The Veins¶
As of this writing the Deep Road Gate at the bottom of Hammerdeep's Underways has not yet opened to travellers. The road is real. The gate is the gate. When it opens, this page is what is on the other side.
Below the Underways, behind forty feet of seamless black stone, the Deep Road keeps going down - and the first thing wrong with it is the temperature. Everything above is frozen. The road is warm, hearth-warm, and has been for fifteen hundred years, and the deeper it goes the less the warmth feels like an accident and the more it feels like an errand. This is the shallow edge of the Veins: the world's living circulation, the channels the First Wyrm dug and lined when he still spent, the country levels 31-36 and the deepest ground the game has ever opened.
The hold's survey charts end at the gate with one word. The word is SINGING. The Veins are what the word means.
Getting in (someday)¶
The Deep Road Gate (in the Underways, past Vargr's court) opens with its key and no other way - a GM-spawned relic, like the postern before it. When the day comes: through the gate, and DOWN. Bring lanterns and spares - the first miles are dead dark, and nothing down there will light them for you. Bring a party. Bring the rest of your answer.
There is no safe ground below the gate. None. The nearest bed, bank, and bonesetter are up in the West Hall, and a party cleric with spell 318 is worth more than any single piece of gear on the road.
The road down¶
| Ground | Lvl | What keeps it |
|---|---|---|
| The Deep Road's first miles | 31-32 | vein leeches in the dead-lamp dark; bladder 280 |
| The First Vein | 32-33 | chord-worms, plated and ringing; plate 330 |
| The Warm Reach | 33-34 | warm-hound packs, blind, silent; pelt 400 |
| The Quiet Workings | 34-35 | the Quiet Shift: hewers and overmen; t5 boxes |
| The Chord Galleries | 35-36 | overmen on the rounds; the stone rings underfoot |
| The First Chord | 36 | the Choirmaster - see below |
- The first miles are dwarf-cut road, dead lamps, and a warmth the frost above never once reached. The leeches lie on the warm seams and regard travellers as portable veins.
- At the First Vein the stone starts carrying light of its own - a red-gold pulse under the rock's skin - and the singing gets a floor under it: a chord below the lowest bell, steady, more architecture than music. Vein-lit stretches need no lantern. The dark between them does.
- The Warm Reach has never met winter: condensation, wax-pale moss, and a warm spring at full hearthspring strength. The hounds hunt the one thing in the deep warmer than the walls, which is you.
The Quiet Shift¶
The workings below the Reach are staffed. The Quiet Shift went down before the Long Winter came, and when the hold sealed every door it owned, the shift on the wrong side of the last one kept working - and changed. Stone-grey, lamp-eyed, warm to the touch: they are not undead (no virtue steel needed; ordinary edges argue with them fine), and they are not quite anything else either. They do not speak. They do not stop. Their tallies have not missed a shift in fifteen hundred years, their carts run loaded down the road and come back empty, and their hewers and overmen carry the deepest lockboxes in the game (tier 5) and deal with interruptions as the work requires.
Kill one and two more carry it down-vein without breaking step. The hold above does not know its lost shift is still on the clock. Somebody should probably tell Warden Stonetally. Nobody has volunteered.
The First Chord & the Choirmaster¶
At the bottom the road was never going anywhere else: the First Chord, the chamber where the Vein surfaces whole - a river of light crossing the floor in the open - and the singing stands in the room like weather. The old survey camp is still pitched at its edge, in good order, last chart-sheet pinned, its one-word conclusion in a steady hand. The original.
The Choirmaster (level 36) holds the bend where the road turns down: the last shift-boss, half again too tall for the hold that raised it, hands raised, keeping time between the picks above and the song below. It has kept the beat for fifteen centuries and it will conduct the fight the same way - patiently, thoroughly, in time. Its box is the richest thing walking below the mountains, and it sometimes yields a chord-struck tuning bar, which loresingers will mortgage instruments for.
Below the below¶
Past the Choirmaster's post the road continues down - wider, finer, the Vein running its median like a carpet of fire - into heat-shimmer and a song too dense to walk into. There is no barrier. There is the song, and the song is sufficient. The last milestone at the light's edge was dressed, planted, and never cut: blank faces, waiting for a number, the way a mason leaves work he expects to resume.
Every deep chart agrees the Veins converge north, toward the range, toward the vault the digging was for. The Delvings brushed a live Vein once and sealed the winze over one sentence: "It was warm, and it should not have been." Down here that sentence is the weather report, and the road is not sealed, and something at the bottom of it has been singing up the world's one warm road for fifteen hundred years. Do not pack for it yet. Do listen, at the gate, while the charts still end politely.