A Wrong Kind of Warmth

Truk walked in his kin's chain, their clawed feet dragging through the snow. Each staying close to the other for warmth. Some touched the backs of those before them, as they moved in a line.

The Dungeon had been this way since before even the elders. His forefather’s father spoke of a time when fresh soil filled the lands.

The warmth had fled, the winds howled, the waters froze; now snow and ice dominated. Consuming the life of all.

Every so often, Truk saw a block of ice formed like what was once called a tree. Within it was not one such tree, but bodies. Some were of the Kolmole kin, others of those who don’t belong.

Though it was hard to tell, Kolmole’s weren’t known for their sight before the snow made the light of the ceiling unbearable to look upon.

Before them was a massive black door, engraved with dancing runes embossed with ice.

Lenk, satisfied, slammed his claws against the door several times—the echoing noise, deafening all the Kolmoles in the group.

The door crept open, revealing the mines and the prior crew of Kolmoles that they were to replace.

There were utterings and clicks of what they had found.

So he walked on down into the place where they dug the ice; Just past the walls of ice, he could see inscriptions in languages unknown.

He found the spot he’d started before.

Pressed his claws into the ice, feeling the burn of the cold as his claws tore deep into the frigid material.

It didn’t take long for his claws to hurt; they weren’t meant for digging in something this hard, but dig he did. So did the others; they all had to stop, as their paws started to freeze over.

He clustered with a few others; each one of them had ice caked under their claws. They used an item taken from one who did not belong. It was warm, yet produced no smoke like the fires of home.

Fires down here brought the bad air and death.

Warmth pricked at his paws; his claws twitched. He scraped his paws against his fur, shaking off melt.

Then back to the dig.

Then an echoing snort roared through the tunnels, causing all Kolmoles to look down the center tunnel. Another hit just as Turk had gotten his snout to the corner.

So he followed; it was a call.

To come and examine.

So Turk moved along the tunnels, following the echoes of his kin’s movements. Then he saw it.

They’d dug all the way around a frozen Kolmole, though its fur was… thinner than any Turk had beheld.

It was standing, its arm reaching towards something Turk couldn’t see.

Turk saw blood arcing out from the frozen form, hanging in the air on its own—a killing wound in its gut, which led down to an ice-covered blade.

Others mimicked the frozen Kolmole’s posturing, and others looked at what held the blade.

A prone form, one of the surface things that occasionally came. It lay, its arm holding the blade, still, frozen.

The form’s arm curled tight around its chest, stiff.

His claws moved toward the glimmer before he understood why, a thing the surface dweller had. It shimmered, lines of icy runes dancing.

Someone hit the body, causing the remaining ice to shatter, the thing to clatter away. The body slammed into the far ice wall.

Some cheered at the sound of old metal clanging against ice. Turk’s eyes were locked on the cup.

His body moved towards it till a chime rang out. It rang through the halls of ice.

Truk had not heard the sound before; it was odd. Like a Kolmole hatchling trying to utter its first.

Then Turk looked up as silence fell and turned toward the tunnel entrance.

An ethereal blue light reflected off the walls as the chimes kept ringing.

Louder, brighter.

A new smell flooded the chamber of ice.

The sharp smell of metal overwhelmed all other smells. It was wrong, even Turk knew so.

Lenk waddled forth to the entrance. He squakled at a shape. Telling it to leave.

Then raised his claw to strike the shadowy form. A flash of movement, Lenk froze in place, and the shape was past.

Blue light filled the room as it grew brighter. Yet the form of it seemed to drink the light, the sound of chimes echoing.

The form moved slowly, intently; it walked like a surface dweller—every step punctuated by those chimes singing.

Another Kolmole moved to block its path; the blade glinted, moved. That Kolmole froze in place, blood arcing before suddenly stopping.

Others charged, and the blade danced through; the thing didn’t hesitate. It moved onward without slowing, the blue flame at its side slowly growing.

He shrank back from the shape.

He watched as it moved through the now statues of what had once been his chain, his people.

The thing stopped, glancing at Truk for a moment before tipping its head and then continuing.

It stopped before the dead surface thing and took a knee. Lifted its lantern, and its roaring blue flame.

A blue spark erupted from it, landing on the frozen body, and the body was gone. The shadow thing stood once more and started to walk out. Seeming to flow through the Kolmole statues that littered the room.

It had not struck him. He had not moved.

Truk stepped forward once the light had faded. He was the only one left breathing.

His eyes caught a glitter once more.

The warmth pulled at him; his arm moved.

His claws wrapped around it and lifted it.

Something glinted within it. That cold blue liquid spilled out, the runes on its surface flared to life.

He felt the cold burn in his hands.

His claws would not open.

Then he felt it.

He felt his blood turning to ice, his claws becoming encased in it. It slowly worked its way up his body, pain, chilling cold, inevitable.

Turk let out a scream as the cold took him.