Red skies and grey soil, part 1

 Oily drops came down from the badly mended pipes above. The dark hall was too great for his greasy candle to reach its furthest depths, and revealed piping as far as the light carried. A wretched sludge of grease and gritty mud coated the otherwise flat floor, and his bare feet found no cheer in walking through it. The sulfuric stench of industrial oils and decay filled his sensitive nostrils, making his journey all the less enjoyable.

These were the endless tunnels below the world. The Ettins that posed to maintain them were like mice in a cheese, or worms in an apple. 

By his estimate, he would be below the receding sea, the unbelievable mudflats where witchery was as common as labour, and the water came and disappeared twice a day. He heard the sucking and washing of a deluge of filth through the pipes, and knew the water must have been rising then. 

His guess at the land's nature was stronger now, presumably these pipes transported waste water from everywhere for the waste to wash out on the mudflats, leaving cleaner water to be reused again.

He looked up at the tubes again. These great hollows of faltering technology held little love for him, but he had to admit that it was in a strange way comforting. The echoïng strangeness, the loneliness, the knowledge that everything there was at least in a way fixable, if one would to have the right tools and materials.

Fixable. He had left things behind that were probably stíll fixable too, despite the trust he had bruised, and the heart he had downright broken. Had he not left like he had, would he have started his own tribe by now? Mollie would have laid her first egg by this time, a child he was sure Selwin would raise.

Sosir bit his tongue. Tears would inevitably come, he preferred them to spring from real pain rather than from the heart.

He continued to walk. It was the one thing he had done since his youth, and the one thing that would invariably lead him to trouble time and time again. 

He passed some of the mottled cleaner ettins, scooping and bushing at the filth in a sissiphean attempt at keeping the place clean. Their instincts were even more one sided than those of other ettins, often they would seem even incapable of noticing anything but their work unless there was direct danger. Only a few yards beyond the floor was once again grimy. 

The flame from his candle fluttered in the moist draft, but it held well when he sheltered it a little. He passed massive pump installations, all larger than the eighthouse he had recently built and abandoned. The machines huffed and squealed with despair and disrepair. The gadget ettins that were tasked with maintenance were spread thin, and clearly without a focused leadership.

The network of pumps, piping, boilers and filters was immense. The sheer size overwhelmed him, but he kept on his feet. 

He kept walking, stubbornly, refusing to admit he had his head turned inwards on his sorrows, rather than straight ahead on his shoulders.

Before long, he stared down through a window into space. A wide field of stars and the twisted clouds of eternity spread out below him. He could in no way deny that he was utterly lost. He cursed, loudly. Perhaps once he would have held his volume, but there was none to hear him and neither courtesy nor survival required him to be unheard now.

Not even footsteps on the thick spaceglass could betray a route, for the unpleasantly cool tunnel had been meticulously cleaned. He was forced to navigate on guesswork, and sometimes the echoing hint of distant voices. Not all ettin sized doors could be opened by the tricks he had picked up along his journey, and this matter turned his search for a way up into a labyrinthine snipe hunt, and a hopeless one at that.

Tired, but unwilling to sleep on the almost icy floor, Sosir blessed once again his fur, keeping him warm enough to drive himself on. The realisation he had again been inside his head more than out of it again snapped him back to reality again. His feet were treading dust.

Beneath his feet, hiding the stars and fainting the light from them was a layer of fine dust. It made the dim starlight in the hallway even softer. The microscopically fine particles danced around his feet in a static waltz. Guessing that a place far enough removed for the ettins to fully abandon it would likely have little use to him, curiosity and aimlessness yet spurred him on.

A glass dome bulged out at the stars beneath him. A solid ettistone walkway bridged the large gap to its center, where walkways fanned out like spokes on a wheel. With every step the dust blew out like clouds, the sounds echoing into the distance of the dome. Round walkways encircled the intersection, and in the heart of the immense dome a raised dais with a somewhat triangular pedestal upon it could be seen. The shape and the nature of the room reminded him of past experiences, and somewhat amused he walked up to the dais.

On the platforms around the hall he passed simple metal stools facing unlit screens. Seated there, covered in icy cold dust, were dessicated remains that had simply never left their post.

He shivered a little, and he knew the cold had little to do with it.

He reached the dais. It would have been a little high for an ettin, perhaps, but he could sit on it comfortably after swiping the dust off.

The head of the machine creature rested besides him on the dais, not at all supported by its long metal neck. The metal was covered in dust, and almost black in color, but Sosir recognised the metal adder. Its triangular head and bug-eyes were quite like those of the other two mechanical serpents he had met before. The eyes shew him a static fizzing, as if a violent snowstorm filled the glassy orbs.

There Sosir rested for a while. The dragon slept a slumber unending, but he still heard the rush and pulse of the vile black petrichor running inside it. It was still alive, but had somehow forgotten to wake up.

After the rest and a drink he felt invigorated. He decided to try another walkway, expecting little but knowing he could easily backtrack in the dust. He left the comatose dragon on its biomechanical perch and chose a random direction. He passed more of the dried husks as he moved and still chose not to look at them directly, leaving them to remain perhaps forever in the ashy dry and frigid air.

Rather than a door or gateway, the way ended in a nook in the wall, filled by some uncommon machinery with a platform in it. Instinctively he knew it to be different from most machinery, but his instincts gave him no more than that.

Something about it enticed him, however, and he stepped on the platform.

He was instantly hit with a sensation of falling, of utter lack of direction, and a feeling of being watched. Before the link to his time in the swirling blue space between portals could even hit him: it had ended. He stood upside down on his head and it did hurt.

Rolling clumsily right side up, he felt that the air was a little warmer than when he had stepped on the platform. His fur fizzled with static electricity, and his ears were ringing.

 

He was no longer where he had started. The cold and dark observatory of stars and walkways had gone, in its place a cramped and crumpling stone room had appeared. Warm beams of morning light streamed in through the windows and small debris and leaves had piled up in the corners. His tensed muscles relaxed a bit, he took a deep breath as the effects of his instant journey wore off and stepped out of the machine. 

He looked around the room, the windows were high up, the door opening filled halfway with grey soil and char. He had no desire for another instant trip back to the cool but barren observatory; he was as lost here as he was back there. 

He climbed up the narrow slope through the door. The caustic gray clay reeked of ash and smoke, but felt moist and sticky as he creeped and dug through it. He emerged above the ground covered in soil but satisfied to see the sky once more. 

The ring that was the world still rose above him in the sky, showing him he was perhaps far from his starting point, but still in a world he understood. Somehow the sky and the artificial sun above him were tinted red, and this made it all the more awe-inspiring after his underground travel.

A light rain started. He looked back at the half buried bunker and guessed he could find it again well enough, should the need truly arise.

He walked on, steadily trampling the tall yellow grass. The trees were scraggly, and their torched bark spoke interesting wordless stories. Their resinous smells reminded him of home, the endless wields of proud pines. Their patched and miserable appearance was however enough to break the spell. 

The dry needles and grass were barely affected by the rain as the droplets rolled off their surface. Frequently he came upon a type of large succulent, juicy orange growths protruding from its leaves. 

The rain was constant. Though the water was welcome its taste was bitter and smokey, and he dared not drink it. He wandered the land as he had done before. He enjoyed the strangeness, finding it refreshing but not utterly alien. He thrived in this sole survival, dining on the eggs of large birds, pestering plump salamanders and collecting a boon of food from the almost otherworldly flora. 

The lightly rolling land was to his liking, despite the undrinkable water. 

One night the rain abated. It took a while before he noticed, settled under a tree he had been quite comfortable. Perhaps he would not have noticed at all, were it not that he had heard distant voices. Curious about the inhabitants of the land he had crawled out of his nightly hiding place and spied on the strangers. 

The dim light revealed large, heavy set creatures. Larger than a Norn, equipped with horns on their head and snout, and a thick and leather-like hide. The appearance of the beasts was fearsome enough, but their raw and unsettling stench revealed them to be another breed of Grendels.

Sosir scowled. His kin had a natural dislike for them, and none of his past experiences with them had been pleasant. He was sure the pair were not the only ones around, as whenever there was opportunity for mischief to be found the foul creatures would follow.

He could not tell if their skin looked gray because of the dim light, the ashy mud or if it was their natural tint. 

They were on the move, perhaps to a gathering, or merely to a feeding ground. The way they trampled the oily succulents and their fatty growths showed how little regard they had for food, perhaps they had plenty where they were going.

He went back to his resting place under the tree, and decided he would figure those questions out in the morning.

Morning

The morning came. The pale blue glow of the night was replaced by the reddish glow of the artificial sun though the smog saturated sky. The air was still damp as he set out to track the gray devils. He loathed to be near them, but to steer clear of them he would need to know where they were.

He walked through the wood of scraggly larches, the orange and yellow tones having become a familiar sight, and the land known.

He had passed the large trunk, one he had passed twice in the days before. He had not thought much of the scorched and branchless pole before, but his eye randomly met a marking on it. A marking he followed, and which flowed into more intricate carvings as it winded higher and higher along the pole.

The realisation that the pole was a carven totem shook him a little, as he felt he should have noticed it. Scanning the area he noticed another pole along what he had thought to be a slim animal trail. 

A track of trails and poles led him on for an hour at most, and ended at an open place of stone mounds encircled by fields of fruit bearing plants and corn stalks. Somehow, the Nornir on those fields and open space were not at all surprised at his arrival.

The creatures looked bright and stunning. Their orange and yellow fur would have made them stand out like the moon in the night sky, had they lived anywhere else but in this colorful forest. Their camouflage among the dry grasses, yellow needles and orange foliage was perfect. They stood lithe and tall, and Sosir understood their lack of surprise, scouts could have seen him very early on, and must have ran home to report his coming, without him ever seeing them.

The magmas welcomed him. Despite his umber fur and lack of a tail, his nornity was obvious. They took him into the half buried stone mounds, and admitted that they had carved the network of totems. Sosir ate the courteously offered food as they explained the nature of the forest; it would burn soon. It had burned in a cycle of rebirth and fire for as long as the world had been. To them it was a faith and the ultimate veneration, as the fire would always return and bring life after the destruction.

Sosir heard them and understood the perpetual tendency towards dryness of the fauna, the oiliness if the fruits and succulents and the stacks off dry and flammable materials by many of the totems. “You light the fires, do you not? My name is Sosir, and I am glad to learn of all this before the fire comes.”

An uncertain look came over Sosir: “do you know about the course looking grendels out in the woods? I met a pair yesterday, striding through with confidence.”

“Course, gray and lazy, yes we know of them” The elder magma Norn answered. “ usually solitary, but they are active once the fire comes and goes. They worship the ashes, rather than the fire as they wallow in an endless banquet of burnt food and meats. Their thick hide protects them from the flames giving them the first pick.”

Other magma Norns came into the underground dome. It had not looked as great from above, but under it would quite comfortably hold most of the tribe he had seen. They sat in a circle around the elder, gesturing Sosir to join them. Whether his arrival had triggered this meeting, or he had simply arrived at a fortunate time Sosir did not know. 

The elder waited patiently until most of the Nornir were seated, and welcomed them to the meeting of rebirth. He was brought a lit torch, which he placed in a socket in a central pedestal. It appeared to be a symbolic gesture, as if every meeting was accompanied by a central flame. 

“The rain has once again stopped.” The elder continued. “The forest is drying out as we speak, and very soon the fire will be here!”

The tribe appeared cheerful at the prospect, wide smiles and enthusiastic whispers gave that away. Sosir looked around the room. It was furnished with woven rugs, decorated storage jugs and jars, and the dome was painted with cheerful motifs on the inside. Doorways led to the other domes, presumably, and he could imagine one could hold out comfortably in there.

“We will hold one last harvest, then we shall first light the fields and after that the fluttering fires. Sosir shall be assigned with Heikes foraging group.”

Sosir felt overwhelmed with the revelation that they would light the fires, and that he had been volunteered to work for these strangers. He held his words though. When younger he would have been angry, and likely refused, but he had little choice if the forest would soon be a blazing inferno but to join these determined Nornir. Reluctantly he carried the basket along with the others, and they set out into the scraggly forest.

They picked the oily growths he had seen earlier, matchbird eggs and herbs on their trip. The others chattered cheerfully, their packs as heavy as his own, and talked about how they would light the fires. It seemed the fluttering fires were heaps of lightweight flammable materials, stacked around many of the guiding totems in the forest. These had been in preparation since before the last fire, as part of the oily growths they collected now would be used as a foundation for them. The heaps would be lighted on fire, and the rising heat of the stack would take the flames and embers to “flutter” into the air and spread around the already highly flammable forest. 

He felt as if the story was already inspiring his imagination with the irritant smell of smoke, but he realised it was not solely his imagination. His sense of smell, not weakened by growing up in the smog loaded air as his companions had, picked up the warning smells of fire. The others were reluctant to admit it, but when the wind picked up a little and they had followed Sosir up a hill it was undeniable. A yet thin column of smoke arose in the distance, and that could only mean one thing. Sosir suggested the rammer Grendels would perhaps be responsible, but Heike denied it. The grendels never needed to, why would they start now? 

They race to the village as fast as they can still bear the packs. Their stride along the spine of a hillcrest takes them near enough to the column, and Sosir breaks off the group. Slipping away to see what caused the flames.

A trio of grendels carelessly torch the land, their thick hide unfazed by the heat. They seem idiotically cheerful about the land's return to ash and ease. Sosir has seen enough, and sprints back to the township of the Nornir. 

Leaving his pack by the entrance he dived into the main hall. Heike seemed ready to admonish him for sneaking off, but he lets him speak to him and the other leaders. They believe Sosirs account of the pyromaniac grendels. They are not too worried about the fire itself, but the behavior of the grendels is more troubling. Should they keep burning before the rebirth of the forest is complete, or only partially scorch the land, the cycle could be broken. The rains would not drench the land so utterly, and a way of life would be destroyed.

The elder heard them and Sosir, and explained; “Nothing will change now, gatherers.” “The runners will light the fluttering fires. One trio of Grendels with new mistakes will not destroy our ways”

Sosir was already halfway out of the entrance, bearing the symbolic torch. He would light the fires he knew of, but the elders’ judgement on the Grendels he didn’t share. Grendels rarely came up with new ideas, somehow he would need to find the real cause.