Good, Old Fashioned Rubble-Rousing

[salamanderfantasy 1039]

 

The last caravan had left that morning; a small gaggle of musin, upon the back of a cart pulled by large ferrets, and two of her children, carrying with them the Last Vassal Of D
únwen; the people of Frogtopia.

 

That had been the last of them, and so. The work could begin.

 

Torching the campsites and the manors had gone easily enough. Many long abandoned, home only now to creeping spider and dust. Though, unnervingly, it is regarded that the odd heavily-protected shack; a small cluster of wagons, all seemed. . .far too lived in, for something that had been promised uprooted decades ago. Quick work is done to sort that out; and ash remains.

 

And yet, there’s a world of difference between a standing wooden caravan or shack, and those deep, deep in the bowels of the Dúnfarthing; things far too deep for even the reach of a halfling’s shovel. Towering brickwork above, and below; spiralling tunnels.

 

Well. There’s more than one way to clear out a few pests. And there’s a delightful little tradition told to her by her father, years ago, that she’s kept in the back of her pocket just for now.

Under the shroud of the night, they prepare – for demolition.

Starting with her own home seemed only fitting; that, or perhaps just a sense of guilt at going for anyone else’s first. But those follow shortly, and rest assured. There’s plenty of practise to be had at this.

His castle was not hers, and it is with deep guilt that soon, it falls. Once Harrenite ruins, not that they’d ever cared for that little tidbit of history; now of Musin. But ruins they once were, and to ruins, once again.

Then, sights are set deeper.

 

It’s a fools errand, filling in a warren with a spade. But with a lifetime of overseeing construction under these grounds, she knows just where to push, and once more – short work of it. Three to four generations of burrows, collapsed inward. And a dozen more caves, cellars, dark, dank spots underground -- follow suit.

 

 

 

But once more a fool – an assumption has been made. An assumption that they were the only ones living under these lands.

 

And that something, is now making itself very, very known.

 

All along.

It was Cobblebonks.

 

All.

 

The.

 

Way.

 

Down.

 

"EeeeEEeeEEEeeEEEeeeEEEh"-- Cobblebonk War Cry

Under a tectonic shift of a thousand Cobblebonks, the Dúnfarthing falls, first empty, and then down.

 

 

Settling, croaking ruins. Overgrown field. Orchards, left unpruned. In the centre of it all, a tree. Left entirely unharmed, be it by careful detonation experts, or an act of Knox himself.

 

 

 

 

The Iris Tree stands. All that remains; a sapling taken from another continent, grandchild of the first of it’s kind. Upon the back of a hatchling tortung – the seedling great-grandchild gently moves in the wind.

 

And with the winding of vines; the creep of liches, the sprouting of moss on tumblebown walls, a Shire returns to Land.

 

Plain, simple Land.

 

And then, she is Done(wen).

 

Spoiler

kept tellin ya I was gonna blow up dunwen wasn't I

 

[410,757,864,530 Dead Xannites 2650]

Spoiler

dream come true.

 

[Bethinwonderland 1674]

Spoiler

Very well write post Salamander!

 

[DizzyGrey 715]

Spoiler

They did it, the crazy bastards