Kittens in the Walls
By James Phillipson
Disclaimer: I do not own Avernum. This is a fanfiction based on the events of the game Avernum 2. While I try to follow the basic order and storyline of the game most of the plotline and characters are of my own making. I noticed that there isn't any fanfiction on this site for this particular game which is understandable, I suppose, since it was a relatively small scale game from several years back created by SpidWeb. I always thought that their storyline could be expanded to create a good story so here is a short story that makes up the beginning of the game. I hope you all enjoy and please review.
Soft footfalls and ragged breathing broke the near complete silence in the cavern as the line of figures made their way steadily onward. Occasionally, one of them would trip on a rock in the dim lighting and curse before continuing onward. The only light in the cave came from spots of glowing green lichen growing on the moist walls. The members of the small patrol were used to the dim lighting, but the shadows occasionally played tricks on the eyes, seemingly reaching out and snagging the foot of the unwary passerby. Nothing new to any of them. A wary eye is a necessary trait for someone to survive in Avernum.
Avernum. The prison of the unwanted. Miles upon miles of underground tunnels and caverns formed the dump for people unwanted on the surface. The Empire, which had had nearly uncontested rule of the surface for decades, had been sending it's miscreants, malcontents, and the generally ill thought of down to the underworld for years.
But where one story ends another begins. The exiles began to band together, and within a few years the nation of Avernum was formed. A nation of desperate people who came together to survive in the tunnels had matured into a strong country of hardy, resourceful folk. A nation borne of blood, magic, and war, Avernum has from its' founding relied heavily upon its' warriors and magi. Thus we return to the ragged band making their way through a cave in Avernum's northern tunnels.
A ways ahead of the patrol one man moved more quietly, scanning the cavern with a practiced eye. Dressed in worn leather armor and a cloak that had seen better days he carried a long sword at his hip, a quiver of arrows strapped to his back, and a bow in his hands. His left hand was covered in a leather gauntlet, the knuckles reinforced with a strip of serrated iron. He was young, in his mid twenties, with a mess of dark brown hair on his head and a short beard. His skin was pale, only the barest trace of color left to it. His body was lean, hardened by a lifetime of wandering through the dark caverns. He moved with a practiced grace, careful to disturb nothing as he scouted ahead of the others.
Suddenly he froze, his entire body going rigid. His eyes scanned the cave around him. Satisfied that there wasn't anything immediately trying to eat him, he relaxed slightly, kneeling down to inspect what had startled him. A soft indentation in the dirt on the cave floor, so faint he'd only barely spotted it. Hearing a noise he again tensed and reached for the quiver on his back. However, seeing the figure that had come up behind him he relaxed and let his hand fall back to his side.
"You scared the shit out of me," he muttered to the newcomer.
"Getsss easssier every day," replied the figure, it's voice coming out in a hiss.
"All the mildew must have stunk so much I didn't notice your stench."
"Sssassy today Markham. What did you sssee?"
Markham gestured to the print, obviously no man's as it wasn't booted, but instead looked like the padded paw of something feline. After studying it for a moment his companion hissed quietly.
"Nephilim," he muttered, his eyes following Markham's, studying the surrounding rock formations. Markham then said, "That was my thinking. I don't know any friendly ones at the fort so probably one of the savages. Looks like it came out of the tunnels to the east."
His companion's eyes followed the faintly discernible trail of tracks toward a series of tunnels at the east end of the cave. His tongue flicked out briefly as he studied the trail.
"I can tassste them. No more than a few hoursss ago. We ssshould move on."
"Afraid of some kittens Scratch?" Markham teased with a grin.
"Jussst don't want them sspitting my fragile pink comanionsss," Scratch retorted.
Markham knew his friend wasn't afraid of a fight. At nearly six and a half feet tall Scratch was upwards of two hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle and scales. The scales were because he was one of the Slitherkai, the lizard men. Natives of the caves, the lizard men had a troubled history with the men of Avernum. During the nation's early days most of the Slitherkai tribes had waged a fierce war with the young country which only ended when a group of Avernum's warriors killed the great Slith Warlord Sssss-Thsss and subsequently scattered the savage Slitherkai. Scratch was a native of the Slith village of Gnass however, which had been peaceful with Avernum since it's founding. Though often looked on with some suspicion the tribe was accepted, grudgingly, as allies of the human nation.
Scratch's gaze flicked back to Markham, "How many?"
"Hard to tell. Looks like more than one but I'm guessing they walked single file to hide their numbers."
"Sssure your jussst not getting sslopy?"
"Screw you lizard."
"What's the hold up here?"
The two companions looked back to see the newcomer who was coming noisily up the narrow trail and Scratch hissed something in Slith that Markham knew to be a pretty colorful curse. Clad in a coat of mail underneath an iron breastplate, dirty and scratched from the long patrol, Sergeant Horn cut an imposing figure. Standing just over five and a half feet the man was covered in muscle and scars that spoke of a lifetime of fighting in the dark caves. Slung over his back, he carried his shield with practiced ease and his gauntleted hand rested on the pommel of the broadsword at his side like it had been born there.
"I said what's the damned holdup?" the sergeant barked.
Markham winced at the loud noise, his eyes darting once again around the cavern to make sure the racket had attracted no unwanted visitors. Behind the sergeant the rest of the patrol came wearily on. Men silently put one foot in front of the other. Each one fought a constant battle against the urge to just watch the ground and trudge wearily on. Instead, they made an effort to watch the caves around them. Carelessness is death in Avernum.
Returning his gaze to Sergeant Horn, Markham tried to fill him in.
"Tracks Sergeant. Looks like a Nephilim war party coming out of the eastern tunnels."
Armor clinking, Horn bent down to examine the tracks that Markham indicated. Taking it in at a glance he scanned the rest of the cavern casually before he spoke again.
"What makes you think it's a war party Pup?"
"They're traveling in single file Sergeant. Nephilim only do that when they're trying to hide their numbers. And if they're trying to hide their numbers I'm guessing they're up to something."
"Not likely," Horn muttered. "They generally don't send their fighters out to cause trouble. They know we're here and that we'd have to burn them out if they started acting up." With that he stood back up, stretching his armored shoulders. "It's probably just a couple of the hunters wandering a little farther than usual."
"Nephilim usssually ssstick to their own hunting grounds unlesss they're raiding. We ssshould follow the trail a waysss to make sure Sssergeant," Scratch said, his reptilian eyes searching the prints suspiciously, catching a wry glance from Markham at his sudden change in interest.
"When I want the opinion of a snake I'll ask for it," Horn snapped. "We're already overdue at the fort and there's nothing north of Draco the cat's could cause serious trouble with anyway. Fall back in. Move!"
Markham and Scratch glanced at each other and the Slith's tongue flicked out in annoyance. Knowing that the only thing that waited for them if they pressed further was yelling, sweat, and an unholy amount of extra exercise they reluctantly moved back into line. Markham scouted ahead of the patrol and Scratch rejoined the main body, his great two tined spear resting on his shoulder.
As the group moved further toward Fort Ganrick Markham's eyes involuntarily flickered back toward where they'd found the prints and he tried to lose the uneasy feeling growing in his gut.