In Velkynvelve, where spiders dwell,
And darkness seems innate,
The hearts of men and women swell
with fear that sours to hate,
Four comrades slumber restless,
They are not of this place.
Pursuing glory, gold or God,
Down paths un-trod they pace.
A foot at the door, The Druid saw
“Ah, a dream”, he thought,
But charcoal skin dream’t Duma not
As a yell in his throat caught.
Rousing those asleep beside,
Asbjorn the Unseen and Yokgu,
while Zastri rubs his bleary eyes
To the door Duma soft shuffles
No waiting hordes, does Duma see,
As through a crack he peeps,
Nor the prowler turned to flee,
But the amiable slave inkeep!
“Inside! Quick, and quietly!”,
snaps Duma at the dwarf.
“Speak now, what of that drow out there?
You surely know such treachery’s fair
to earn ones head sliced off!”
“Indeed, I saw the drow” spat the dwarf,
“I was passing on my rounds,
But listen close: you know me not!
you may think all that’s here is rot,
but righteous flames burn brightest,
while darkness is abounds”
Glances bounce between the four,
stuck silent by his claim,
as honest merchants weighing gold,
his heart they weighed the same
Eyes and faces softening,
as seeing now a friend,
and from that view, they saw anew,
the means toward their end.
“Tell us, what do we call you sir?
and forgive the thoughtless slight,
I see your flame, and feel the same
if kindled through this place of pain
could set it all alight!”
“My name is Dig” said Dig the Dwarf,
“These are dangerous words you speak,
I’ll bandy here no longer;
’tis a slave revolt you seek?”
gaze steady, still
The walls drank in the mood,
Dig rolled his tongue on moistening cheeks