Underrealm

L’yophin

What is she?

His thoughts hung in the air of the gentle cavern breeze.

He clipped the pale leaves from a budding tuber, tending to his garden for his chores. He placed the remnants in a silk bag, stuffing it full. Wake was upon him, the cavern ceiling dimmed and the glowshrooms went dormant. He had little idea how time was perceived under the crust of the planet he occupied. Gravitational field? Arbitrary internal clocks? It did little good to ponder; it was simply the way of the Underrealm.

A world beneath a world.

Up above was warm sand, gorgeous oases, and a small tribe of humanity to be avoided. Down here was something beyond expectations. Magic and technology, living in separate factions, but existing together all the same.

Faekind. The most mysterious denizens of the Underrealm. Imbued with magic that he had no comprehension of. He had seen glimpse of them, but they mostly kept to themselves. What he’d do for a hogboon...

Proturan. The most populous group of inhabitants and the most recent. Advanced technology and trading were their fortes. They were also the most diverse, with no two baeidae, as they were called, looking quite alike.

And now the Underrealm had a new guest. At least a partial guest. It was difficult to say as she was only a head. How she became stuck in that mineshaft was a question he may never have answered. Or how long she lay entombed.

But now she had been freed.

He hefted the sack of leaves over his thorax, adding it to the burdens he already carried; some of them were physical.

He gazed at the long line carving through his estate’s borders. His silk and scrap wall. He was currently under siege by Trows. It was a cold engagement, with both sides content to lobbing shots at one another. One of them could cast fire magic, which was bothersome. This mob appeared to be somewhat more clever than the last as they opted to not charge into his sticky silk and entrap themselves.

“And have guns… Mm.”

He absently rubbed at the healed wound. New chitin had already grown, a bare patch surrounded by grey fur. They were cautious after their first two bouts, content to wait for him to leave or lower his guard. A round of shrapnel had struck him when he had sent them packing for the third time since his return. His thread traveled far above his head, trembling at the slightest disturbance along his barrier. If they came, he’d know. And they would soon understand why you left Dugrum spiders alone.

“Mm. Maybe use antimaterial gun...”

He had opted to externally monologue, to better practice with glossolalia, the other mystery he discovered about Sol. The language of heaven and angels, the most common of languages for those outside of this dark world, left to molder in his compiled memories. It had been so long…

He nodded at his small garden. He would harvest soon. He could almost taste the tuber-vodka. L’yophin clasped his front limbs together, rubbing them intently. They weren’t exactly hands and they weren’t exactly feet. They were both. Dugrum appendages. Sensitive, dexterous, and capable of tearing his nearly indestructible thread. Useful in all manners, far more than humans. Not to mention how highly prized silk was for all manners of craft and construction. For a Dugrum spider, it was as common as air. Males and females all produced it, from the eldest to the infant. A species with a built in ability to create and craft with a valuable resource had evolved them. Sympathetic, generous, and crafty traders or skilled crafts-baeidae. Clusters grew in power and influence when society established.

In most cases.

For L’yophin, isolation was paradise. Loneliness was homeliness. And visitors were grumped at to get off his lawn. Friends were a thing of the past. That vessel had come and gone off into eternity. He was finished with clusters. Tending to his estate satisfied him. He had no other desires apart from managing, crafting, and mining. But then an adamantite wrench was thrown into the cogs of his life.

Sol.

She appeared curious, innocent, and wounded. While she appeared amnesiac, his theory was being stuck underground for so long had broken her. There was definitely more to her than met the eye. But he had only theories.

“Perhaps locked… Or latent. Power saving…”

And now he was hooked. An Anform made of adamantite, a rare and extremely difficult resource to procure and smelt, used as a chassis like it was common steel for her. Whoever made her was a master of their craft. Or perhaps beyond.

“What is she?”

He mumbled and muttered as he began his journey to the Dekapillars. They subsisted off the mosslands, but tuber leaves were precious treats. He caught sight of the large herd in the distance, meandering their way around. He had plenty of time to idle.

He had found in his little limbs several sets of Dekapillar eggs which he hatched and grew. He sat on the nearby hill, waiting for them to arrive. It’d be some time. He unslung his packs, pulling free the large steel pipe. He undid the cloth around the bowl and sorted through the material. He plucked a tuft of stuckle weed, gently thumbing it into the chamber. He tamped it down, using a small flaming wick to light it. He fed the pipe through his many limbs to his mandibles, drawing from his imbiber and enkindling the flame. The mass of long bodies began their ponderous ascent, stopping every few moments to graze on moss. He blew a smoke ring, staring off as it gently caught the breeze, vanishing into the dark sky. He felt in his hearts and mind a sudden feeling, like a thread that suddenly snapped, he gazed out onto his land, the all too familiar feeling sinking its cold claws into his hearts. The illusion vanished like so much haze from his pipe.

Was life really always so empty?

The thought hit him. After all that he had been through, all of the adventures and dangers he survived. He was alone. Existing for the sake of it. An empty continuance filled only with his thoughts and dulling passions.

How long?

He had kept track of time somewhere inside his compartmental mind. Somewhere the truth lay, hidden from the aching hearts that time forgot to heal. He drew from the pipe, letting the smoke lazily escape his mandibles, surrounding himself in a cloud, equal parts haze and sadness. His existence had been filled with the enjoyment of other baeidae, other beings. And now Sol reignited a fire that had long since died with his race.

“S’yliska…”

The name raked his hearts, uncovering the scabbed wounds. The memory all but surfaced as he drew from his pipe, wishing to forget, but never able to find closure. Sol had reopened his old heartbreak. He tamped the memory back down like so much stuckle weed before it spilled over.

“S’yliska- Please forgive me.”

He felt the dripping of the rain running down his cheeks. The moisture fall was always sneaking up on him. He pulled deeply from the pipe, holding his breath as the stuckle weed numbed him. The ale barely phased him anymore. With the new tuber-vodka perhaps…

“Should have been me.”

His curse rang hollow. She was gone and he had lived. He would burn it all down just to see her. Just one more time. He closed his eyes, waiting to wake up, wishing to end this dream and see her once again. He opened his eyes, blinking away the droplets and haze. That incorrigible smoke. Always getting in his eyes. He wiped at the irritation, viewing the dekapillar procession as the first crested the hill. He laid the pipe down, grasping the sack of pruned leaves, giving it a routine shake. The herd sped up, riled by his familiar ritual. He stood, fetching into the bag and gripping a handful. The first arrived, grunting excitedly for its treat. He placed it near its waiting mouth, its mandibles grasping gently yet intently for the food. The cloud of smoke began to dissipate, leaving a thin trail from his seated pipe. They waited in line for their turn.

He always appreciated their politeness.

One lazily headbutt him, pushing him back as it wrestled for head pats.

And he appreciated their mischief.

He worked through each Dekapillar, giving all the attention they needed. He rubbed the water from his eyes. The tuber leafs were always irritating his sinuses. As soon as the bag emptied it signalled to the rest that it was time to roam the estate once again. One stayed. His most precious. It was covered in grey fur, eyes almost hidden behind the soft covering. It curled around him, as if willing him to sit. Usually Phela was in her own pen, but many times she got lonely and he let her enjoy grazing with the others. He sat down, gripping his pipe as he leaned back into her mass of wool. He pulled from it, letting the smoke ring waft into the darkness.

“Phela. What do with Sol?”

There was a quiet grunt from the Dekapillar, which could have meant anything. Using a spare limb, he lightly combed through her hair, his eyes staring off in different directions.

“Didn’t used to hurt. Existence- that is.”

He sighed, taking a pull from the pipe.

“Remember exploring with her. Was much wiser. A better baiedae than I. Only dream of being like her.”

Phela grunted, trembling through her hide as he found her ticklish spot.

“Help Sol?”

Another grunt.

“Verywell. Would be what S’yliska wanted.”

Maybe life didn’t have to be so isolated. Maybe he could enjoy it with someone again. Maybe Sol was the key to healing. Or maybe he could never forget and with that, ever find peace.

“S’yliska…”

The name pricked at his hearts. He rubbed at the forming droplets in his eyes. The glare from the glowshrooms had caught his eight eyes just right. Sometimes he was tempted to go topside, leaving everything behind as he enjoyed the sand and sun up above. Even if he were caught and executed by humans, it’d be worth seeing the suns that he and S’yliska had gazed at together one last time.

Live.

That one word came to him. A tiny subtle thread in the dark.

L’yophin. Live.

Sometimes if he listened hard he’d hear her. Or at least he thought so. He liked to think she was always with him.

Repair her.

“Who? Sol? Her?”

He couldn’t do it again. Couldn’t befriend someone only to have them torn away. Never again.

That’s not living.

He knew it wasn’t fulfilling to live for himself. Dozens of centuries had told him that much. He couldn’t fool himself anymore. Sol shattered the illusion that his life was to be lived alone.

“Why her? Why now?”

Because it’s time for you to live again.

“How?”

Repair Sol.

“Yes- but how?”

She’s clever.

He drew deeply from the pipe, wafting the surrounding mossy hillside in a haze. Phela shivered at the smoke, feeling its effects. He absently rubbed at his hands, eyes darting to and fro in the darkness.

“Please- come back.”

Silence.

He coughed, spilling out the breath he was holding. He rubbed at his eyes, cursing the stuckle weed. It played havoc with his tear ducts. He sagged, surrounded by Phela’s fur.

He knew what he had to do.

Just some more time.

Maybe he could find redemption in Sol. Maybe if she could live again then so could he. Or maybe he was crazy, driven mad by decades of conflict. He scratched at his throat, wishing the old wound would heal. A bit of shrapnel, lodged too deeply for the Assemblage to extract. Another reminder of his last moments with her. And he was the one that ended her existence. His fault. His doing. It was his mistake that led to her destruction.

He was to blame. A living monument to his shame. Tears without excuse welled up at the condemnation.

A spider wept on a mossy hill.

And an automata awoke.

There was a season for all things. A time for everything.

But today.

Today was the time to live.