While surreptitiously connected to the sewers on its west side through a series of twisted old mining tunnels, one must know which ones to take, and more importantly, how to avoid the traps. Hyde’s personal haven was strategically positioned beneath an old storage-yard for earth-moving machinery, or perhaps the construction firm that owns the equipment had reasons of their own to set-up shop there when it was established several generations ago. Over the years, the business above has slowly evolved from mining iron ore to quarrying bedrock as iron prices plummeted.

There are a number of small buildings topside, from a dilapidated silver bullet travel-trailer that functions as an office to a larger corrugated sheet-metal-style building that functions as a machine shop for onsite equipment repairs, behind which decays the wheelless carcass of a broken-down 1982 Liebherr T 262 that the firm can no longer afford to maintain. Only Hyde is aware that it’s final resting place is directly above the main support column for his cavern, and that the cavern itself is just large enough to let the steel behemoth come crashing through should he need to make a desperate exit.

The chamber itself, hewn from the natural Elberton granite found in this area contains a fully-functioning forge complete with a very large anvil. Its exhaust system feeding directly into the smoke-stack of the coal-burning rock-crusher that runs constantly above, making various grades of gravel as well as dust for concrete. A pack of possums wanders through the nearby tunnels, relying on the warmth radiating through the rock-walls for comfort in the cooler months.

A smaller alcove to the northeast of the main chamber is empty but for a very large steel box commanding most of the floor-space, its walls very thick, it must weigh some six-hundred pounds, and it seems to lock from the inside. Off to the side is a currently empty computer desk. Embedded in the ceiling of this room is what appears to be a submarine-hatch, leading up to the machine-shop above, covered on the topside by what can only be the rusted remnants of the engine-block from the Liebherr.

There is a small tunnel forming on the south side of the chamber, a couple of snapped wooden handles strewn on the floor next to what appears to be the head of a mining pike or maul, except that it is easily four feet long, a foot wide and six inches thick.

Dvalinn Svartalfr (or Dwain as the other employees call him) is the black-haired, wild bearded Norwegian repair man/custodian who lives in the small room connected to the shop. Most of the other workers know that his grandfather (or was it great-grandfather?), was one of the founders of the company- or something, and while Dwain doesn’t run the place, he does own quite a bit of stock so he is given a great deal of room to do as he pleases. This creates a disparity between he and the other workers and many jokes involving a certain “ugly stick” are made as his expense.  

--Last edited by mourningstaar on 2008-04-17 11:13:03 --

It has been several years since Dvalinn has awakened to that noise, though there is no mistaking it. Utilizing circuitous routes so as not to betray his haven’s proximity, Hyde’s visits are like clockwork, and normally as silent as the new moon which heralds his arrival. Tonight the moon hangs blatantly, and Hyde has apparently foregone the “long way.” Dvalinn knows exactly what the sound is, and precisely what it means: something, is wrong. Scrambling out of bed and hurrying out of his ramshackle abode, his eyes seek the massive engine-block on the shop floor and discovers, much to his surprise, that it is undisturbed.

From behind him, an all too familiar voice says “Do you still have a bunch of dynamite up here?” As Hyde slowly oozes into visibility he adds “I got some rat-holes I need ta close up, tonight.”

Dwain jumps at the voice that snuck up behind him.  "Oh, its you.  I think I have some in the cabinet , let me go get it"

He walks quickly over to the cabinet, rummaging through it looking for the dynamite. "What's up Hyde? I didn't see the engine block move at all..."

Finding a bundle of six sticks, he turns around to hand off the fire-crackers.  "Here you go, I should have more tomorrow night if you need 'em".

"Hopefully these shall suffice, there are only a couple of shafts I need to collapse. It might be wise for you to keep your head down for a while, the city has some uninvited and hostile guests that we are collectively trying to expunge."

"Should you see anyone out of place, I would advise against interaction, let the other employees deal with it, tell them you received a threatening letter from Greenpeace again about the exhaust from the rock-crusher and are expecting trouble-makers to try and sabotage the machines again, but do not engage them personally. If there is trouble, get away and hide out as best as you can and call me on my cell, send me an email, whatever you can manage."

"Oh, and you might want to shave... don't you watch the news?"

Feeling his beard, Dwain tries to remember the last time he shaved.
"Sorry, I haven't been keeping up, they got something against beards now?  And thank ye for the tip, I'll let the boys know when they get in tomorrow.  They will keep trouble makers out."

With that, he goes to the cabinet to look for his razor to avoid being labled a "Grizly Addams".

"They have something against just about anything under the right circumstances." he gazes off at nothing for a moment before snapping back to the present.

"I must be away my friend, be cautious, I will check in on you when I can, if you run into trouble, do not hesitate to contact me." and he is gone again, this time walking out the shop door.