Among the Moles

My misadventures in the bogs of Wemk have strongly diminished my wanderlust and disposed my mind to a period of serenity – if such a thing is possible in the barbarian lands deprived of Light. Upon leaving the shaded swathes of marshland behind I reached the shores of a lake: not as grand as Eblod, but still of impressive size. Its name was Wemkwyr – End of the Wemk in our tongue. A river flew into the basin from the south, and upon its estuary stood a city – Makwak, the largest settlement north of the Debkemewd drylands.

Perhaps eventually I shall describe my encounters with the kwoden of the lake town, but the events laid out below overshadow them both in my memory and in scientific value. The locals told me of a sacred place in the mountains – a monastery devoted to Mywdolk, “the mole that gnaws at the world’s foundations”, as they referred to their demonic god. Although aradh worship is detestable in all its forms, during my journey I (much to my bewilderment) often observed it manifest in fashions quite benign. In light of this observation I deemed it agreeable to rest in the aforementioned monastery until I was once more ready to place my feet upon a road.

The journey towards the temple was uneventful – these lands were visibly more populated and civilized than the wastes which I had to cross before. The dwelling itself was burrowed into a ravine, like a clutch of greyish black eggs in a blackish grey nest. My guide informed me that I was seeing but a small part of the temple complex – the true depths of the caverns in which the monks resided was unknown even to him. Perhaps it is true that they reach the very roots of Udroth, where their deity is supposed to reside.

I was met with much hospitality: I was provided with a room with a window (which were quite scarce in the monastery) and a personal assistant from among the priests – a bald middle-aged man with piercing brown eyes named Kawrot. He gave me tours to the most prominent places of the temple, which I shall describe further.

The monastery was situated on two sides of a ravine. A stream ran on the bottom of the ravine, fed with rivers and waterfalls from above. As is usual in these dark lands, flora was found only at waterside, for no light reaches there to feed the plants like those in Izbred. Instead local vegetation seeks nutrition in water flowing from lands not as cursed. The western side was home to stables, kitchens, and store rooms – Kawrot described it to me only briefly for it lacked buildings of cultural and theological interest. Five bridges connected the western and eastern sides: three of stone, and two of wood.

On the first day I was brought to the Sacellum of Mywdolk. It was a small well-like cavern with the sky far above, in the middle of which a statue stood: an idol made entirely of obsidian, rough edges forming a body of a mole, the blind eyes of which were made of ruby. There I was, in the sanctuary of the Enemy. Had I listened to the Raven’s scholars with more dedication, I would have been able to understand, which demon was before me and to engage in a debate with its priests, but alas, then I was not well versed in theology enough to partake in a contest of minds. A circumstance that surprised me was the utter lack of proselytic efforts on Kawrot’s behalf – not once did he try to persuade me to convert, not once did he even tell me about his god.

The second landmark I visited was the Fane of Pity. Amidst a cave deep below the ground a ring of twisted stones stood, and on the floor between them – a simplistic drawing. There I couldn’t keep my curiosity and asked my guide about the events depicted, but to my empuzzlement, Kawrot said that he knew nothing about the depicted people, symbolisms, and overall significance. All that he knew was that the site was of utmost holiness and importance. I was prepared to leave empty-minded, but then Kawrot left me for a minute, and then returned accompanied by another kwoden. He was dressed in rags and upon his forehead a symbol was tattooed. He spoke to me in impeccable rangan and explained what was depicted.

The mural depicted the history of Udroth’s creation as perceived by demon-worshippers. They claimed that the old gods were not beloved creators, but jailors who had trapped the yanadr, kwoden, kilruz and aethlir in the prison of existence – what a deranged idea! As if all the joys we possess here in life, all the wonder in the gods’ creation is thanks to anything but to the world of matter! Besides, the existence of our new gods, the heroes, stands as irrefutable proof that mortality can be surpassed. I wished to share these thoughts, but my lack of faith in my polemic prowess and desire to remain diplomatic thwarted that desire. The kind person that told me of this was named Wamart, but to my surprise he was not a scholar there at the monastery, but a slave tending to the actual monks. Slavery – the abhorrent tradition of the demon-worshippers! Few things I detest as much as one’s freedom being taken away from them – for why does a being exist, if not to choose their destiny for themselves? I had never taken the Oath of Dunger, but still my heart didn’t sit well in the monastery since then.

Upon inquiring with Kawrot to the reason, why a mere slave is more knowledgeable in theology that himself, he told me a most peculiar custom in the monastery: those that can contact with outsiders are forbidden to learn words of god, while those who are taught to think and ponder are not allowed to leave their cells! There they sit in complete darkness and silence, deliberating and calculating, for which they are known to the world as Moles. When they wish a thought to be written down, they summon scribes and they sit there, listening and writing down the wisdom of their god. Naturally curious, I wished to see the cells where the Moles reside, and after some word-trickery and pleading, Kawrot agreed to indulge my thirst for novelty. I came to notice that most of the local monks I encountered did not possess the intellectual prowess I’d expected from men of their status – perhaps the Moles were different, but they were forbidden to talk to outsiders.

Kawrot led me deep into the bowels of the temple, dozens and dozens of corridors we passed, until we were in a library. Endless rows of books went into infinity in both directions, the end of the room invisible to me. And in one wall, a set of windows the size of a head – those were the hearing holes, through which the Moles spoke their wisdom. And near them – monks, constantly scribing and rewriting. It was dark in the room, but Kawrot held a torch. He led me to a window, where I wanted to look upon a wizened man, but Kawrot firmly forbade me that privilege. I could have sworn that I heard a voice from within the window, but likely the echoes of the dungeon were playing tricks on my perception.

I made an attempt to read one of the books lying on a table, but could not recognize any of the letters: they belonged to a language different from any I had encountered before. I asked Kawrot to translate it for me, but as it turned out, the ignorance of the usual monks was such that they didn’t even know the language that the Moles spoke! They only knew how to read it and write it down, but not what the words meant. Truly an ingenious system to keep the Moles’ secrets safe from curious eyes: only a Mole could read it. I left the library disappointed, but to this day my mind wanders back to the memories of this day, and ponders: of what do the Moles speak?