dead is just too morbid for you. You set up the sleeping bag, the "camping candle," and cut the enclosure away from the spooky ruins via parking Davon as a barricade. Even though he has no tactile senses, you rub his frontal plated hood affectionately: he sure did earn your praise today, to which he "nods" forward in acknowledgment. And just like that, under the cyan-green lights and hazes emanating from your friend and protector's soul engine, you sneak into the sleeping bag, procuring your journal and cataloging the findings and impressions over a chunk of chocolate brick you took from the home Islands.
With writing accouterment procured, you hastily scribble the findings, thoughts, and impressions from the first leg of the "dive," trying to outrun the amassing sleepiness with the quill. You calligraphically ponder about the purpose of the entrance hall, which terribly reminds you of the carriages and river ferry depot at Lund. You heard rumors of bhiroths recovering well-preserved clockwork chariots of precursors from Eldheitaed vaults and even finding an entire subterranean lane network for them. Perhaps, what you saw above was a part of this lane at some point? If so, then this vault might eventually lead to even more discoveries! Thinking of the vault itself, you can't help but mentally "promote" it from a standard storage outpost, many of which are scattered near the Ars Ocean's shore, to a settlement: there's no way such an immense, hooked to logistic chains, warehousing capacity would be used for anything less than a settlement. And where's a city, there are administrative archives. You need to find them.
Mildly encouraged, you briefly pause and begin to illustrate your interpretation of the passed floors' layouts. The puffy tail of your quill twitches like a butterfly drawn to the flame as you sketch, and sketch, and... sketch... and...
You observe the slow yet sure propagation of schematics on the whiteboard. Isidor can be messy sometimes, especially when he's over-excited or proportionally exhausted, but never with drafting his ideas. Never!
"Isi?" you say, allowing yourself to pass the threshold of his little workshop, "Isi, why haven't you joined us for dinner? Margaret made your favorite Eastshire pastries, and I'd let you know your absence did a number on her mood and confidence." You explain yourself while passing by the tables filled with brass spare parts, blueprints, and notes to one side and the tall windows separating you from the rainy Soltsveig weather to the other. The black-haired boy does not respond to your query, continuing to scribble after a short pause, albeit now with a guilty look glued to his face.
"Come now, Isidor," you speak gently, stopping your thread behind the back of your precious younger brother not to be overbearing, "Is it because of your today's outing with Atterberry's girl?" You know it must be it, but give your little sibling some breathing room.
For a moment, the scribbling stops for a few lengthy heartbeats. You observe the tiny, short-lived tilt of your brother's nape: he is struggling to either spill the beans or keep it all to himself, foolishly thinking you - for the first time ever - would fail to decypher his attempts to ward you from his problems. Soon, the scribbling continues, but you can't overlook the uncertainty and twitches in his hand's motions. He's at his limit.
"Isi... you know I can see through you, and your silence only makes me more concerned," You flank him and slowly lean against the edge of the closest workbench, giving your brother a concerned look, "Please, if it would make you feel at ease, I promise not to overreact or invite myself to act as your proxy head-on."
The young, dark-haired lad with bright green eyes gives you a sulky look and capitulates to your persistence, putting down the charcoal piece with which he was scribbling his schematics. "Yes, it's because of the... uh, outing with Natalie Atterberry," the chap says, observing your reaction, which was withheld for now. You blink with a lopsided, sadly-confirming grin and let him continue.
"It started out well enough - I zealously stuck to the etiquette you and Margaret taught me and, for some time, it felt like we were on the same wave: she asked me about the ideas and inventions I am pursuing, and I tried to fancy her intelligence and tastes by inquiring of the city's latest events and performances that left her thrilled. About an hour in, I... I really believed we might become friends..."
"But?" you continued for him, narrowing on the reason that left him in such an inadequately sorry state for a bright lad of his disposition.
"But when we arrived at Dunworth Point market..." your brother takes a pause not unlike a steed would make before going for the second lap to brave a daring obstacle, "Two more girls ambushed us, and Natalie broke out from my side to join their clique. I believe one was Whitehall's youngest, while the other I failed to recognize. They... began to loudly demean me... to insult our house, calling me a "Regicidiac spawn," the "bandit in the making," "turncoat rat," and similar hogwash, along with... uh... downplaying your marriage prospects. Then, after making sure every single one of the bypassers had a glimpse of the scene, they started away wherever they pleased with a wild gaggle."
"I... I'm afraid I... failed to live up to the promise given to Sir Randolf and escort his daughter back." The lad finishes, trying to hide his hurt behind self-deprecating humor.
"...Duplicitous viper!" you finally comment, shocked - things are worse than you thought, "What woodwork asp accosted Randolf Atterberry to bore such a fiend?!"
You cover your mouth with your palm and try to simmer down as you promised not to overreact. Still, this is a disturbing case in more ways than one: it's not the first time noble girls pick on Isidor for his lineage, but this is the first time someone from a relatively friendly family does this! You would've never believed it was possible if only Isidor did not go through his predicament. After all: Randolf the elder, unlike most of the other nobles of academic persuasion, had always been on a friendly foot with you, offering both the courtesy of pleasant casual correspondence and mutually-beneficial professional cooperation. The fact his flesh and blood could do something like this throws a shadow on him either as his daughter's father or as your friend. You will have to go through this with him the soonest you encounter him at the Academy.
Your eyes creep up silent and slouched Isidor; when he was younger, and his peers only began to pick on him, he used to take it painfully, sometimes even crying into your shoulder, but now, he looked tired and defeated, with that vibrant, full of vim sparks gone from his emerald eyes. Truth be told, he is a kind-hearted, highly-intelligent young man who aspires to improve everyone's lives through his ingenuity. Still, despite all his merits, the only peers he interacts with are two labor-family boys from the nearby sawmill and Lizzie - the youngest of the few servants working at your family's estate despite its ill reputation.
Fearful of the risk the harsh world might dim his inner light, you stand up and approach him, silently arresting him in a warm embrace. "Don't let it get to you, Isi: perhaps, I'd send her a card at the coming fuge, thanking her for emancipating me from the risk of ever having to free you from her poisonous clutches." As you hug your pride and joy, Isidor buries his face into your neck, not shaking or crying, just hurt.
"It will always be this way, isn't it?" you hear him mumble quietly, and his words stab you like a searing knife, "They will always treat you and me like this, don't they? They will never settle until we're gone, just like Dad."
You try to pick words to discard his notion, to allay his fear, and to instill confidence, but you lack it yourself, and all that you feel is indignation and fury stirring in your heart like a desert whirlwind, causing your blood vessels to drum a savage beat.
Some people wake up to the sharp sensation of falling in their dreams, while others may experience ejection from their delusions by the overpowering pleasure of fear. As for you, the wild drumming of your heart and the angry clench of your fists pulled you back from the dream world. First, you check for the camp candle, as you don't recall turning off the light and saving the fuel. Thankfully, the device was extinguished, meaning Davon was thoughtful enough to curtail your forgetfulness. Then, you look at your steel protector, who notices your awakedness and greets you with his tiny "stepping" morning dance, just like he does. And just as usual, his eccentricity dented your less-than-tranquil mood.
Pull your wits together, Katherine: you've got a metascope to find and an old conspiracy to unveil. You think, reaching into your pocket for another "tranquilizer." A moment later, you wind up the spring of a music locket adorned with glow stones and moving engravings of your hometown's spires, Yorvic's crest, and outlines of Isidor, yourself, and your dad. It was one of Isidor's first trinkets, which he gifted to you on your 25th birthday. Ever since then, you held it as a treasure and used it whenever you needed to calm yourself. And same as amid the social travails of your home country, its soothing effect brings you back the sense of clarity in these long-dead halls. Finally, you exhale, hide it close to your heart, and pack your humble camp inventory, strapping the articles to Davon's back.
But as you ride out your living portative siege weapon, a new surprise awaits you, sticking out of the closest to your overnight cell rot pile. You halt Davon and watch down at the torn apart creature, terribly reminding a gigantic chitinous centipede. Were... they always there? Did Dave butcher one of them while you were sleeping? It's blood still looked fresh, so you murmur to your warden: "Is... this your doing?"
In reply, the steel hull shakes to the sides in rejection, albeit you don't find it convincing. The "Do you know that I know that you're lying, right?" question dances on your tongue, but you don't voice it. Instead, you quickly glance at your automaton, noticing a few new minor dents on its plating.
"You didn't sustain much punishment, didn't you?" In response, the hull shakes sideways again, de-facto blowing up the prior statement of unawareness. You shake your head, simultaneously endeared by how watchful your bodyguard is and, at the same time, bemused by his occasional goofiness.
Still, you are in a bit of a pickle: you suspect there are two routes to other levels, but you have zero ideas of where they would lead and what you would find there... or perhaps what would find you there.
Proceed via:
[] The corridor in which you heard echoes of water splashes
[] The section where you sensed faint air currents.
