T3 - Depth 24

Freezing. If it were any one word to describe the frore stratum, it would be freezing. And freezing it was indeed. The Lichenous Lair, once a pristine Aurora Isle with the ideal Mediterranean air, had been robbed of its lofty lifestyle by gales that would transform the glossy ponds of water into solid, slippery slush. The once vibrant forests were drained of color, and now only shades of blue and grey took over the once living Isle.

This, in Hedgin's mind, was what had happened to every stratum in due time. Always sinking lower, farther into disrepair and more desolation. And when the time was right, a slew of construction workers would burn all the glacial decor down, and then rip apart at the foundations.

It was a tedious, dangerous job, but someone had to do it, lest the stratums crash into the Core.

And Hedgin, a senile, aging Mender as prime as Vise, would be supervising.

He was sitting by the elevator, his backside caressed by the warm flow of air pumped from down below. In his cupped hands was a Torchstone, a small little orb of heat. Though it was massive in his minute paws, it was old, on the verge of becoming obsolete. But he kept the thing regardless.

They would be coming soon. A rough, rowdy band of youngsters had been assigned to him. As green as they were, fresh buns straight from the bakery, they were reported to have top marks, and were selectively chosen by Tinkinzar to be here. If it was so, Hedgin wouldn't, or rather couldn't protest.

He could hear their whoops and ramblings as they came down, a living racket consisting of an assortment of Thwackers and Knockers.

Let's see how long their enthusiasm lasts...

Hedgin scooted away from the elevator, and slowly stood up. Though his outfit was newly made, marked with the iridescent insignia of the Darkfangs, his periwinkle fur and scarred complexion still stood out. As the platform came closer, the rowdy rambling came to a close, and when the wheels screeched to a stop, all was silent in the stratum, save for the ever-blowing winds.

Hedgin fitted on the Torchstone onto the hilt of his violet wand, and saluted.

Though they wore the Ironclaw regalia, it was surprising to find that they had given only a quizzical stare at him. It was only when a small Knocker, obviously smarter than the rest, had returned the salute did the rest follow en suite. A half dozen were their numbers : Four Thwackers, two Knockers.

But it was only them. There weren't any Menders, nor any Scorcher. Hell, even a Demo would've been of some use. Hedgin scoffed in disbelieve, and turned to face the wilderness behind him. Against the alien Lichens, it was hard to imagine this operation as even near possible.

Was this a joke? How would Tinkinzar expect me to do the job with just the seven of us?

With a grumble in the old furball's throat, he pulled down his hood, revealing the face of a grizzled old soldier.

"That was a pitiful display, recruits. Had you had failed to respond as you did in front of our King, I would personally do the honors of beheading you as appeasement. And yet...here you are, sent by Tinkinzar himself. Explain yourselves."

The Knocker, the one that had first saluted, spoke up.

"Knocker Lever, si-" was the short one about to say, before he was smacked hard across the face with the Wrench Wand.

"Not introduce yourselves. Explain yourselves."

The rest only stared at Lever, jaws dropped in shock.

Finally, the Knocker had grown a pair again to speak.

"We were enthusiastic about our first assignment, sir. Overenthusiastic, I'll admi-"

Another hard smack came across his face.

"You'll admit, but you won't ask an apology for?!" shouted the Mender. He then slammed the hilt, the Torchstone, into the floor, causing the Darkmatter on the wand to glow.

"[Mend]," was all Hedgin spoke.

With a gentle tip in the Knocker's direction, the oncoming bruise disappeared.

"You small fry disgust me. Idiots sent from the King himself, I'll believe that when I land head-first onto the Core. Well, at least let me know your names before we all get digested by Lichens. Knocker Lever, go scout ahead while I acquaint myself with the rest of your troupe."

With a salute, the Knocker scurried past the grizzled old Mender into the frozen taiga ahead.

"Knocker Jergen, sir."

"Thwacker Markins, sir."

"Thwacker Goldren, sir."

"Thwacker Verden, sir."

"Thwacker Oldrin, sir."

"...Overseer Hedgins, recruits. Join Lever up ahead; I'll be at your rear."

"YES SIR!"

In a mad scramble, the rest followed their comrade in single file, through slush and brush.