The Weary Warriors: Histories of Resignation and Rally

Chapter 11: Alone With Everyone

110 Mo 24

There is nothing to do but hope and be patient. We have two stilt houses with barely enough space to accomodate all dwarves and animals, and flooded huts holding our supplies on their rooves. I've counted inventory twice: This should be enough to survive the deluge and restock in spring.

110 Op 01

There is nothing to do but tell old stories and repeat prayers. For the first time in at least one year, I find myself truly bored. At least the elven toys help the children stay occupied. Îgboth and Išül don't seem to play nice with each other, but Detam can put up with either.

110 Op 08

The weather wears us down. By now, almost everyone has caught a cold. Tosirid, Čogon and Išül are down with a fever. Luckily we have no shortage of drinkable water. Üsen confessed she is a doctor for injuries, not disease, and thus cannot help them any more than the rest of us can.

Båb and Üsen grew up in the valley. She was a digger until she found her calling after a mound collapse. The pair moved to the town Moblab to help those humans recover from harpy attacks, and stayed for a few years. Detam was born there.

Unsurprisingly, they decided not to raise their child in a place so dangerous, and that she should grow up among dwarves. Hearing of a new successful settlement, one lacking medical dwarves, gave them the final push to move. The stories couldn't have prepared them for this natural disaster.

110 Op 15

It is getting perplexingly difficult to keep track of the date. The days meld together and each morning I cannot recall if I made a mark for the day yet.

Sleeping between horses and the sick is exhausting. As Ustir put it, we wouldn't have the energy to do anything even if there were anything to do.

110 Op 26

Much of the past days has been a mere drizzle. Could the rains finally be ceasing? Even so, I fear the obsidian beneath will prevent any drainage, for however far it stretches. Watching the water level slowly lower will be agony. Darikon is in denial about this and insists we discuss it no more. Everyone else found a seat somewhere between expectant and miserable.

I am considering to write as a pastime, but at this point I fear the children would ravage the vellum if they knew where it is. They have already annihilated the toys and threaten to dismantle houses if we cannot entertain them. We can hardly entertain ourselves anymore!

110 Ob 08

Asmël snapped. Båb has been lazily drumming a barrel like an improvised instrument until Asmël threw it out into the blue. I told him to "cut it out", to which he replied "Gladly! Ustir, toss me the axe!" He was probably just setting up a joke, but Ustir mumbled a cautious "uh nu-uh". She looked scared, and Asmël must've noticed, because he dropped the topic.

But he was still riled up, so he turned on his heels and proposed a ban on unskilled music-making, with no shortage of vulgarity. Tosirid began a response but derailed and babbled to herself. Darikon joked that "Asmël just wants to keep all the music to himself." I saw a glimmer of truth in that, and called him out for making up rules that don't apply to himself. Darikon pulled back, not wanting to be involved in an argument. His wife Mattöl did the opposite. "Bromek can sing, too! Why don't you two brawl it out? Whoever has a working windpipe gets the right to music." She seemed eager to throw some punches. I was halfway with her on this, despite my usual self.

Rabîl came from the other house and told us to "Calm down. Is anybody hurt?" Only then I noticed Üsen sobbing in Båb's arms, and Tosirid's nervous twitching. My memory fails me. Apparently I repeatedly apologised until Ustir set me down.

The Weary Warriors should not be fighting each other. How much longer must we hold out?