Oathsworn: Into the Deepwood - Short Story Submission

The witch light is upon us so be wary, be wise. 
Today is the day of foul chance and ill omen. 
Where malefic forces are in the ascendant 
and the Deepwood quivers with anticipation.

Kickstarter 

Pot's Peace, Oathsworn and welcome back to The Art of Caesura

Last week I introduced you to Oathsworn: Into the Deepwood, my latest Kickstarter obsession. Since then the Kickstarter has successfully funded, unlocking all of its stretch goals and looking to make for a very exciting December 2020! 

I mentioned last week that Shadowborne Games (the developers of Oathsworn) ran a short story competition during the campaign. I was very lucky to have my story featured during the campaign (you can check it out in it's "published" format here). It did receive minor censors, so I though I would share it in it's original glory here.

Streets of Verum - Credit: Shadowborne Games

I gave a rundown of the lore in last week's post, but here's a quick primer to help you get the most out of my story. The monotheistic god in this setting is called "Pot" and a common greeting is "Pot's Peace". A motto of the Oathsworn, who protect the Wire-Road between cities through the Deepwood is "Keep one hand on the wire, and the other on your blades". I think you'll pick up the rest of it as you go along. Enjoy!

Map of Bastone - Credit: Shadowborne Games

Gone to Pot

“Pot’s Piss, ‘Oathsworn!’ ” scoffed Cáel as he lumbered into the mouth of the mine. He was met by grunts and nods of greeting from the men, as hard and filthy as himself, who squatted around a sputtering fire, waiting to start the day’s toil.

“Now lads,” the foreman continued, “I’ve had word that His Highness, The Most Flatulent, Baggy Bottomed Davenish himself is ‘pleased with our progress.’ ” He made an effeminate flourish with his hand and raised an eyebrow, “ – ought to be pleased, the tosspot, the amount of iron we’re heaving from the earth’s constipated bowels on his behalf.” There were grumbles of agreement.

A hint of concern crept into Cáel’s jovial tone, belying his outward bluster, and exposing a whiff of the comradery these men of drudgery felt for each other.

“But mind, you lot on the western vein, we’re beginning to mine under the forest’s borders, and you don’t need me to tell you that The Deepwood does not suffer pilferers lightly. Spare a thought for young Garron, torn to tatters by lashroots not a fortnight past.” Cáel’s rocky features suddenly lit as he leered, “Leaving his pretty young wife all alone, and without child!” This last was met with whistles and catcalls from the men.

With one hand, Cáel grabbed the iron wall-mounted guidewire which lead down the dark throat and into the belly of the mine.

“Right lads, keep one hand on the wire –”

“ – And the other on your blades!” the miners all roared in unison, each with a filthy hand in a lewd gesture down the front of their trousers.

As they hurried through the tunnels, the warm glow of their lanterns only underscored the brutal surrounds, casting sharp shadows on the stone floor, walls, and low ceiling. Their wide eyes, catching the lantern-light, gleamed against their grimy faces, giving them the form of a pack of hunched thornhounds. Beads of sweat hit the stone floor and formed drool-like pools as they were swallowed into the darkness of the Underways.

Knowing the mines like the snaking scars on the back of his hand, Cáel rounded another twisting corner until he reached some of the men working on the western vein. Three brawny miners hacked at the stone face while two more cleared the debris from around their feet into buckets. Cáel was proud of their efficiency.

“Come on, hitch up your britches ladies! The lads at the northern face have dragged twice as many pebbles from the earth’s arse!”

But as Cáel drew closer to the men at the rockface, he heard a low rumbling.

“Here, how long’s the stone been grumbling, eh?”

“A turn o’the glass,” bellowed Macdara, one of the miners, over the din. “S’just an Underway river. And let me tell you, once we reach her, I shall be supping and bathing in her moist–”

“Quiet you fool!” Cáel’s urgent bark caught them all off guard.

Aver dropped his pick and it clattered against the raw rock and onto the stone ground. The men paused in their assault on the rockface, and as Aver stooped to retrieve his fallen pick, they all watched in horror as it began to dance and jitter against the stone floor. The rumbling crescendoed and Macdara placed a burly hand upon the bare rockface. Rather than the firm, impassive stone that he had been hacking into for much of his life, he felt something alive. More than just a rumble, their whole world was trembling.

Reading the man’s stricken expression, Cáel hurried in, pulling the men out before him.

“Run! Pot save us, the whole place is coming down!”

As the men began to run, the rock exploded behind them and a sea of hound-sized rats burst from the black rift. Terrible though they were, they were mere harbingers for what was to come.

It was a lot of fun writing that piece, and I hope you enjoyed reading it! Have a great weekend, and I'll see you next week on The Art of Caesura!


Reading: Machines Like Me - Ian McEwan
Listening: Here Comes Your Man - Pixies


Next Week:

In contrast, goblins...