Rogue Dungeon: Troll Nation (Chapters 10 - 12)

Chapter 10  

The Hero Sieve

When Roark respawned in the Keep’s throne room two hours later, Zyra leapt up from the formidable black-steel chest she’d been lounging against.

“Who was it?” she demanded, Poisoned Claws extended and ready to kill. “That Lowen character? One of the dungeons you sent Kaz to recruit? A holdover still loyal to Azibek? A challenger for the Dungeon Lord’s throne? Who? Just give me a name.”

Roark waved her question away with one hand. “No. It was no one.” He was already headed for the door, unable to wait a single second to answer questions. “Or rather, me,” he called back over his shoulder.

The hooded Reaver quickly caught up to his long strides and fell in beside him.

“You? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a new ability,” he said, taking a turn down the corridor.

“The Ugliest Suicide ability?” Zyra asked. “Your corpse looks as if a Level 12 Fireball blew your chest apart from the inside out. I had to post a guard on your study so no little Changelings would happen by with a message and have a panic attack at the death of their dear Dungeon Lord.”

Roark barely heard her. He rounded the corner into the hall that led to the Alchemy lab and study, his boots clacking furiously on the stone as he picked up the pace. Ideas whirled around in his head like spinning tops, frantic with life and motion and possibility. There was still so much about this new ability he didn’t understand—so much he could only learn through experimentation, trial and error. And most probably, through painful death.

“I’ve figured out the Citadel’s floorspace management problems,” he told her as they approached the Reaver Shaman standing watch over his study door. The hunched, wiry Shaman gave a deep bow before skittering off into the shadows. Roark held the door for Zyra, then followed her inside. “Potential combinations kept coming to me while I was respawning. The possibilities are nearly limitless. With just curses I already know, I’ve got over seventy-three thousand spell forms—though a great many of those will be death traps, I’d wager.”

Zyra perched a hip on the edge of the desk, crossing her arms, and looked down at the mangled corpse on the floor. She hadn’t been exaggerating about the extent of the damage; Roark had seen some truly horrific deaths during his years in the Resistance, but the mess on the floor was by far the grisliest scene he’d ever had the displeasure of stumbling across.

“Looks as if your first one went well,” she said.

“That was my second, actually,” Roark replied curtly. He stooped at his bloodied, acid-eaten body and gathered his belongings from the corpse. When he’d emptied them all back into his own Inventory, the corpse turned to dust and blew away on an unfelt breeze. Good riddance. “Though it was a bit nasty,” he reluctantly admitted.

Slowly, Zyra retracted her claws. “How many levels did you lose?”

“One? Two? It hardly matters.” Roark shrugged as if the detail was the least important thing in the world. He’d get the levels back. What was important was what he’d reasoned out while floating incorporeal during his respawn.

“I didn’t realize you’d damaged your brain,” Zyra said, folding her arms. “Is it permanent?”

Roark ignored her sarcasm, pulled out his Initiate’s Spellbook, and immediately began to inscribe a new Curse Chain.

“This is the solution I’ve been looking for,” he explained as he worked. “It will make griefing so much more efficient, which will, in turn, bring in a massive amount of Experience. I’ll be back up to whatever level I was in no time. Not to mention, we won’t have to cram the first floor in with the second anymore. If I can make this work, we’ll be able to streamline the griefing process and turn this place into a true clockwork wonder of death.”

“Well, I’m sure Wurgfozz and Druz will throw you a feast,” the hooded Reaver said disinterestedly. “Since this madness is apparently of your own doing and there are no assassins for me to stab, I suppose I’ll see myself off to the Alchemy lab. Those last seventeen hundred and forty-seven potions aren’t going to brew themselves.”

Roark glanced up to find her already on her feet, one hand on the study door. 

“Zyra, wait.”

She turned back to him, the slant of her shoulders and hips suggesting boredom. 

For reasons too slippery to pin down, he wanted desperately to show her what he was writing, to hear her thoughts on it. Maybe even to hear her praise it. Though he knew it would be smarter not to get his hopes up. She was sparse with even rudimentary compliments and wasn’t the kind to lavish praise on anyone.

But there had to be a way to make her understand the potential importance of his discovery.

“You can create new poisons,” he said struggling to find something that might connect. “And it’s fun, you enjoy it, right?”

She shrugged. “Who wouldn’t enjoy inventing something nastier than any poison already in existence?”

“Well, this”—Roark tapped the Curse Chain page in his Initiate’s Spellbook—“this is my poison. Seeing if I can write something that outwits everything already in existence.”

Her stance softened a bit at that. 

Roark plunged ahead before he lost his nerve. “Would you be interested in seeing what I’m working on?”

The moment’s hesitation before she answered almost killed him. How long had it been since he’d wanted to impress someone? Not in order to intimidate an enemy or bluff his way through a challenge, but to earn genuine admiration. Probably not since Danella.

“All right,” Zyra said finally, going back to the desk and boosting herself up onto it. “Show me what you’ve got, then.”

Roark sat on the desk next to her and turned the Spellbook so she could see his writing.

Any hero of level 7 or lower who steps on or over this plate is instantly transported to the corresponding plate on the first level of the Cruel Citadel and is Stunned! for 20 seconds.

“Obviously, this is just a rough draft,” he said, “and far too simplistic. I’ll need to figure out how include spell parameters, level restrictions, destination designators, and portal runes, but I’m sure I can get it ironed out. Something along this line will be the first such spell parameter. Then, I’ll need to create five more, one for each of the other floors so all the Trolls can see their fair share of griefing.”

Her hood swung up to look him in the face. “I’m not sure I entirely understand. What exactly is this supposed to do? And what is this plate it mentions?” 

“Well, the execution will be complex, but the result should be fairly simple, at least in theory. I’m going to smith a metal plate of sorts, about so big”—he held up his arms apart, hands five feet apart—“and use my Hexorcist skill to inscribe it with a complex Curse Chain. The prime transport plate, located on the first floor, will act as a sieve. If things work according to my plan, a party of heroes steps on or over the plate, and the Curse Chain activates, sorting them out by level, and instantly teleporting then to the corresponding destination plates scattered through the various levels of the dungeon. And it will all happen in the blink of an eye.” 

“So,” she said, “a level twenty hero might get sent all the way down to a cursed plate on the fourth floor while a level eight gets routed to the second floor?” 

“Yes. Precisely that.” Roark’s face lit up with excitement. “All the Trolls will get a chance to grief players, we won’t have to have the first and second floors merged, and there won’t be any reason for the higher-level Trolls to rotate up to the top to handle the bigger threats. It will drastically streamline the process. And, I should be able to bake a few nasty surprises into Curse Chain as well, so that not only will we be able to split and sort the parties accordingly, but the heroes will show up on a given level with a range of nasty curse effects in place.”

Zyra was nodding slowly, one slender midnight hand reaching into the shadowy depths of her hood to cup her chin.

“That … is actually quite impressive, Griefer.” She paused. “If it works.” 

“Oh, it’ll work. I’ll need to increase my Curse Chain ability significantly, but it will work.” Roark tried not to grin and failed. He could already see the plate in action, dull and unseemly, lying in a narrow corridor before an unaware party of invaders.

“And what if a hero spots the plate before their party walks over it?” Zyra asked. “They see your inscription and scratch it out with their sword? Or they smash the plate with their morning star?”

“Simple,” Roark said, pulling his Spellbook back and hastily adding a reminder to include a new clause in the final Curse Chain. “I add another condition stating that if the plate is tampered with by anyone but a Troll native to the Cruel Citadel, it triggers an enormous explosion, wiping the party out in one fell swoop.”

“And assume they see that, then turn back and walk out of the Citadel? I mean, at some point word will get around about the teleportation. Could drive heroes away.”

Roark raised an eyebrow at her. “Have you seen the heroes coming in to the Citadel lately? They’re not going to turn back over some simple transport curse. They want to either kill me or be killed by me. And I’m more than willing to indulge them.”

“You will lose some of them, though,” Zyra said. “The smart ones.”

“Not enough to matter, and anyway, we don’t gain the majority of our Experience from the smart ones.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Zyra clapped her hands together. “All right, I’m convinced.” She hopped from the desk. “Back to work with me. And one assumes you as well.”

She was right, there was enough leveling and experimenting ahead to border on mind boggling. It was a lucky thing Trolls never slept.

Roark followed Zyra to the door and opened it for her.

“Thank you for pretending to care,” he said.

She chuckled. “Any time.”

***

After Roark saw her out, time became a blur of trial and error. 

First, he went to the smithy to work on the metal plate. Initially he tried to make the plate light enough that Druz and her crew could pick it up and carry it about the first floor, deploying the transport plate at random locations in order to keep the offending heroes on their toes. After seven iterations, however, he’d lost the illusion of the First Floor Overseer packing the bulky thing around with her. She had fairly decent Strength, but the weight of the plate would wreck the movement speed of whoever carried it, and no matter what material Roark smithed it out of, he couldn’t lower the weight enough. The damned thing was simply too big. And, if Druz was caught unaware, the precious few seconds between getting the plate out of her Inventory and placing it on the floor could be the difference between life and death. 

Additionally, he realized, a moveable plate wouldn’t return much of the first floor to the lowest level Trolls. Most of it would still be taken up by Druz and her honor guard coaxing the heroes to cross the plate. No, what he needed was a chokepoint that heroes couldn’t gain access to the Citadel without passing.

After some consideration, Roark decided on the shadowed archway aboveground in the Citadel’s inner bailey. The entry opened on the crumbling staircase that led down to the first floor. If he permanently affixed the plate to the threshold, heroes would be sorted as they arrived. Those heroes of a low enough level would proceed on to the first floor, ignored by the cursed plate, where they would run aground against Druz and the other denizens of the floor. 

The rest of the higher-level heroes would be teleported accordingly. 

Logistic and material issues worked out, Roark set his focus on leveling up his Hexomnacer abilities. In order for his plan to work, he would need to be able to create a single Curse Chain capable of supporting 6 or more conditions. Currently, his Curse Chain could support a mere two conditions. As with all things in Hearthworld, the best way to increase the ability was simply to practice. Well, to practice and kill. So, Roark went to work Hexing surfaces all over the Dungeon—focusing predominately at the bottom of the floor staircases, which were already natural chokepoints for invading heroes. 

And instead of Hexing those surfaces with run of the mil Curses!, Roark used the new Curse Chain he’d created before dying horrifically, Storm of Ice and Fire. With the longform work already inscribed in his Spellbook, all Roark had to do was etch the new short rune-form of the chain into the flagstones. The inscription itself took a handful of moments to create, but once set, it would inflict passive damage to any hero unlucky enough to step within the target radius for hours to come. True, the new, complex Hexes would wear down eventually, but for now they chipped away at his enemies, sending a constant trickle of Experience his way and slowly increasing his skill as a Hexomancer, which, in turn, boosted his Curse Chain ability. 

Curse Chains set and operational, Roark turned his full attention to the actual rune work needed to pull this off, which was easily the most complicated piece of the operation. It also proved to be rather fun in spite of Roark’s urgency to fix the final flaw in the Citadel’s layout. He lost track of time hunched over his desk, shuffling around curses, hexes, runes, and containment circles. 

He died once more in an explosion loud enough to bring Mai running from all the way in the kitchen, but set back to regaining his lost level as soon as he respawned. At some point, Griff came in to report on the trainers he’d talked to, but the words bounced off Roark’s focus like a willow switch off a tower shield. Zyra drifted in and then back out again without comment. A pair of Changeling apprentice chefs brought in a meal and later a second meal. Eventually, Mai came with a third and talked quite a bit before finally throwing up her hands and leaving in frustration. 

Roark hardly noticed any of it. 

The number of curses he could link rose steadily, and his own level climbed back to 29, where he’d been before he died in the Sucking Miasma of Death and then the subsequent failed Exploding Ball Lightning. He hurriedly reassigned his stat points, then returned to work.

Finally, after leveling up the Curse Chain for the sixth time (You may now create Curse Chains of 6 or more curses and runes and inscribe up to 6 conditions.), he took a Town Portal Scroll from his Inventory, opened it, and carefully dissected the sigils required for temporal teleportation. After being emerged in rune theory for what felt like days upon end, the spell scroll was rather easy to decipher. It was a basic binding construct—fixing two points together through a metaphysical tether—powered by a rune called Nirn, which appeared to be the key to moving objects and living things from one place to another.

After working out the rest of his Curse Chain formula, and with this final piece of the puzzle, he was ready to make another attempt. Chances were high he’d blow himself up once more, but there was nothing to be done for it. He was on the verge of a breakthrough, he could feel it sitting heavy in his gut. With a trembling hand, Roark turned to an open space in the rapidly filling endpaper of his Spellbook and began writing.

He took each of the five destination plates—one for each level, 2 through 6—and engraved a cursed rune into the surface each. The rune itself would act as the destination marker for the prime transport plate, and once the hero or heroes arrived, the plate would trigger, activating the predetermined curse. 

One by one, Roark went through, holding his breath as he added ever increasing levels of complexity to the spell. Engraving marker runes on the destination plates, carefully designating spell parameters, tweaking the level caps, tying them all together with an ever-more complicated set of Nirm and Yasuc runes followed by interlocking containment circles. Rather than steadily relaxing, with each plate that didn’t blow up in his face, Roark felt his shoulders tighten another notch. By the final one, Roark felt like a longbow drawn tight enough to snap. 

He was well overdue for a failure. And if a Curse! of this complexity failed, who knew how much damage it might do. 

Gingerly, he closed the last containment circle and reviewed his overly complicated Curse Chain spell form:

[Any hero who meets the conditional requirements set on {Destination Plate 1, 2, 3, 4, 5} is instantly transported from the Prime Transportation Plate (designation = Nirn!) to the corresponding: {Destination Plate 1, 2, 3, 4, 5}; 

{Destination Plate 1: If any hero of level 7 to 12 steps on or over the Prime Transportation Plate, then they are instantly transported to the corresponding plate, equaling the value of Rihuk, and are Stunned! for 20 seconds.};

{Destination Plate 2: If any hero of level 13 to 18 steps on or over the Prime Transportation Plate, then they are instantly transported to the corresponding plate, equaling the value of Figrua, and suffer 20 points of Fire Damage!};

{Destination Plate 3: If any hero of level 19 to 24 steps on or over the Prime Transportation Plate, then they are instantly transported to the corresponding plate, equaling the value of Letho, and slowed by 10% for 20 seconds!}; 

{Destination Plate 4: If any hero of level 25 to 30 steps on or over the Prime Transportation Plate, then they are instantly transported to the corresponding plate, equaling the value of Wuurk, and suffer 20 points of Frost Damage!};

{Destination Plate 5: If any hero of level 30 or above steps on or over the Prime Transportation Plate, then they are instantly transported to the corresponding plate, equaling the value of STORM OF ICE AND FIRE, and suffer the effects of: (Existent Curse Chain) Storm of Fire and Ice!};

If any person, mob, or hero, other than a Troll, native to the Cruel Citadel, tampers with this plate, it triggers an explosion causing 150 points fire damage (+10 burn damage/sec for 25 seconds) to any targets within a 20-foot radius.]

Another popup appeared a moment later. 

[Would you like to Transmute Inscription to invent Curse Chain: The Hero Sieve? Yes/No?]

Roark licked chapped lips then, with a grimace, accepted. 

“Boom!”

Roark flinched. But instead of a notice that his final Curse Chain had failed—Goodbye!—the Success page appeared before him, detailing the ins and outs of his new curse:

[Your invention of Curse Chain: The Hero Sieve was successful! Accepted definition for The Hero Sieve has been logged in your Initiate’s Spellbook under rune THE HERO SIEVE.]

A new rune promptly appeared, this one a shimmering opalescent circle that looked a bit like a wheel with six spokes radiating outward. Roark dismissed the announcement with a flick of his hand and craned his neck to glare at Zyra over his shoulder.

“Oh, I apologize, I didn’t think you could hear me,” she said, laughter shining like sunlight through her every syllable. “I take it you’re back with us, then, Dungeon Lord?”

Roark stood and stretched, the stiffness and kinks of untold tense, focused hours protesting in his back and neck. He spotted the meals long gone cold, then remembered his army of visitors the night before.

It’s sure lucky you don’t have to set aside your precious plans to breathe or you’d be long-dead, Danella’s ghost whispered in his ear.

“How long have I been working?” he asked.

“Seventeen hours,” Zyra said as if she’d been waiting to answer this question. “Not counting the time you were gone for respawn. I finished my brewing time requirement and the last of my potions for Master Alchemist an hour ago. I’m down to just the ultra-rate ingredients that a certain Jotnar promised to help me gather.”

Roark nodded and gathered up the finished plates, which collectively weighed a quarter ton. “Indulge me in one last matter,” he replied with a sly grin, eager to see his handiwork in action for the first time.

***

Setting up the plates themselves was a surprisingly simple affair, and in next to no time, Roark and Zyra were back in the Dungeon Lord Throne Room, so Roark could watch the mayhem unfolded from the luxury of his throne. They waited for less than ten minutes before a new party of heroes shouldered their way into the shadowy archway to the first floor’s crumbling staircase. They looked like a mixed lot, most mid-level heroes in the 10 to 14 range. A level 18 Moon Shaman called Stinky_Pinky lead the group. 

“This is important,” the silk-clad Shaman said over his shoulder, “just follow my lead, do what the fuck I say, when the fuck I say, and don’t get separated. These Trolls are lower-level, but if they split you off from the main party, it’s game over, son. The Griefer changed things up recently, so I wouldn’t expect to see any action until we get down to the next level, but this dude’s a tricky sumbitch so you never—”

His words cut off abruptly as he stepped over the entryway plate attached to the threshold, vanishing in a flash of prismatic light. The others, too stupid or too greedy to turn back, followed right on his heels, charging onward. They, too, were swallowed by a shower of blinding light as the various members were sorted and teleported away. Only a single Brawler, EdgeGod, remained on the first floor, his level 11 low enough to keep the Hero Sieve from whisking him away with the others. He crept forward, uncertainty marring every step, his pitted battleaxe held in a trembling death grip. 

“Alex? Bobby? Tamara?” He called out, voice quivering. “Yo, this isn’t funny guys. Where’d you douches go?”

There was a gentle scrape of steel and the shuffle of heavy feet. 

“Hello,” EdgeLord called out louder this time, his nasally voice ringing off the ceiling. 

The whistle of a feathered shaft carving through the air greeted him in reply. 

The arrow slammed into his neck, quickly followed by a second and third shaft. The woefully unprepared hero staggered back, eyes wide, blood drooling from his mouth as a pack of young Thursrs tore around a corner, barreling straight for him. Roark threw back his head and laughed before switching views, finding out what had happened to the rest of his unfortunate test subjects. 

The higher-level Moon Shaman, Stinky_Pinky, backpedaled through a cathedralic nave, lit by the weak combination of a single glowing Infernal stained-glass oculus high on the rear wall and a dozen or so pale blue witch lights wandering between the rotting and burnt wooden pews. The Third Floor, then. 

Hazy yellow-silver light surrounded the Stinky_Pinky in a halo as he cast spell after spell at Grozka the Zealot, Third Floor Overseer. Shrugging off the hero’s attempts to stop her, the heavily armored Thursr Knight advanced, raising her spiked scepter of charred black metal. Stinky_Pinky quivered with intimidation at the sight of her. Even Roark had to admit that Grozka cut a damned impressive figure in her plate armor and stag-horn helm. The Shaman skittered back another few paces and tripped over a downed pew, landing in a sprawl of limbs as Grozka’s Honor Guard stood around the perimeter of the room, leering, cheering, chanting, “Finish him! Finish him! Finish him!” 

The Moon Shaman raised a fist, power thrumming in his palm, an archaic chant building on his lips—

Grozka’s scepter fell, cutting the spell off in an instant. Howls of victory roared as Roark swapped the view again, this time finding the rest of the Heroes in a pitched battle in the torture chamber located on the second floor. Wrought iron cages hung from the ceiling, many of them dripping with fresh gore. Others contained grinning skeletons from distinctly nonhuman creatures. Breaking cradles, blackthorn beds, stretching racks, and grime-covered stocks were strewn around the room, interspersed with blood-soaked tables. 

The party of heroes were encircled by Elite Thursrs and low-level Reavers, pressing in from all sides as the heroes screamed and fought, hopelessly outnumbered. Thoroughly pleased with the functionality of his new system, Roark dismissed the scene of carnage and chortled to himself. 

“I take it things are going well?” Zyra asked.

He smiled. “It’s a thing of beauty. I just wish you could see it. Now come on, let’s go get your ingredient...”

Chapter 11

Rock Eggs

“And then Kaz met with Ishri the Cunning of Bloodleech Grotto,” Kaz said, swinging his Legendary Meat Tenderizer in a wide arc that crushed the head of a [Rock Wyvernling] with a screech and splatter of blood. “And he, too, spoke of seeing action before any agreement could be struck.”

Roark ducked the geyser of acid spewed by a [Elder Rock Wyvern], then aimed his open palm at its birdlike chest and fired off a level 3 Stone Lance. Three feet of twisted stone spiral tore through his hand, eliciting a shout of pain first from him, then from the Elder Rock Wyvern he’d targeted as it pierced the breast. The creature’s health dropped by a mere sliver.

Zyra hadn’t seemed overjoyed at the prospect of Kaz tagging along with them as they left the Cruel Citadel, but now that they were here, Roark was glad they’d brought the Behemoth. For one, he wasn’t sure he could’ve kept the entire flock of Wyverns distracted from Zyra by himself. And second, Kaz had returned with word from the other Dungeons, and that was news Roark didn’t want to wait on. Though, admittedly, it wasn’t the report Roark had been hoping for… 

“That’s seven, then,” Roark panted. “And not a bloody one willing to say yes or no until they see a Marketplace.”

The other dungeon lords’ demand for proof first made good sense, especially considering Roark was asking them to go to war against the most powerful dungeon in Hearthworld, but that didn’t mean he was happy about it.

Kaz swatted another Wyvernling out of the sky with a crunch. With a chirp of glee, Mac went waddling after the scraggly creature to finish it off. At first, the Young Turtle Dragon had waited patiently at Roark’s side for him to bring down the much larger, frilled Elder … until he saw that Kaz was knocking the babies off like flies while Roark was making almost no progress toward killing the parent.

“But they did sound very interested,” Kaz said, lazily smashing a third against the sparkling surface of a cliff face. “Especially after Kaz explained about skewers. Oh and Salt. Ishri the Cunning seemed very much interested in learning more about salt—though only in the right amount, of course.”

The Elder Rock Wyvern swooped low and let loose another gout of acid. Roark threw himself into a roll. Rocks sizzled where he’d been as the acid ate through them. Roark targeted the creature with Infernal Torment, one of his Jotnar spells. Purple tongues of fire burned through the Elder’s pebbly skin as it was cooked alive from the inside out, but its red Health bar dropped to barely less than three-quarters full.

Roark scowled as he heard the shriek and crunch of another Wyvernling behind him. Since they’d first arrived in the Star Iron Hills, fragile Wyvernlings had been swarming the Mighty Gourmet by the tens and twenties, each one meeting with a gruesome end against the flat of Kaz’s Legendary Meat Tenderizer. The nearly unkillable Elder, however, hadn’t bloody looked away from Roark once.

“Have you got that egg yet?” Roark called up the cliff, eyes never leaving the circling, diving Elder.

“A few more feet,” Zyra’s voice came filtering down along with a dusting of pebbles.

“Has Roark noticed yet that Zyra says ‘a few more feet’ every time he asks?” Kaz asked, splattering another wyvern baby across the Star Iron flecked rocks.

Mac clambered back over the rocks to check in on Roark’s fight. He’d been doing so every few Wyvernlings, not wanting to be left out if Roark ever finally did kill the Elder.

“The next dungeon lord you talk to, mention that we’ve already recruited a Book Binder, a Flesh Barber, a Bulwark Engineer and that our merchant is on the way,” Roark said. In truth, only one, Jorfas the Bulwark Engineer, was already setting up shop in the Citadel, but according to Griff the other two had agreed to come as soon as Variok was in place. But that final piece of the puzzle was all but complete. More or less. As soon as they were finished with Zyra’s quest, they would be off to Chillend. “See if that doesn’t make them more willing to commit.”

As if drawn by Roark’s breathless voice, the Elder Rock Wyvern swooped, this time both spewing acid and slashing with its wickedly-curved Star Iron talons. Roark dropped Infernal Torment and threw up his shield. The Elder screeched in frustration as it scraped along the violet barrier. The creature lost altitude, its smooth arc disrupted, and nearly fell prey to the jaws of a surprisingly springy Young Turtle Dragon. Mac had leapt from a boulder at the Elder like a wolf trying to snatch an eagle out of the sky. His razor-sharp beak clipped the very end of the Elder’s tail, but the creature pumped its massive leathery wings like mad, regaining the sky.

The momentary distraction, however, had given Roark time to scribble a Ball Lightning spell in one of his level 4 spell slots. He sent the spell crashing toward the Elder. A sparking ball of green-white energy and plasma slammed into the back of the creature’s neck, just below the skull.

Incensed, the Elder Rock Wyvern banked sharply and folded its wings, diving. As it approached, it extended clawed feet tipped with six-inch talons.

Roark steeled himself; this next move was going to hurt, but hopefully the pain would be worth the pay off. The Elder slashed at Roark’s eyes, opening gashes across his face and upraised arms. But the moment it was within reach, Roark tagged the creature with the flat of his hand, triggering Hex-Touch.

Hex-Touch

Lay hands on any enemy and trigger Hex-Touch; any creature with an Intelligence score lower than the caster is Cursed! for the duration of the spell. Hex-Touch inflicts a -10 against (1) Attribute Score—Strength, Constitution, Dexterity, Intelligence—of the caster’s choice for the duration of the spell! If the enemy dies while Cursed!, caster receives an additional 10% experience! Hex-Touch can be inscribed in a Second Level, Third Level, or Fourth Level Spell Slot. Inscribing Hex-Touch at higher level Spell Slots increases the duration of the Curse! Second Level; Spell Duration, 10 minutes. Third Level; Spell Duration, 1 hour. Fourth Level; Spell Duration, 8 hours.

Text appeared before Roark’s eyes.

[You have cast Level 2 Hex-Touch on Elder Rock Wyvern. You may choose (1) Attribute Score to inflict a -10 penalty against for the duration of the spell, 10 minutes. Which Attribute Score would you like to Curse? Strength, Constitution, Dexterity, or Intelligence?]

Roark selected Constitution. Unfortunately, no change was immediately apparent. He hit the Elder with a second round of Infernal Torment. This time, however, its red bar drained at a more reasonable speed, the plum-colored flames licking away at its Health until less than half remained.

Encouraged by the gain, Roark traded the spells for his Bow of the Fleet-Fingered Hunter and nocked a trio of exploding-tip arrows. He could wait until the creature circled back around, but the range of the bow was more than double the range of most of his spells, plus it was always best to preserve his magick when a common attack would do the same job. His limited supply of Infernal spells simply took too long to regenerate to cast thoughtlessly.

He took a breath to still his rampaging pulse and followed the retreating Elder. With the Flawed Jade he’d added to the bow, his eyesight was Enchanted to four times its usual ability. Roark could see the ragged holes growing in the Elder wyvern’s wing, the crimp Mac’s beak had left in its tail, the slight hitch in each flap of its right wing.

From above came a shout from Zyra. Kaz cheered in response, but Roark ignored them both. He targeted the injured wing and loosed. 

The trio of arrows flew true, exploding as they struck, and nearly tearing the Elder Rock Wyvern’s wing completely off its body. The creature spiraled to the ground with a shriek.

Just before it hit, Mac leapt out from behind a pile of boulders and snatched the wyvern by the throat. The Young Turtle Dragon shook its prey viciously, the sound of ripping flesh filling the air.

With the sure-footed grace of a child of the mountains, Roark sprinted across the rock-strewn slope to where they’d landed, switching out the bow for his rapier and dagger. By the time he reached them, however, Mac had torn the head from the Elder Rock Wyvern. 

The Young Turtle Dragon gave a proud but muffled chirp as Roark stopped by his side.

“Well done, mate,” Roark said, stowing his dagger to scratch Mac’s blood-soaked beard.

“Roark!” Kaz shouted. “Zyra did it! She reached the Rock Wyvern nest!”

Roark turned back to find the Thursr Behemoth leaned back and staring up the cliff at Zyra, who was clambering down much faster than she’d climbed up. A little too fast for someone with no experience in the mountains. She wasn’t testing any of the hand or footholds before putting her full weight on them, just grabbing on and going. 

As soon as Roark thought this, a rock ledge crumbled in Zyra’s hand and she dropped. Roark broke into a run. He slammed into a wall of Thursr, knocking an Oof from a surprised Kaz, who was also trying to catch the falling Reaver. 

A moment later, a pile of long arms and legs wrapped in black leathers crashed down on top of them both, driving them to the ground and extracting a fraction of the red liquid from Roark’s filigreed Health vial.

A gray-green egg the size of a musk melon slammed into the ground beside them, erupting in a fountain of foul-smelling green yolk.

“No!” Kaz howled, trying to disentangle himself from them and get at the broken mess. “Take Kaz, but not Zyra’s quest egg! Nooooooooooo!”

“It’s all right, big guy,” Zyra said, sitting up. “I only need the shell, Kaz!”

The hooded Reaver was so busy trying to quell Kaz’s dismay that she didn’t seem to realize she was straddling Roark’s lap. Roark, however, was very aware of the fact—and of the need to get her off of him before he embarrassed them both.

“Kaz, I only need the shell,” Zyra shouted again, louder this time.

“Oh.” Kaz sighed with relief. “That is very lucky.”

Rather than make a move to stand, Zyra leaned over and started plucking eggshell from the gooey green debris.

“Zyra,” Roark said, straining to sound casual and failing by several degrees. “Could you let me up?”

The shadowy opening of her hood swiveled to look down at him, and she gave a little lurch of surprise.

“Ah—sorry.” She scrambled off him with an unusual lack of grace and no sarcastic comment at all. Her hood turned this way and that; every which way but toward Roark. “Did I hurt you? Do you need a Sufficient Health Potion?”

“No,” Roark said, standing and dusting himself off. An Icy Torrential Downpour wouldn’t go amiss, though. “I’m fine.” He hastily cleared his throat. “Now, what’s our next ingredient?”

Zyra produced a wooden rack of glass tubes and a tiny bottle from her Inventory. She set the lot of it on a flatter boulder and began to crush the Rock Wyvern Eggshell into smaller pieces in her fist.

“Actually,” she said, dropping the chunks into one of the tubes. “I obtained the Haint Orchid petals I needed while you were busy blowing yourself up last night.”

She brought out a velvet pouch, then picked a spectral blue petal from inside and dropped it into the tiny bottle. A concentrated, ghostly flame peaked from the mouth, hissing with preternatural intensity. Carefully, Zyra tipped the eggshell into the flame, then swirled the bottle’s contents. The flame shifted from green to magenta to that ghostly blue again before disappearing altogether. The hissing sound slowly tapered off.

“Done!” Zyra said. She jammed a cork into the potion bottle, then slipped it into her black leathers.

An ascending chime rang through the Star Iron Hills as she leveled up.

“And that’s done as well,” Zyra said. “Say hello to your Master Alchemist, Dungeon Lord.”

Kaz clapped enthusiastically. “Kaz knew Zyra could do it!”

She took a mock bow, one hand folded behind her back, the other sweeping out grandly.

“Congratulations.” Something was wrong with this, but Roark was having a hard time putting his finger on what exactly. “What was it? The potion?”

“Nothing,” she said dismissively. “Just another poison.”

“It must’ve been something rather special to require such rare ingredients,” he pushed.

Zyra shrugged a shoulder. “It’s not exciting for anyone but poison enthusiasts. Now,” she said, slick as spilled oil, “don’t we have a merchant to spring from jail?”

Sensing he wouldn’t get a straight answer from the hooded Reaver and newly minted Master Alchemist, Roark relented. No matter how strange Zyra was acting, she was right. The sooner they got Variok out of Chillend, the sooner they could get the Mob Marketplace open for business and start preparing for war.

 

Chapter 12

Favors

Scott Bayani raised his Unique Mace of Elemental Culmination, blue lightning popping and sparking between its razor-sharp flanges, and shouted out another healing spell. Blue spheres surrounded each of the party members, refilling their Health and Magick.

Of course, as soon as he did it, [Bro_Fo], the douche he was getting paid to push through the Tidal Caves, stepped right into a barrage of Venomous Sea Urchins summoned by [Sssshwsssh the Merfolk Overlord].

Scott rolled his eyes and hit the Overlord with a Lightning Lance—one of his most powerful offensive spells—then healed that dummy Bro_Fo again. 

He just had to keep thinking of the money.

Five grand in gold pieces to get Bad_Karma’s newbie younger brother through some slightly harder than normal dungeons, power leveling the entitled little nutsack to at least level 20. If not for the solid five Gs, Scott thought, he would kill Bro_Fo himself. The little asswipe was seriously the worst. 

Scott hadn’t planned to go back to his Guild yet, but when Bad_Karma said jump, you mashed Y like your membership depended on it. Because it did. Not only was Karma one of the Guild’s founders, but he was number one on the server—and that was playing in Hardcore Mode. One death and Bad_Karma’s character would be gone forever, but the dude had gone fifty levels so far without dying. Even Scott had to admit that was impressive.

If only his moron little brother had half that skill.

The Merfolk Overlord’s HP dropped to twenty-five percent, triggering the boss bullshit. Scott braced himself for something underhanded and shitty. Fishman was a Level 34, after all, so his final mode should be epic.

But the Merfolk Overlord just splayed his gill fronds, making a hissing, rattling sound like a dinosaur from that classic movie, Jurassic Park, and split into five.

Major let-down. All intimidation and scare tactics, but each copy only had a fifth of the HP the original had when it split.

Scott zapped one fishman with a Lightning Lance, one-shotting it outright, then hit another with the same, knocking its HP down to barely breathing. Bro_Fo swept in and killed the second one, soaking up that Experience he’d paid for, while the other guys in the party whaled on the rest. 

Weirdly enough, he found himself comparing the Merfolk loser to that dick modder, the Griefer. Sure, Overlord Splish-splash was tough, but like only as tough as he was supposed to be. No surprises, no last-minute cheats. You got exactly what you paid for with this guy and not a penny more.

Scott hit Bro_Fo with another healing spell before the final Merfolk Overlord copy nuked him. Bro_Fo jumped into the air and slammed the fishman with a Superman-punch, his Spiked Heavy Gauntlets of Sapping stealing away its last sliver of Health. Fishman’s HP bar flashed critical, then the Overlord slapped to the ground dead.

Gold light shined off Bro_Fo in a full-body halo, and an ascending chime rang off the cavern walls. Level 15. Only five more to go before Scott could collect his paycheck.

While the kid ran around looting everything in sight, Scott leaned against a massive stalagmite near the mouth of the room. The other guys lounged around nearby, some against the wall, one sitting on a tablelike broken column swinging her feet so that her heels tinked against the stone.

“Meh,” [TankieMcTankerson] the tank on the column-table said, shrugging her shoulders. “I’ve had better.”

“Fuck you, you ain’t had any,” [BarryCuda], their Blackguard Rogue said.

“I had your dad and your brother,” Tankie said. “Your mom asked if she could join, but I told her I don’t do donkey shows.”

The Blackguard made the Up Yours sign at her.

“I’m talking about this boss,” Tankie said. “I was expecting something cool after all these jank caverns, but that was so freaking meh. You want a legit boss fight, I got three words for you: Roark the Griefer.”

Scott flinched as if she’d hit him, then looked around to make sure nobody had seen. They were all nodding and agreeing with Tankie.

“Have you been in the Citadel since they set up that teleportation thingy?” [Mark_Proper_the_Third] asked. “It’s balls crazy. Walk in and suddenly you’re somewhere else ten Trolls deep.”

“Are you guys talking about Trolls?” Bro_Fo asked, looking up from the Merfolk Overlord, but still shoveling loot into his Inventory. “I thought you guys were supposed to be serious gamers, not little baby bitches. I could one-shot a Troll like bam!”

Scott snorted. “Yeah, no you couldn’t.”

“Yes, I could. Watch me, dickweed. We’re going there next, the whatever…”

“Cruel Citadel,” Mark said.

“Sweet,” Bro_Fo said. “The Cruel Citadel. I’mma make that dive my beeyatch.”

“Have fun getting your ass handed to you,” Scott said, pushing off the stalagmite.

“Wait, where’re you going? You can’t leave! Drake—I mean, Bad_Karma told you to help me power-level. You can’t quit until I’m at 20.”

Scott stopped in his tracks and looked around at his fellow mercs. “Everybody raise your hand if you’ve made a successful run at the Cruel Citadel since Roark the Griefer set up shop there.”

Mark and Tankie both shook their heads, and BarryCuda cracked up laughing.

“Me either.” Scott looked Bro_Fo dead in the eyes. “And I’m a level 28, and I got a specialty class and a Unique weapon. I’ve played my ass off down in the Citadel, and I still haven’t made it out alive.”

As he said it, Scott realized it was true. The Griefer might be a total jerkoff cheater with his fake pirate accent and bullshit OP mods, but he had forced Scott to grind harder and get more creative with his strategies than he’d ever had to before.

But Bro_Fo wasn’t having it.

“We just cleared a Tier 4,” the little douchebag said, crossing his arms and smirking. “I think we can handle a couple of bullshit Trolls.”

“Whatevs,” Scott said. He headed for the almost-hidden tunnel behind the massive treasure chest and cranked the conch affixed to the wall beside it. “I’m done with that shit. Have fun getting camped. I’m outtie five-thousand.”