Civil War: Rogue Dungeon (Book 2) Chapter 5 -6

Chapter 5

Lead from the Front

Roark, Kaz, and Zyra returned to the Cruel Citadel with Griff in tow. As they descended the crumbling staircase, the old fighter’s good eye—or remaining eye, rather—scanned the antechamber. Only one Reaver Bat hung from the ceiling at the moment, looking from Roark to the unfamiliar human as if uncertain whether it should be attacking. Roark gave it a terse shake of the head. The corpse of the other Bat lay broken on the floor at the bottom of the steps, near a pair of gore-spattered Changeling corpses.

Obviously, a party had been through recently. Roark listened for signs that they were still on the first floor but didn’t hear the echoing crash of battle. They must’ve been taken down farther in. He could check the body position and how many Changelings they’d sent for respawn when he got to the Overseer’s throne.

“Not a bad place, as dungeons go,” said Griff from beside him.

Roark eyed the corpses. “It’s a bit dead at the moment.”

“Yup, that happens even to the best of us at times.” Griff folded his hands behind his back, brow furrowed. “So … Where do you want me to set up shop?”

“The great hall should do for now.” Roark looked at Zyra. “Could you show him the way while Kaz and I let everyone know he’s here?”

Her hood dipped in an affirmative and she beckoned to the grizzled old fighter. “This way, human,” she said, leading him toward the wide doorway to the great hall.

Roark and Kaz took the door opposite, heading down a set of winding passages that led past the library and forge.

“Roark does not really need Kaz’s help, does he?” the Thursr asked as they walked. “Kaz, should be checking on his apprentice chefs. Making sure the evening stew is not too salty.” Roark couldn’t help but notice Kaz’s new book was tucked up beneath a meaty arm, one of his sausage-sized fingers holding his place. As if that weren’t obvious enough, his large body was already half turned toward the library.

“I think you’re headed the wrong way, mate,” Roark said, not bothering to hide the knowing smile. “The kitchen’s that way.”

The Thursr looked down sheepishly, the black feathered plumage on his antlered headdress jiggling. “Well, Kaz would stop at the library first to see if the any of the books could tell him where chocolate orchids or white truffles might be found.”

Roark shrugged. “Fair enough. Just make certain you meet up with Griff later to unlock your Melee Skills. They’ll help you level up faster, which means more evolutions to come.”

“Oh yes, Kaz promises.” Before the final word had left his mouth, Kaz had already turned on his heel and practically sprinted toward the library.

Chuckling to himself, Roark continued down the hall alone, enjoying the brief moment of solitude—a rare treat as of late. He rounded a bend, then edged around two heroes’ corpses and a pair of Thursrs busy looting their bodies. A dead Changeling and trio of Stone Salamanders lay scattered nearby.

“Did those two do all this?” Roark asked, his steps faltering.

The larger of the Thursrs, a broad female with spiked pauldrons, nodded vigorously.

“They were right tough, Overseer. Level twelve and fourteen.”

“Returning to pick up their gear from the raid?” Roark asked.

“No, no, these were first-timers.” She pointed at her companion, who was busy struggling with a piece of parchment and pen. Even with their new skill trainer, Roark noted that he would still have to get a line on a few more Cartography tomes. “Bort’s marking them for griefing now.”

Roark nodded and continued on his way, though a frown tugged down the corners of his mouth. Strange. Before PwnrBwner_OG’s guild raid, Roark hadn’t seen any heroes over level seven in the Citadel. But then Roark hadn’t been there that long, either. Time was hard to judge in Hearthworld, but he estimated he’d come through only a few days ago. A week at the most.

His mind wandered. How much destruction could Marek Konig Ustar reek on his beloved Korvo given a week’s time? Already, there might not be one brick left standing on another or one of her hardy people left alive to mourn her.

Roark was so focused on these dark thoughts that he didn’t notice the telltale distortion on the ceiling overhead until it let go of the stones and plopped down on top of him. Three hundred pounds of Elite Salamander landed on Roark’s head and shoulders like a sack of grain, buckling his knees and slamming him to the floor under the mass of fat, muscle, tail, and pebbly slate skin. A sliver of red liquid drained from his filigreed health vial on impact.

Macaroni rested both wide forepaws on Roark’s chest and chirped down at him happily. The salamander’s fat black tongue shot out, licking Roark’s pale cheek, before retreating back into its wide mouth. 

“Hells, Mac.” Roark planted his hands on the creature’s fat-padded chest and gave it a shove. The Elite Salamander blinked its eyes slightly out of time with one another, then clambered off him. “I’m happy to see you, too, but if I were still a Changeling, that would’ve killed me.” Roark stood and brushed the dust from his backside. “You’re much bigger than you used to be, mate.”

Mac fell into step beside Roark, not at all chastened, and followed him the rest of the way to the throne room.

Once there, Roark took his seat on the twisted obsidian throne and pulled up the Overseer’s Grimoire. In addition to giving him access to a roster of the first-floor creatures and allowing him to change the layout of the floor once a day, the grimoire also acted as something of a telepathic focus. From it, he could contact all the creatures under his supervision, either individually or en masse.

Roark selected the mass option.

“The first floor now employs a weapons trainer. If you wish to unlock your Melee Skills or level up your abilities with a weapon, you may meet with him in the great hall starting immediately. He charges a flat rate of ten gold per training session, so have the coin handy when you go.” Roark was about to end the message, then recalled the uncertainty of the Reaver Bat in the antechamber. “The trainer is a human male with an eyepatch. Griff, by name. He’s not to be harmed under any circumstances, and if heroes threaten his life, you’ll be expected to protect him.”

That done, Roark pulled up a page marked Floor Design.  

At the top was a detailed map of the first floor’s hallways and rooms: each door, chest, trap, and bit of furniture carefully depicted. Beneath that was a point counter, which read 0/100 in glowing golden numerals. All of the rooms and items on his floor each had a different cost, and as Overseer, Roark could tweak the floor layout in any way he desired, so long as he stayed within the allotted points limit. Currently, all of his points were tied up in rooms, traps, and furnishings. If Griff was going to stay on with them, however, they would need somewhere more permanent than the great hall to train. Likely, he would need sleeping quarters as well. So far as Roark could tell, Trolls didn’t need sleep—in fact, he’d only ever seen them do it when passed out from too much ale—but Griff was human and would likely have the physical requirements of one.

Macaroni climbed up onto the throne to curl around Roark’s back, though they’d both grown much too large to fit comfortably in the seat together. Mind still focused on the floor design, Roark scooted absently to the edge of the throne. Mac settled in contentedly, wrapping his fat tail around Roark’s stomach.

Roark played with the values in his head. They could stand to part with a few traps. Admittedly, he’d overdone them a bit in his desire to teach PwnrBwner_007 a lesson. Now that the lesson had been taught, though, there was no reason he couldn’t shift the points toward something else. Something a bit more pragmatic. Especially if that something involved making all the Trolls on the floor into more formidable opponents.

“Lord Overseer,” Zyra’s teasing voice cut through his brooding. 

“That’s not funny.” Roark closed out of the Grimoire with a thought and glared at the hooded Reaver. “Do you have any idea how long it took to get the Changelings to stop calling me that?”

She shrugged one bare shoulder, then gestured back toward the great hall. “Your brilliant training plan is having some issues.”

“What issues?”

“Best if you see for yourself,” she replied, voice rather smug.

With a sigh, Roark stood and followed Zyra from the Throne room. When they made it back to the great hall, the issue became immediately apparent. 

Griff had pulled one of the rough-hewn tables over to a corner and was sitting behind it, waiting for pupils to train. The room was filled with squat little Changelings and brawny Thursrs—even a pair of newly evolved Reavers. But no one approached the grizzled vet. Instead, the Trolls milled around the tables, talking to one another, eating, or shooting surreptitious glances toward the outsider in the corner. The human.

With the claw-tipped thumb and forefinger of one hand, Roark massaged his temples. “Please tell me there isn’t some Troll taboo against weapons trainers,” he said.

“None,” Zyra said. “This is a matter of uncertainty. You got them to trust one another. The trick now is getting them to trust an outsider.”

Roark dragged his hand down his face, then nodded. Leading a revolt to overthrow both a tyrant and the status quo was fraught with far more nuisances than he would’ve imagined. True, he’d dealt with the bureaucratic numbskullery of the T’verzet—the Rebel Council—back in Korvo, but he hadn’t been a leader then. In truth, he’d been an outsider, even amongst his fellow rebels. The task was proving to be a bit more difficult than he ever would’ve imagined. 

“Very well,” he finally said. “Go get Kaz. Sometimes the only way forward is in front of the pack.”

As the hooded Reaver stalked off toward the kitchens, Roark strode up to the table. Every eye in the room followed him, Troll and human alike. Macaroni was busy climbing up the wall and frisking after another Stone Salamander, not paying much attention to the goings-on below.

Griff folded his scarred hands in front of him and tilted his head back until he could look Roark in the eye.

“What can I do you for?” he said, as though this was the first time they’d ever met.

“I’d like training in the rapier,” Roark said, fishing a stack of golden coins from his inventory and dropping them on the table.

The grizzled old fighter nodded and swept the coins into a small purse before standing with a groan.

“Let’s see your blade,” he prompted, twirling one hand through the air. Let’s get along with it, that gesture said.

Roark presented his Slender Rapier of the Falcon for the older man’s inspection. Griff raised the pommel to his nose, staring straight down the blade, then rested the flat on his finger less than an inch from the guard, checking the balance.

                                                         ╠═╦╬╧╪ 

Slender Rapier of the Falcon (Superior) 

One-Handed Damage: 20 - 29

Durability: 50 of 50 

Level Requirement: 5

Strength Requirement: 12

Blade Class Weapon - Fast Attack Speed

+10% Attack Speed

                                                         ╠═╦╬╧╪ 

“Quality work.” With a flick of his wrist, Griff tossed the rapier up and snatched it by the hilt.

Though Roark was well-versed in the rapier, he watched Griff’s motions with keen fascination. The blade sliced through the air in a complicated series of mandritto and riverso slashes, all dal polso, or from the wrist. Roark tended to favor dalla spalla, swinging from his shoulder for the added momentum, but that technique left the body open to a counterattack for a comparatively long time. By contrast, Griff’s quick, precise cuts hardly left openings long enough to spot them, let alone exploit them. Any doubts Roark had regarding Griff’s skill vanished at once. 

This man was competent and deadly. 

“Next time you’re blade to blade with an opponent, give this a shot,” Griff said. He moved away from the table, then danced across the floor, his footwork impeccable. He flicked his wrist, bringing the blade around in a tight circle, stramazzone. “Why, that’ll throw him right off and free you to cut his hand up something cussed.”

The old fighter handed the rapier back to Roark and motioned for him to try the move. Roark settled into a defensive guard, imagining that he had just attached swords with someone to the inside, then twirled the blade in that same close circle Griff had demonstrated.

[Congratulations! You have unlocked a Melee Skill: Bladed Weapons! Once unlocked, Melee Skills, like all combat skills, gain abilities and levels through use. You can also purchase additional levels from trainers once per day. Warning: Players only have (3) Melee Skill Slots, are you sure you would like to add Bladed Weapons? Yes/No?]

[Congratulations! You have unlocked a Weapon Specialty: Rapier! When using a Specialty Weapon, you level up more quickly, deal additional damage, and have an increased chance to score a Critical Hit! Warning: Players only have (1) Weapon Specialty Slots, are you sure you would like to add Rapier? Yes/No?] 

Roark read and re-read the prompt, thinking through it for only a moment before accepting both prompts. Obviously, he needed access to Bladed Weapons, and since his favored weapon was the Rapier, it made no sense not to accept the added benefits. An ascending chime rang through the room and another message appeared, this one gold and glimmering. 

[LEVEL UP!]

[You have 10 undistributed Stat Points!]

Level 9, finally. 

Only three more levels before he hit his next evolution: Elite Jotnar. He needed to distribute his Stat Points, but that could wait until he was no longer pinned down under the staring eyes of fifty Trolls. Roark dismissed the magical grimoire page with a thought, then returned the rapier to the narrow sheath hanging from the leather frog at his belt.

“Much appreciated, mate.”

Griff grunted. “Come back when you’re ready to add the dagger to your off-hand, and I’ll teach you this little trick I learned in the arena.”

Though Roark was tempted to spend the extra gold right then to find out what the trick was, he saw Kaz and Zyra loitering at the back of the crowd, watching curiously. Roark caught Kaz’s eye, then jerked his head at the trainer.

The Thursr’s onyx eyes widened with understanding and his huge mouth formed an O. As if he’d just stepped out on a massive stage, Kaz pulled himself up to his full height and strode through the crowd to Griff. “Kaz would like to purchase a level of training as well,” he said in a loud, stilted voice. Thespian would never be in the cards for Kaz, but bless his soul for trying.

Griff rubbed his calloused hands together. “What’s your weapon of choice, big fella?”

Kaz handed over his twin hooked swords while Roark slipped to the back of the room. The rest of the Trolls weren’t ready to swarm the table demanding the trainer take their money yet, but it wouldn’t be long, he suspected. With the crowd creeping closer to the trainer, it was easy to fade into the background with Zyra and simply observe. 

Roark spoke up before the hooded Reaver could make a clever quip.

“Get your gold ready,” he said, gesturing to the front. “You’re next in line.”

The hood swiveled his direction. “I’ve already unlocked my primary combat skills.”

“Then you can level one of your abilities. It’s faster than griefing. And far more efficient.”

Zyra sniffed, then begrudgingly admitted that was true. When Griff finished with Kaz, she took his place, presenting the trainer with a handful of her matte-black flechettes. The lower-level Trolls watched eagerly as the grizzled old man demonstrated a way to throw three of the poisoned darts at the same time. Roark knew that they wanted to follow suit and train as well—it was written all over their lumpy blue faces and carved into the lines of their malformed bodies—they just needed something to push them over the edge.

The old man returned the flechettes to Zyra and had her practice the motion. Her eyes slipped out of focus for a moment, no doubt reading the notice that she’d leveled up her Ranged Attack.

“What,” a reedy teenage voice echoed off the walls, “in the hell, bro?”
 

Chapter 6

Hellbender

A broad-shouldered rog clad in obsidian plate armor, and a slender olm in flowing jade robes stood in the doorway to the antechamber. Apparently in all the excitement, the pair had managed to infiltrate without setting off a call to arms. An oversight to be fixed in the future.

“This is insane,” the rog, [Han_Pwno], said, his voice cracking. He pointed the blade of his naginata at Griff. “Do you think they kidnapped that NPC?”

“Isn’t that …” the olm, [SquirrelGirl80], paused and squinted. “Isn’t that the retired arena vet from the tavern in Averi City?” she asked, tilting her slime-coated head slightly to one side. “Holy crap. Yep. Definitely is. Dude … I think they might be training.”

“No way!” Han_Pwno shouted, delight etched into the lines of his green face. “That’s even weirder than Kamal said! I’m so screenshotting this. Seriously, no one is gonna believe this!”

Though Roark was mildly annoyed about the interruption, he realized that with just a little effort he could manipulate this situation to his favor. True, he could’ve rallied the small army of Trolls milling around in the great hall, bringing down a tidal wave of blue flesh and slashing weapons upon the interlopers. But that simply wouldn’t serve his purpose. 

“Allow us to demonstrate the benefit of martial training,” Roark said to the assembled Trolls, his voice reverberating off the stone walls. “Kaz, Zyra, to arms. The rest of you, watch and learn.” 

Roark slipped his Slender Rapier free of his sheath, then nodded toward Kaz. The Thursr nodded in reply, ready, a hook sword in each meaty fist. But Zyra was the closest. Before the heroes could take even a single step, she hurled three flechettes as one, using the motion Griff had just taught her. The olm flinched, squawking in shock, then threw herself out of the way of the incoming flechette. The rog whirled his oversized naginata, knocking one of tiny black blades aside, but the third flew true, lodging in his shoulder. The red bar over his head flashed green. Poisoned.

Zyra disappearing into a puff of shadow and smoke. Gone like a specter banished to dark waters of Tuonilla.

Kaz ran at the poisoned rog, bellowing his new war cry, “FOR SAAAAALT!” 

Han_Pwno ducked, narrowly catching one hook sword on the edge of his naginata. But Kaz’s other sword swooped in low, the flat edge denting in the side of the rog’s left greave while the hook tore into the meat of his calf. He yelped and stumbled backward, wildly swinging his naginata. The blade landed with a wet thud, scoring a deep gash across Kaz’s broad shoulder. An eyeblink later, the butt of the staff whistled toward Kaz’s head. Ignoring the brutal wound, Kaz threw his hook swords up in an X, trapping the naginata in place before the strike could land.

While Han_Pwno wrestled with Kaz for control of his weapon, Roark bolted into the action, circling right then lunging in from the flank, stocatta di quarta—an upward thrust that slid between the plates of the rog’s armor. Han_Pwno cried out in a combination of shock and pain as his Health bar dropped to three quarters, then to half as Roark spun away and repeated the thrust from the opposite side.

Off to the side, the olm came out of a roll and bounced to her feet. She began weaving her hands in an intricate pattern, a chant building on her lips. A black rift, shimmering with streaks of angry crimson light, appeared in the air before her. A massive chitinous claw like that of an enormous crustacean shot out, grabbing Kaz by the leg. The limb was massive, the chitin a blue-black shot through with streaks of brilliant pink. Roark couldn’t even begin to envision what sort of monstrosity such a claw could possibly belong to. He hoped he would never find out. 

The Thursr shouted in surprise as he was lifted off his feet and pulled toward the rift.

Roark took a final hack at the rog, finishing him off, then lunged pie’ firmo at the armored claw. He slashed and swung at it, but his rapier did little more than score the chitin.

With an inky puff of smoke, Zyra stepped out of the shadows directly behind SquirrelGirl80 and lodged a gleaming dagger in the olm’s kidney. The olm spun. Her hands dropped and scrambled for a cloudy glass mace with odd fingers peeling off in every direction from the head, but Zyra raked her free palm across the olm’s face, opening several lines of black blood and poisoning the olm. The hooded Reaver moved like smoke in a strong wind, ducking under a swing of the mace, then launching three quick strikes with the dagger right into the olm’s gut and ribs. The olm screamed, clutching at her wounds as blood dribbled from her lips.

As if in response to its caster’s pain, the enormous claw changed directions suddenly, using Kaz’s flailing body as a club. On instinct, Roark thrust out his left hand and conjured up his new Jotnar Spell, Infernal Shield. Unlike the carefully written spells located within his Grimoire, this ability required no writing at all, and was tied directly to his Infernali Magick. A filigreed bar—this one filled with odd purple liquid—appeared in the corner of his vision, while a shimmering shield of violet energy erupted to life before him. 

Kaz slammed into the conjured shield like a battering ram, and though the mystic energy absorbed the damage, the sheer force of the blow sent Roark flying across the room like a cornhusk doll. He slammed into Griff’s table, his head bouncing off the corner. Agony radiated from the impact point in angry white waves.

[You have been temporarily dazed! Dexterity decreased by 75% for 11 seconds!]

Roark rolled forward onto his hands and knees. Luckily, he’d somehow managed to maintain his grip on the rapier. Now if he could just get to his feet.

Another scream drew his attention. The claw was retreating into the rift once more with Kaz still in its grip. Kaz was howling, a single long note, terrified eyes fixed on the black and red void while he pounded frantically at the chitinous appendage with his hook swords.

Roark staggered onto unsteady legs and lurched toward the claw, rapier at the ready. Beneath his feet, the floor seemed to lean and list like a ship on the Great Sea. Damn. And he still had eight seconds before the daze wore off. Kaz would be long through the rift by then. Sent off for respawn, which would be costly since Kaz was so close to unlocking his Elite Thursr evolution. For a second Roark considered tapping one of his first-level fireball spells, but that would defeat the point of this little demonstration—the assembled Trolls needed to see the value of weapons training in action. 

Jade fabric whirled past Roark, followed closely by midnight blue skin wrapped in black leathers, knocking him off course. He had to grab the stone wall to stay upright.

Roark lifted his head just in time to see Zyra sink her dagger into the olm’s neck. The toxic green bar over SquirrelGirl80’s head flashed out a warning, then emptied. The olm collapsed in a heap on the floor. Eyes glassy, chest unmoving, blood seeping from her neck. 

The black rift vanished, slicing the claw off cleanly just behind the colossal pincer. Kaz dropped to the flagstones with a thud, then rolled to his feet, spinning this way and that, searching for any other threats. The black plumage on his antlered headdress danced and bobbed.

For several moments, the only sound in the great hall was the rough wheezing of three Trolls trying to catch their breath. 

Then an ascending chime echoed through the room as Zyra leveled up.

“She beat that Level 11 Voidcraft Mage all alone!” a Changeling croaked. “She trained with him”—the potbellied creature thrust a dirt-caked claw at Griff—“then she defeated the hero on her own!”

A roar went up from the rest of the Trolls, all shouting at once as they rushed Griff’s misaligned table, begging to be trained next.

The Reaver’s hood swiveled in Roark’s direction. He shrugged. He was just happy her level had convinced them to give Griff a chance.

Kaz limped over to the pair of them, guzzling a Modest Healing Potion. Seeing the wisdom in this, Roark found one of the sickly-sweet magenta concoctions in his Inventory and did the same. A line of text appeared as he drank: Brought to you by Mountain Dew Code Red! Thanks for drinking! Such odd spells, this world had. Mountain Dew Code Red must’ve been some sort of local deity or perhaps a potent magical herb, which might explain its miraculous ability to heal. He dismissed the wording with a flick of his wrist. Warmth and vitality surged through his body; the dazed feeling bled away, and the ground stopped pitching and rolling beneath his feet as red returned to his filigreed Health vial.

“You know, I almost didn’t survive that,” Zyra told them under her breath, though no one would know it, looking at her. Unlike both Roark and Kaz, her life bar was completely full, thanks to the level she’d gained from the combat. “I used up the last of my poison on that lizard wench.”

“Am I imagining things,” Roark asked, “or are these heroes getting stronger?”

Kaz shook his wide head. “It is not Roark’s imagination. Levels so high never used to come to the Citadel in the past.”

“Not unless they were coming back up from the lower—” Zyra cut off suddenly, and she leaned forward. “Is that a …”

Roark craned his neck, trying to follow the line of sight from the direction of her hood. She was no longer looking toward the dispatched heroes, but instead was staring at the door that led back toward the throne room. He strained his eyes, but all he could see was a long, distortion about the size and shape of one Elite Salamander flowing over the stone ceiling toward the doorway. 

“Mac, no!” Zyra shouted. “It’s a Hellbender!”

With a gurgling growl, Macaroni appeared, hurling himself at the doorway. He crashed into something there, then dropped.

Two wet, meaty thuds hit the stone floor.

Mac thrashed and rolled, grappling with some creature still invisible to Roark’s eyes. Mac struck like a Black Ridge pit viper, his fangs conjuring a splash of purple-blue blood, seemingly from thin air. Mac rolled again, offering a throaty growl as he gained his feet and scampered back. There was the tinkling, clinking sound like a sea of broken glass shifting, then a blast of brilliant amethyst energy arced toward the Elite Salamander. Mac gave a snarling bark—half pain, half anger—as the amethyst blast melted away his right front leg. Flesh and muscle dissolved until only a stump of gleaming white bone was left.

What in all the bloody hells is going on here? Roark thought. 

He pulled out his Initiate’s Spell Book and pen, hastily scrawling a Rebound Spell in his only 3rd level spell slot. 

[55% of all damage done to target rebounds to the opponent for the next 30 seconds.]

The damnable arbitrary rules that governed Hearthworld wouldn’t allow him to give the spell more power. Ripping the page from his book, Roark cast the spell on Mac.

This time when the glasslike clinking came, and the amethyst blast hit Mac, the majority of the arcane power bounced backward. With a startled croak, a huge brown salamander appeared, as tall as a pony and wide as an apple cart. The creature looked like a bigger, beefier version of Mac, though there were a few significant differences. The creature had formidable black spikes protruding along its back, and its tail ended in a spiked ball, which could likely be used as a mace. Four deadly talons, perfect for rending flesh and meat, protruded from each foot. Over its head floated thin white letters:

[Hellbender]

The creature let out an angry hiss, then opened its mouth wide, that strange tinkling sound building once more as a spectral purple glow appeared deep in its throat. The creature whipped its head forward, unleashing another attack which screamed toward Mac. The terrible power ripped through another quarter of Mac’s filigreed health vial, but thankfully the Rebound spell was still in place. Purple light shot back, slamming into the Hellbender’s face, its right eye-socket dissolving under the ricochet of its own attack.

A puff of smoke erupted from the shadows at the Hellbender’s back, and Zyra slashed at the creature’s fat belly with her dagger. The Hellbender whipped its globular head around, hissing and snapping at the Reaver, but she had already disappeared back into the shadows.

It was all the distraction Mac needed. Using his remaining three legs, the Elite Salamander launched himself at the Hellbender’s back and sank his Venomous Fangs into the creature’s neck. The Hellbender thrashed and bucked, finally whipping its thick tail about. The spiked ball slapped Mac in the side of the head with the crack of breaking bone. Mac’s Health bar—already down below seventy-five percent—dropped another fifth, but the Elite Salamander only dug in deeper with his fangs. He was a murderous, bloodthirsty little bastard, and it made Roark fiercely proud to have Mac as one of his Greater Vassals.

The Hellbender reared back, spun, and tore off down the stone corridor, dragging Mac with him.

Roark dashed after them, inscribing another spell in one of his level 2 slots. 

[The target’s strength is increased by 30% for thirty seconds.]

When the spell hit him, Mac swelled, nearly doubling in size. He was nowhere near as large as the Hellbender, but the added strength allowed him to batter the larger creature with his head and tail. It cried out and stumbled under Mac’s weight. Mac didn’t relent for a moment, ripping off blubbery chunks of brown meat and leaving deep furrows in its skin with his claws.

Movement down the corridor caught Roark’s eye. A lanky [Reaver Shaman] appeared, waving a gnarled oak staff at him. The staff was covered with complex sigils, burning with unholy emerald light. The air crackled as a javelin of ice dancing with electrical sparks spiraled toward Roark’s chest.

Before he even had time to dodge, a massive shoulder crashed into Roark’s side, tackling him to the floor. Kaz. The lightning ice spike shattered on the wall. As Roark struggled to disentangle himself from Kaz, Zyra streaked past them after the cackling Shaman.

But apparently the Shaman could do the same shadow-jump trick Zyra could, and at twice the speed. It flashed down the corridor, dancing in and out of the shadows thrown by the flickering torchlight pulling out of Zyra’s reach with every puff of smoke. The pair of Reavers disappeared around the corner, headed toward the throne room, and presumably toward the stairs leading to the lower levels of the Dungeon.

When Roark finally managed to extricate himself from Kaz, he found Macaroni standing over the bloodied pulpy remains of the Hellbender. The Elite Salamander had shrunk back down to his normal fat-padded self and was busy limping around the much larger creature’s corpse on three legs, nuzzling its side with his head as if he were trying to slip underneath it.

Curious, Roark bent down and checked the Hellbender’s Inventory. The only thing inside was a lumpy piece of vibrant burgundy meat the size of a bull’s liver.

                                                         ╠═╦╬╧╪ 

Hellbender Heart

                                                        ╠═╦╬╧╪

Roark took the organ and stood. The heart was disturbingly hot and soggy in his hand.

Mac chirped up at Roark expectantly, still shuffling around with only one front paw.

“Well, that was a waste of time,” Zyra said, coming back around the corridor.

“Did Zyra get her?” Kaz asked.

“No, she Gloom Dodged me between floors. She could be anywhere by now.” The hooded Reaver stopped at Roark’s side, fiddling with her hand wrappings, putting away her palmful of poisoned needles in frustration. “A Shaman and a Hellbender. You never see them above the fourth floor. Not in all my time in the Dungeon.”

Mac chirped again, louder. More insistently. The lump of ghastly meat didn’t seem to have any properties or uses—at least none that Roark could find—so he tossed Mac the Hellbender Heart. The Elite Salamander caught the chunk of meat midair and shook it down his gullet.

“So was she here to assess my politics as Floor Boss in the hopes of joining us,” Roark sneered, “Or was she sent to spy for our dear Dungeon Lord, Azibek?”

“Spy? Doubtful,” Zyra replied grimly. “My money’s on an assassin sent to kill you before you gained any further evolutions.”

Roark scratched at the back of his neck, razor claws running through his shaggy black hair. If this was how Azibek wanted to play it, then alliances with the lower levels of the Citadel couldn’t wait.

“I think it’s time we pay a visit to our downstairs neighbors,” he said.