Short Story 1, Post 4

He took a few steps down, his eyes alighting upon the rough marks of excavation that rode the walls; thick, wide scratches of pick and spade.  Set within even intervals along the tunnel there were torches in iron rings.  Next to them were small hollows dug from the earth.  They were shelves of a sort, indentions with flattened bottoms.  


Another whispered word and the Thieves' Light flared brighter.


The nearest shelf to him, down and on his left, held a swatch of torn cloth – dirty silk netting stained with blackish marks – wrapped about a desiccated mound of remains.  He glimpsed teeth and bone beneath a wiry mass of brittle hair.  A word was scrawled hastily upon the fabric.  Another shelf, now to his right, revealed a piece of heavily polished bone that had been worked into the shape of a man.  Its eyes were black x's and the corners of its mouth were turned down into deep furrows.  Across its torso, another nearly illegible word. Yelin took a few more steps and found more; some larger, some smaller.  Like dolls they were and made of simple things mostly: a carved root, an apple, sheaves of paper, tallow, a potato, clay, branches, or cloth stuffed with herbs.


Poppets. Folk-magic.  


The air about him seemed alive with enchantments.  A static rode his movements; a shifting thrumming sounded within his ears full of treble pops and torn parchment.  He took several steps down.  The Thieves' Light held above his shoulder, a steady light.  


Tren is one of these things?  He sent an errant hand to the whiskers upon his face.  One of these sad, little things?  Somewhere among the potatoes and bone, there is a bearded doll that committed petty crimes and wished for better luck?  A few more steps.  The scent of wet earth became stronger from the air below.