I was told there were things here that could still be called… safe.
The word does not mean the same in Deepscar.
It means: unlikely to kill you immediately.
My acquaintance seemed amused when I hesitated.
“Just try it,” he said. “Everyone does, the first time.”
Curiosity, it seems, survives even in places where caution should prevail.
—
The first bowl was placed in front of me without introduction.
Thick. Dark. Slow to move even when stirred.
Rotgut Burrow Stew.
The smell arrived before the taste.
It clung to the air—heavy, damp, something between soil after rain and something left too long beneath it. There was a sharpness beneath it, metallic and sour.
I watched others eat without hesitation.
So I did the same.
Only a small bite.
The texture yielded too easily.
Soft in a way that felt… incomplete.
The taste followed in layers—earth, salt, heat. Then something deeper. Something that did not belong to fresh things.
I did not finish it.
My acquaintance did not comment.
Not until later.
“It’s aged,” he said. “Has to be. Easier to preserve that way.”
A pause.
“Sometimes buried first.”
I did not ask how long.
—
The second was easier to accept.
At least, at first glance.
A thin wrap, crisp along the edges, folded neatly. It resembled something I had eaten above—flatbread with filling.
Shadowskin Wrap.
It broke with a clean sound when I bit into it.
The outer layer crackled.
Inside, the filling was dense, savory, almost satisfying. There was a bitterness that followed, subtle at first, then spreading across the tongue like a quiet numbness.
I almost reached for another bite.
That was when he spoke again.
“They use whatever they have.”
I looked at him.
He shrugged.
“Snake, mostly. When they can get it.”
Another pause.
“When they can’t… they don’t waste.”
He did not elaborate.
He did not need to.
The taste lingered longer than it should have.
—
The drink was offered without asking.
A dark liquid in a chipped wooden bowl.
Veinbleed.
It reflected almost no light.
The first sip was deceptively mild.
Sweet.
Too sweet.
Then it turned.
Sharp. Bitter. Something corrosive at the edges of the throat. It spread warmth slowly, not outward—but inward. As if settling behind the eyes.
The room softened.
Not visually.
But in weight.
Voices blurred at the edges. Movements felt less immediate.
I understood, then, why it was used here.
Not for enjoyment.
But for adjustment.
My acquaintance leaned closer.
“Careful,” he said. “People talk more after that.”
He smiled slightly.
“Not always on purpose.”
I set it down.
—
Food here is not crafted.
It is negotiated.
Every ingredient is a decision made under constraint.
Every taste carries compromise.
Above, meals prepare the body.
Here, they maintain it.
Barely.
—
We remained near the outer sections, as instructed.
Even there, the atmosphere shifted as time passed.
Not louder.
But closer.
A group gathered in a nearby chamber—no light beyond a single dim source. I could not see them clearly, only the outline of bodies seated in a circle.
Whispers moved between them.
One to another.
Then another.
A chain.
It ended abruptly.
A voice—different from the rest—spoke aloud.
There was a pause.
Then the sound of something being placed on stone.
Vault Teeth.
Followed by low laughter.
My acquaintance did not look.
“Whisper Chain,” he said quietly. “Best not to join unless you trust everyone in the room.”
I did not ask what happens when trust is misplaced.
—
Further in, a different gathering.
Smaller.
Still.
Objects laid out but never touched.
A dim red light filtered through cloth, obscuring details.
Hands moved—not randomly, but deliberately. Signals. Agreements made without speech.
Artifact Shadow Auction.
Even from a distance, I felt it.
Not danger.
Expectation.
The kind that precedes irreversible decisions.
We did not stay.
—
The last thing I witnessed was… quieter.
A narrow cavern.
People seated, unmoving.
At the center, a single figure.
Masked.
Layered.
The face was not one face—but many.
He spoke.
And as he spoke, he changed.
Voice. Posture. Presence.
Each shift accompanied by a subtle adjustment of the mask.
A different person.
A different ending.
Stories told not for entertainment.
But for remembrance.
Or warning.
Or perhaps—
ownership.
Veil of Forgotten Faces.
No one applauded.
Some did not move at all.
I thought, briefly, that I recognized a reaction in one of the listeners.
Not fear.
Recognition.
—
When we finally left, I noticed something I had not seen upon entering.
The people here are not simply hiding from Dunskar.
They are responding to it.
Every system above has its reflection below.
Where the surface assigns roles—
Deepscar rejects them.
Where the surface refines—
Deepscar repurposes.
Where the surface believes—
Deepscar remembers.
—
I was told this place was filled with the discarded.
That is not entirely accurate.
Nothing here is discarded.
Everything is used.
Even the unwanted.
Even the forgotten.
Especially them.
—
The caravan leaves soon.
I had thought Dunskar’s strength came from its order.
Now, I am beginning to understand something else.
Order does not remove what it cannot use.
It relocates it.
And what gathers below—
does not disappear.
It changes.
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