- Garok.
“Ayzeem’s Tome of The Unovers. Three thousand pages thick. Most boring book ever made. First page, you’re bored. Second, you have tears in your eyes. Third, you’re banging your hand and wanting to do anything but read that thing. Fourth, you beg for mercy. Sixth is the farthest I’ve ever seen a man come of his own free will. Myrolthan mages are locked in a tower and forced to read it all the way through before they complete their training. They’re called ‘the mad mages of Myroltha’ for a reason, lass.”
– Librarian trying to dissuade a girl from borrowing a book.
Garok found, that despite being a sworn Cleric of the Three, and someone who had managed to grow a remarkable thick skin despite years of subtle, and not-so-subtle jabs at his size, stature and race, he could still become quite pissed off. He had, with no warning, been subjected to a long-range teleportation spell, on account of how his mana always disagreed with those. He had then been dumped in this smelly, cold, barely furnished Dungeon and named a Boss Monster, something that wouldn’t do at all.
He, of course, knew what Boss Monsters were, despite this floating piece of Thuramese wizard’s paper obviously thinking him a dimwit, and wasn’t about to become one. The final piece of fly droppings in his pie, however, was the fact that his connection to his deities had been severed.
THAT was not, in any way, good nor would it stand.
The Three were Garok’s patron deities, and they stood for everything he believed in. Strength, kindness to the weak and those who could not help themselves, the shield and sword against the dead, and no discrimination. He had worshiped them for years now, felt their power come through him when needed. Those powers had saved his life more than once, and now they had disappeared.
He was alone, truly alone, for the first time in years, in some filthy, muddy tunnel that barely passed for a Boss Room. Water dripped from the ceiling, and cold mud clung to his hooves as he shifted. There was a small torch on the tunnel walls, here and there. Behind him, he could feel the invisible thrumm of the dungeon core, trying to command him. To what? Sit here in this cold, stinking hole in the ground and kill whoever wandered in? He had left one dungeon because of that, and damn anything that tried to force him back.
Still, he was worried, somewhat. He had relied on the Three’s power for so long that it seemed nigh unthinkable that he be without it. He still had some skills and aspects left, but he could tell they were weakened.
So he stood, in the flickering light of the cramped tunnel, cold, fetid water dripping on his helm, and tried to see what he had left.
What he found didn’t amuse him. Skills that he had gained from joining the Church of The Three, such as Flames of Faith, Summon Spirit Wolf and Battle Prayer were gone entirely. Others such as Arbenos’s Might and Nivaria’s Barrier, had been crippled to Might and Barrier, respectively. Thelume’s Wisdomwas gone entirely, but Holy Shield, Sacred Fire and Heal remained. Those got a snort of relief. So he wasn’t entirely without his magicks.
It still stung.
Standing here, glowering at dirt walls, was going to accomplish nothing about or towards fixing that.. He had to understand his situation, and find a way to return to Illmara. Focusing on the wizard’s paper floating before him, he carefully read through what he had skimmed earlier.
[Congratulations, sapient monster. If you can read this, we assume you have some sort of intelligence. If not, we’ll just send the need-to-know details right to your teany brain.
So, by popular demand, or because you were picked at random since our workers are too fecking lazy, you have now been given a new life. Think about it, a chance for a new beginning and to be whatever you want, none of your past shenanigans catching up with you. You, the lucky person/monster/thing, are on an entirely new world.
This is it. The chance to make a name for yourself, to be feared and respected. To have food and levels by the wagonload. Hell, go ahead and start your own harem if you’re into that sort of thing. Our viewers certainly are. A home. Food. Skills. Power. Live damn near forever, thanks to our Re:Spawn system. Sound good?
All you have to do is wait for whatever sneaky, dastardly human tries to invade your home and kill them when they try to filch your precious property or kill your minions. You’re not doing anything bad, just returning the favor. That’s it, no tricks about it. Just sit tight, have yourself a snack or three of your respawning minions, (no Exp from them, sadly), and surprise whatever noob comes through.
And do make it entertaining, okay? Else we’ll be forced to replace you with that seven tailed didlo maticore from Skagoth VI.
Cheers, The Tiipenet Team.
P.S. Say or muster the brainpower needed to think “Status”.]
Garok blinked once. Then again. Then he re-read the paper to make sure he was understanding everything. Once he was finished, he set a paw on each edge, crushed and crumbled it up, and tossed it in the corner.
No more of that trash.
He was getting out of here, one way or another.
After a moment he gave and rumbled: “Status.”
Another piece of wizard’s paper appear in front of him, one with various words written on the left side, and a picture of himself to the right. It hovered before the minotaur, letting him examine himself through whatever magick this was. He was runtish, for a Minotaur, only seven feet tall or so, but heavily muscled and a little on the wide side. His entire body, from hooves to horns, was covered in grey-white plate armor, something he’d learned to make use of after leaving the Maze of Lamath. His tower shield, emblazoned with the sun symbol of the Three, was right as he was holding it. Even now, as he shifted slightly, the picture slid along to emulate that.
The long, thin claymore was on his back, and the vipermace on his belt. His glossy black horns swept up from his head, extending nearly a foot away from his skull. It showed even minute details, he found. Like the slightly thinning, still growing patch of fur on the right side of his jaw, where a fireball had brushed his face. Heal might have healed the scars away, but it couldn’t regrow the fur. Steel grey eyes stared back at him, and his muzzle was shorter than most minotaurs. His runtish stature or the fact that one of his ancestors wasn’t a purebred Minotaur, he never found out.
While the rest of the words were blueish, the top-most one, labeled ‘Stats’, had a whiteish tinge to it. It showed things like an Exp bar, his Mana pool and his current condition next to the portrait of himself. Useful. It showed his Class as Cleric, and his level as 26. All things he already knew.
Reaching up, he jabbed one finger down on the paper, causing it to bounce in the air a little before returning to its original position. It jumped to the wrong one, a word labeled ‘Sysnet’, causing that one take on a whiteish tone. Instantly, the picture of himself disappeared, replaced with a white screen and a rectangular bar running down the middle. With no clue what that did, he moved on.
One labeled ‘Party’ showed nothing once more, save for his own name, level and status on a blank page. The Store one offered exotic goods, but he had no money to purchase them with. Quests was likewise empty, and the Custom Store and Skill Stores were grey instead of white. Neither responded when he touched them.
After looking through, he simply dismissed it by batting it aside, and pulled out the mace. The fact that he was supposed to be on a different world had not quite hit him yet, in the familiar environment of a dungeon. Might as well kill his way out before it did. So, he set off, hunched over slightly to prevent his horns from dragging furrows through the roof, mace in one hand, and shield in the other, looking for things to take his building frustration out on.
He did find some, and sooner than he expected. The corridor led right into another room, this one inhabited. And in better condition that the sad excuse of a Boss room he’d started off with. Faint patches of light filtered down from a ceiling with no holes, and several rows of wooden structures we’re spread through the room. They had barricades. Of course they had barricades. ‘They’ being some sort of monster he’d never seen before. Half his height, vaguely humanoid in shape, but with armored chitin carapaces covering their bodies, smooth, eyeless heads that looked like a spiked egg. A black gash down the middle substituted for a mouth. Their bodies were brown, save for their three-clawed hands, the tips of which were red. Short, stocky, armored and muscled.
They were intelligent enough to make use of materials and tactics. Spears were clenched in their claws, tipped with actual steel and aimed at him. Not a good sign. He could easily bull right through them, yes, but he had no indication of how long this dungeon was, how many of them there were, and what abilities they had. Acting without any knowledge wasn’t just stupid, it was tantamount to suicide in a dungeon. And despite looking like a brute, Garok was far from stupid.
Right now, there were close to a dozen of them before him, small, ugly creatures that looked like monsters. But none moved to attack him. He himself had his mace out, and while he was angry, he wasn’t actively threatening them. Forcing himself to calm down, the Minotaur considered his options.
Yes, they looked like monsters, but for all he knew, they were in the same ship as he was in. Trapped on an alien world, ripped from their homes and thrown into this hole for someone else’s amusement. They smelled of fear, not of anger or hunger, like most mindless dungeon monsters. And with good reason. Dungeon Bosses were the top of the food chain, preying on anything weaker than them. Dungeon minions, were, essentially free walking snacks to them. These creatures knew that, obviously.
So, he could attack, surprise them. They would be easy enough to kill. But Garok was no mindless killer. If attacked, he would fight back with lethal force, but unless forced or against undead or mindless beasts, he rarely swung first. Years of fighting allowed him to be the one who would swing last, he knew. And as a Cleric of the Three, he was required to defend the weak. Who was to say that these weren’t. If they were monsters, they would have struck the instant they saw him. They hadn’t.
He could try moving past them without violence, and find some other mindless monster to take his frustration out on. That would lead him right into their center, allowing them to attack him from all sides. Still, unless they had powerful magicks, they would all die. Were they smart enough to realize that, or too stupid?
He never found out. There was a roar from the opposite tunnel, and the creatures suddenly stunk of fear. Real fear. They chittered to one another and turned from the Minotaur, abandoning their weapons and leaning towards side tunnels. They took seconds to disappear. Seconds in which Garok dropped the mace and drew his claymore instead. Something was coming, and it was dangerous. Here, in this room, he had ample room to wield the weapon he most familiar with, unlike the cramped confines of the tunnels.
Using precious Mana, he cast Might on himself, followed by Barrier. Both came into being inside and around him, weakened from their usual strength. He ground his teeth and set himself, assuming a combat stance with his shield up and blade forward, ready to face whatever was coming from the tunnel.
Dirt rained down from the mouth of the tunnel opposite of him as it exploded through, rearing back and snapping at the air. Another piece of Wizard’s paper appeared to his side, and he spared it a quick glance. It stated that a rival Boss in the dungeon had been drawn to him, and that, obviously it meant to kill him. It also gave the thing’s name as the Fear Wurm, but nothing else.
The torches had guttered and gone out as it appeared, leaving only the faint light coming from above to illuminate the room. Still, he was not hindered. He had been spawned and raised in the Maze of Lamath, and light had been a scarce commodity in his day, forcing minotaurs to rely more on scent and hearing to navigate the darkness, lest they attract the undead. He could smell the thing, hear it. The smells of dirt, blood and rot rolled off its sinewy bulk, and faint rasps sounded whenever it moved.
It was huge. That much he could tell through the dimness of the dungeon. Almost as large as the tunnel entrance, and very long. Its body looked to be pitch-black, streaked with red where its head was. A horizontal gash, running from one side of its head to the other, jagged and twisted inwards, served as its mouth. Flesh like tendrils hovered just above that, waving through the air as it swayed from side-to-side.
The Minotaur stayed where he was, behind enchanted steel and a blade almost as long as he was tall. He had no desire to approach the thing and let himself be wrapped in it, or to find if it could spit acid. He would let it come to him.
With a rattling screech, it reared up into the air, terrible face turned towards him, the tendrils stiff as iron as they all pointed towards him. Then, it struck forward and blurred in mid-air, smashing all of its weight down on him. Had he stayed where he was, he likely would have been crushed. But Garok knew attacks and intent, and he was no fool. He had thrown himself aside rather ungracefully, avoiding the mass of flesh as it struck the place he had occupied not heartbeats before.
Without pause, he turned and stabbed deep into the neck, putting his weight into it and driving the claymore up to the hilt. Against the Wurm’s massive body, it seemed to make no difference. It shrieked and pulled its head from the ground, nearly ripping the blade from Garok’s hands. With a burst of strength, he ripped it free as the beast pulled back, and roared. The deafening rattle nearly froze him, the sound making his body lock in place.
Paralyzing Scream. An ability he had encountered more than once, and loathed with all his heart. Were he human, he would have been frozen in place, easy prey for the Wurm. But he was a Minotaur, and far stronger. Still, it slowed him, making his muscles tense. Those few seconds of slowness could cost him his life. He resisted the urge to cast Heal on himself. It wouldn’t work against this particular ability, although he had tried before.
Then, it came again, this time in low, body slithering through the barricades it had so easily destroyed with its earlier attack, aiming at him once more. Its maw open to devour him whole. There was no dodging this one. So he didn’t. Instead, he focused on the open, gaping, tender flesh of the Wurm’s insides, readily available now that its maw was stretched as large as his body, and cast Sacred Flame.
Unlike usual fire spells, Sacred Flame wasn’t projected from his body. Instead, it formed inside a space of his choosing, then exposed outwards in a wash of fire and light. Mostly meant for crowds of weaker undead enemies, it was still more than suitable for this task. There was a flash of orange-white light from inside the Wurm’s head, and it jerked back with startling speed, letting loose a rattling shriek of pain as it began to thrash in agony.
The smell of charred flesh wafted through the air, the stink invading his nostrils. Striding forward, the Cleric dropped his shield and grasped the claymore with both hands. Stepping forward again, he cleaved down with all his considerable might, biting into the rubbery flesh and severing the massive head area. Acrid black fluid poured from the corpse as it continued to shudder and twitch, digging furrows in the dirt beneath it.
Narrowing his eyes, he split the head again, and again just to be sure. His blade bit through stinking flesh again and again as he slowly, methodically chopped the Wurm to pieces. Even when he had diced the entire thing, and had been forced to cast Heal on his aching muscles, he still hadn’t received the Exp indicating that he had killed it.
Did Dungeons and killing here operate on different rules, then? Maybe. Despite the similarities, it would be a fool’s error to think everything functioned the same. Wiping the blade against a spot on unbroken, spongy skin, he sheathed it once more and moved on.
He had a Dungeon to leave.
Hours later, he was still making his way through the maze, with only the occasional monster to keep him company. He had slain several lesser Wurms, but had not received Exp from any of them. Something was happening here. No matter how hard he had tried, the Minotaur could not seem to find the exit. Finally, he had sat down atop the corpse of some rock monster he had bashed to pieces and begun to think.
Was it because of his new Boss Monster status? What had prevented such monsters from leaving dungeons in the Exiled Kingdoms? That question had stumped him, truly.
Until he came across an old mention of dungeon Cores by his mentor. Many people theorized they existed, but few had ever so much as seen one. In his master’s theories, they served as a regulator of sorts, keeping Boss monsters inside the dungeon, respawning common horde monsters, refilling chests after set periods of time. Truthfully, his mind had been elsewhere during the lecture, so he had not listened overmuch.
However, with nothing else to go on, as of now, it was his best chance at escaping here. He would have to take it. Heaving himself up, the Cleric hefted his shield once more and turned back into the depths of the dungeon, following some invisible pull as he vanished into the darkness.
