Let's Sperg Let’s Sperg! Stolen Realm - Dungeons and Dickpunching – Kiwi Adventure Edition

[Mooger Meng]

03 – Elder Wisdom

For two days now, the mutterings from those around you have held a different tone. Father was perhaps a tolerated presence, if not always welcomed for his wandering ways. His usefulness to Talestone saw the both of you left to your own devices more often than not.
But his deeds were never yours, and dedicating yourself to a goddess so disparaged by the Menders ensured you were kept at arm’s length by all but the most kind or pragmatic of the town’s populace.


Though not related by blood, the last scholar of Altima’s dwindling faith has long stood as the mother you never could recall. Mother Aurora taught you how to hear the Crimson Angel’s song in your sleep, and when combined with Father’s lessons, laid the foundation of your skill in the holy arts. As a child, you had hoped to receive more direct instruction of how to call on these forces, but having now grasped them yourself in battle, you understand that such turbulent energies cannot be directed by learned rote alone.
It’s all so… strange, Mother. I’ve gotten so used to all the sidelong glares and the sneering, I… I feel as if something’s prepared to go terribly wrong.
Let it vex you not, my child. Talestone is a wounded and frightened thing, and its people hunger for material relief. They clamor for a savior, caring not from whence it comes.
Then you think their kind ignorance is a mask?
I think it a delicate thing, born of desperation than of kindness. Your motley are not the heroes they wished, but you are what they have received, and so they force a crooked smile for their own sakes. Put it from your mind, and stay your path. They know not if motives align with their desires.
My motives are as they ever have been. I just want to find Father.
And in doing so, you may yet prove the Crimson Angel’s kindness. Let these ephemeral beings learn such from the actions of Her hand.
Walk with pride, my child. And should you and yours ever need remedy or direction, I shall hear you with open arms.


Near the road that leads to the gilded quarter, you spy Ofone looking up at the statues of the Jawson brothers with an expression you cannot fully comprehend.
Founders?
Noble sons, generals in all but name. They won fame and glory in the old wars with Wyrmrest nearly a century ago, or so the story goes. The Evershields, they called them.
Mmm. Knew how to fight, at least.
Quite likely. Though, I doubt they would have given us the time of day were they here now.
Eh, noble’s lot. S’what advisors are for. Preachers preach. Menders mend. Warriors war.
So, then… what, nobles nob, I suppose?
Heh!
That shouldn’t mean they ought focus on nothing else but blood.
World rots, need war to set it right. Monsters and bastards only speak in steel. Yell louder or die.
Ready to go, soon as the others quit pissing around. Be waiting.


As you come near the apothecary’s storefront, a familiar argument reaches your ears.
… don’t care, Jon. How many times have you done this?
Tyra-

Jon and his family have long since had a vehement disagreement with the elven population of Talestone, regarding who could truly claim the lands by birthright. Nevermind that the question was settled almost two centuries past when the city was founded in the wake of a bitter war of survival, where both of their peoples were too diminished to save themselves alone.
But like everything else around you in the recent days, what was once familiar has changed. This is not the usual low-simmering argument, and is quickly becoming bitter and vehement.
How many? I’m not asking a rhetorical question, I’ve forgotten! Because you do this at least once a season! Always carrying on and on and bloody on about it.
I don’t-
You humans aren’t the only ones who suffered! For some reason I must keep beating this into that misshapen skull of yours. Is the malt rotting your brain, tribal, or have you finally taken a blow to the head you’ve been running from for years?
… Tribal?
Oh, not again. Altima preserve me…
Listen here, you cloven-eared trollop-
She’s right there, Jon. No need to shout.
Gods, then the heathen shows up. What fine timing. Do Talestone a favor and get your drunken bird out of here, before he does something you’ll both regret!
You-
Gladly. I dare say he’ll be more help outside than you would.
Get. Out!

To your relief, Jon does not struggle against your gentle hand as you usher him away, fuming and muttering venom under his breath.
Ungrateful, smarmy little harridan. Should have just-
Jon. Get your damned head on straight. We don’t need to be antagonizing the same people we need for supplies.
Don’t you lecture me, dandilion!
… Excuse me?
… I… That…
This is not some hunting trip or a tour in a lord’s army! No backup, no supply trains, nothing. All we have to depend on are the ones around us, our own skill, and the gods if we’re fortunate. We need to be able to come back and find food in our bellies, potions in our packs, and somewhere to sleep that won’t string us from the rafters!
So you just expect me to stand there like a sop and take what abuse these “people” hurl at me?
Yes, because I won’t hold you to a lower standard than I do of myself!
…
… It was about the First Nation again, wasn’t it?
What else? I still can’t believe how she could think tha-
Jon, please. We’ve worn furrows at the walls for how often you’ve gone around about it. Yes, I know, a simple title means much more than we could possibly fathom, but right now we have more pressing issues to worry ourselves over.
Such as?
Such as not dying in a ditch while wolves and bears gnaw off our limbs. I still have yet to learn how to reattach a leg.
… Well, I’d rather you not need to figure out on us, thank you. … We should send Chardler to get a few more salves, if we need them.
We should, yes. Meet him at the gate and find out?
Sure.

With pinched eyes, you take several deep breaths to try and calm yourself. There is a small victory, however; more than once you have had to wrest Jon from such quarrels before, sober or not. That he relented without much of a fight or turning the worst of his ire upon you is a mercy, perhaps even a sign of some welcome change.
Once you have settled your nerves, you make your way to the gate, intent on meeting your group and setting forth.


And yet, the gods see fit to halt you in your tracks again. The sight of Adolf standing at the notice board within arm’s reach of another citizen is strange enough, but that they have not yet come to blows is nothing short of baffling. You can barely hear the words passing between them, but the way the older man’s hands keep balling into white-knuckled fists speaks volumes as you approach.
… nothing wrong with the observations, of course. It’s quite easy to tell one from the other, even from the bones.
I see. Remind me not to die anywhere near you.
Oh, you need not worry about that unless something breaches the walls. Even so, I would wager that a creature strong enough to do so would end up eating everyone it fell upon in any case, so you-
Ahem. Good morrow, Adolf. Are you still planning to come with us?
Ah, lady Valkyrie! Yes, yes, I was just looking through the obituaries. I assume the others are already gathered?
It seems so. I have a few trifling matters to attend, as well, but I will join you shortly.
Wonderful. I have been developing new techniques that I cannot wait to test! Ah, if you will excuse me, sir, but duty calls.

The older elf shakes his head at you, his face a portrait of conflicted emotions. His shoulders relax once the occultist strides away, but his eyes are full of suspicion as he looks in your direction.
How?
Pardon?
How can you put up with them? I don’t understand, is it something from your father, or that… religion you follow?
Well, they put up with me. Support me out in the wilds, where the guards refuse to tread. Perhaps even here in the walls, I suppose.
What are you implying?
Nothing. I am not here to wave a finger in rebuke, not today. They simply chose to follow me into the unknown, more than once. That is worth a measure of trust, in my eyes.
They’re mad. You’re mad. They hate us!
Enough to break the Blood Masks’ siege? To clear out the dens the watch is too overwhelmed to handle alone? Perhaps they do hate you all, and perhaps they are mad. Then might a touch of madness be what we needed to survive?
… I…
Not everyone can risk leaving the walls. I understand that, sir. It’s easier when you have little else to lose, is all.
… S’pose it is.
Which reminds me, how is the wife faring? Any improvement?
She’s… she’s been better. Not getting much worse, at least.
I see. My sympathies, sir. The Menders’ work is never done.
… Need to get back. Got her medicine here, but I got, uh…
Distracted?
Yes. Fair winds on your travels.
… Thank you.


The sight of your group milling around the gatehouse is a welcome respite. A map is spread out on a nearby table, from which Chardler glances up at your approach.
Ah, good morning, Minerva. Keeping busy around the town?
More than I would like.
Where do we go next? You mentioned a mine…


Yes. The old dwarf kingdom, under the eastern mountain range.
Hmm. And what does the book you found have to do with this?
It’s my father’s travel journal. If I can retrace his steps, I might be able to find him, or at least learn what happened before he vanished.
Are you certain he is still among the living, fräulein?
Yes.
Bit of a sore subject, that is.
I see.


Well, if that is the plan, then it looks like… this path here is our best option. We will have to cut into the Wyrmrest desert, at least for a time, unless one of you knows how to get us over sheer mountains.
Hrn. Hate sand. Heat’s worse. Can’t take the road?
After what happened to us the last time? No. I have no delusions that the garrison has gotten any less hostile since we wormed through.
Bah!
Wait, what garrison?
Don’t worry about it for now. Suffice to say there are too many angry blades along the eastern road to reach Undermount.
So, sun-struck Wyrmrest it is, then?
Afraid so, unless we’d rather fight an army or trek halfway around the wrong end of the continent.
Grand. Make sure to pack some extra waterskins, everyone.


You only have dim memories of crossing the southern desert on a handful of occasions, always with Father and the company of a caravan of traders. Perhaps it was their company and proficiency that made the sun feel less oppressive, or perhaps the inattentive energy of youth blunted its unrelenting scorn.
For now, you count this trek as one of your most miserable and hope none other will surpass it. Only Chardler seems impervious to the pervasive heat, and still the fine sands vex him as much as it does the others. Jon is tamping down the worst of his ire, focused on learning as much as he can of the new environs for posterity’s ease.
Ofone’s anger and discomfort is palpable, even without terse speech. His every step is accompanied with a wordless grumble and every question posed is answered with a fuming snap. It is a wonder that is ire has not boiled over in the endless sun, and it wears on the nerves of all.


You hear Adolf take a ragged breath, so out of his element as well that he may equal the besotted warrior in misery, and think for a moment that you will need to intervene before the pair come to blows. Then you see the odd shadow peeking over a massive skeleton, and it strikes you that perhaps the occultist is not opening his mouth to complain.
Wh- What the devil is that?
Whatever it might be, I have a suspicion it's not amenable to us.
I am not familiar with the people here. Might it be a native?
I doubt that. Not from the city, at any rate, but… maybe “native” in the sense that it’s been here far longer.
Nnr. Dangerous?
Possibly. Is anyone else feeling their back teeth rattle?
Mmm.
Yes. That’s… that feels awfully familiar. Almost lik- wait, where… Adolf? Adolf!


You only catch the back of his robes as they flap in the arid wind. Adolf stomps around the bones, motes of dark magic gathering is his wake as his temper quickly outstrips his waning patience.
Degenerate monstrosities! Your very existence mocks the holy form! Such boundless insolence is worthy of nothing less than destruction!
I should say the same, worm.


The imposing form of the desert guardian does nothing to check the necromancer’s momentum. The rest of you burst from around the fossil in a rush to support his impulsive foolishness, drawing a dismissive sneer from the hound-creature’s snout.
Yes, call your dogs. It will not save you.


So, right out of the gate in this map, we have two champion-rank foes to deal with. These Ancient Guardians are tough cookies already, with their intrinsic Armored trait granting 25% resistance to all damage. They also hit hard, and either have 2 or 3 AP per turn or a bunch of free actions, so they aren’t quite simple beef walls either.
To top it off, the one in front is standing in a Guardian Shrine’s aura for an extra 20% damage reduction. That’s going to need to change before we piss an entire turn away on gimped damage output.


Way in the back corner, we also see our first augmented foe: a Regenerative fodder unit. On such a unit, it’s not all that much trouble, but when these start popping up on tougher dudes, it can complicate matters in a hurry.


A flash of sunlight and steel forces Adolf back, and your party scrambles into a rough formation. Joseph shoulders past you in a blur, sheathing his blades in stride and sliding to a strange plant growing in the dunes that pulses with a worrisome red glow. He digs his heels into the sand and pulls, uprooting the whole bulb and pitching it wildly to the side as it begins to shudder and smoke.



Given a suitable target on which to vent his spleen, Ofone charges toward the hound-man, snarling and spitting pure rancor. Blow after blow is warded away, until his shield lashes into a hole in the creature’s guard, the metal rim connecting with its nethers with such force that even you wince in reflexive sympathy. Dazed and pained, the creature stumbles back and stomps on the plant quite by accident, engulfing the sands around it in a sudden gout of flame.


Even in the throes of rage, Ofone is not willing to follow his quarry into the blaze. Before it can escape the fire, Adolf shouts something in a guttural tongue, calling ghastly chains to bind its legs to the blazing sand.
There we go. Now it’s stuck in a bunch of fire, immobilized, poisoned, and down to less than ¼ HP; should be easy pickings.
The brambles Jon threw up in the back will keep the remaining enemies from running around the back of our formation, just in case.


You feel a nameless menace tug at the edge of your perception. With a sweep of the canine being’s hand, barely-perceptible motes of dark energy rise from the sands, clinging to the feet of your companions. The unease it prompts reminds you of the same unnatural powers that Adolf channels, and for a moment you wonder from where his magic springs.
Right, these guys can cast Curse. Curse reduces healing received by half and damage resistance by one fifth, but doesn’t do any damage itself. I’ll just need to keep Joseph out of trouble for a bit, then.



Seeing its companion fall, the remaining hybrid flies into a rage, its great sickles whipping to and fro like the desert winds themselves.
Cleave hits the two hexes adjacent to the target, and this thing just tossed it out three times in one turn. Good thing it wasted its whole turn on a summon!



But much like the wind, it comes with fury and passes with haste. With nothing else remaining, your group falls on the creature with blade and spell, its form crumbling into long-dead ash under your assault.


Nearby, you find a curious marker tucked in a calm oasis. A grave not unlike those you would find outside Talestone, so different than the burial mounds that Wyrmrest’s people choose that it cannot be one of their own.


You ponder the grave, then notice the looks in your companions’ faces.


Absolutely not.
Not gonna need it!
It might be connected to those things we destroyed. The potential-
I am not risking some ancient death curse from beyond the sands to turn out the tattered robes of some poor lost bastard out of Talestone.
Oh, please, Valkyrie. It is nothing we cannot control!
This is not about control, Adolf, it is about reward. No amount of revenant vengeance is worth a few scraps of moldering cloth.
… Bah. Very well, then.
That hat and 100 gold simply aren’t worth taking a 20% damage reduction for the rest of the dungeon.


Gah!
You alright, Ofone?
Hnn. Got teeth!
Wait, let me get a better look at this thing. … Huh. Tough little critter.
Good eating?
I don’t know. Never seen one before, much less tried to cook one.
Find out. Gonna stink before long.
Sure, sure.


You travel the dunes for some time, Jon having long since fallen silent. You know him well enough to guess that something weighs on his mind, but despite your needling, he refuses to say what it might be.


Cresting a heap of sand, you spy a lone tent propped in the middle of some ancient horror’s weathered bones. A pale blue glow casts strange shadows on the figure sitting behind it, its masked face unreadable as your party approaches. It does not turn its head up as you draw near, but it doubtless saw your arrival, perhaps even before you laid eyes on its humble abode.


You hear Adolf give a sharp hiss when it becomes clear the hunched and wizened figure is not human. Most goblins are scavengers and raiders on the fringes of civilization, attacking caravans and villages for sustenance and sport. To see one so aged and unconcerned with your presence is enough to give you pause, however.
Goblin! What manner of foul-
Wait! Wait. It’s not like those others.
Good day, uh… sir? Sir. Might we bother you for a moment?
… Three generations.
Pardon?
Legends may live forever, but all the rest are three generations from being forgotten. You may know your father’s father, but what about his? Or his before? Names, dreams, memories… all lost to the mists of time.
…
Way of things.
Indeed. Life goes on, with or without us.
So it does. … You can hear them, if you learn how to listen. Faintly, weakly, but still there. Alive through time, for a time. Unsung, but unforgotten. Lessons of what walked before. Better times, or worse? Perhaps some of both, tragedy and triumph, stories yet longing to be retold.
Hmm, yes. Crude necromancy, no more.
… How?
A binding, body and soul. Too long gone to return, of course, but not far enough you cannot reach. What Lies Beyond does not give freely, but it will trade, if you can convince it.


You don’t see the hermit produce the strange knife; you simply look down at his outstretched hands and see it sitting in his palms, shimmering with an ethereal glow. Slowly, Jon reaches out and takes the blade, holding it reverently for a moment before gripping the handle and extending his hand over the curious flames.
The cerulean fire sizzles as his blood drips from his palm, and pain spikes in the base of your own skull. From the way your companions wince, they must have felt it as well, and Ofone steps forward with a growl, his hand reaching for the back of Jon’s head.


You grip his wrist before he can interrupt the strange ritual, drawing his ire as Jon raises the knife to his other hand. Ofone’s growl becomes a snarl when another jolt of pain shoots through you, and you have to dig your heels into the sand, fighting to keep him from wrenching out of your grasp.
Uncaring of your struggle, the shaman begins to chant in his native tongue, adding to the ritual. You feel a presence in the back of your mind, whispering fragments of long-forgotten tales: stories of hardships and triumphs, of love and loss, bitter failures and glorious victories.
Sometimes, an Event will have multiple stages, playing on the sunk cost fallacy to get you to spend more than you’d like. Unlike gambling, however, you have a decent chance of getting some kind of reward at the end of things.


After some moments, the pain and voices subside, and you release the warrior’s wrist from your hand. The fire has all but guttered out, a heap of smoldering blue-white embers all that remains.
They know you now. Go forth, be heard, and listen well. Amba, travelers.
Finally, we get our first Fortune!


Fortunes are miscellaneous bonuses equipped in their own section of the character sheet, and can be anywhere from modest stat increases to unusual effects, double-edged power ups, or hyper-focused upgrades to certain skills. Some high-end Fortunes can, without exaggeration, define a character if you are willing to build around them.
Any numerical effects are based on the level of the map you find them in, but there are also a few that don’t have any associated calculations, and as such are great to find early on since their usefulness never falls off as you gain levels. This one we just got, Ancestral Protection, gives a defensive boost equal to a high-end piece of armor for the level we received it at, as well as some kind of reaction passive that I’m not certain what it does.


Jon? Are you… are you well?
… Huh? Yeah, I’m… I’m fine, Minerva. I…
You are not fool enough to believe him, of course, but he follows the group well enough even in his daze. Chardler takes up the duty of leading you all further through the sands, while you cast your gaze backward every so often to make sure that Jon has not stumbled away unattended.


What the…?
Towering before you in the channel of a wall of sandstone is a great blue mushroom, tall as one of Freewind’s trees. The air around it dances with flecks of snow and ice, the sand around you compacting and hardening into gritty ice and slush. Caked in grime and coated in sweat, the sudden rush of freezing air that blasts out from the fungus cuts to your bones in an instant.


Finally! Enjoy it while you can, weaklings!
You are too stunned by the sudden change to retort, trying to follow the blond man with shuddering, half-numb limbs. Only Jon, blessed with fool’s luck, ignores the sudden freeze, shaking flakes of rime from his hair and cinching his tunic against the cold as if it were little more than a spring breeze.
Yeah, yeah. Fuck you, too, game. At least the XP we get from most of the party failing their saves gets us another level.


Passing the far edge of the outcropping, you hear scavenger beasts yipping and squawking as they pursue your wounded group.



Level ups before the fight:
Minerva: 2 Might/Intelligence, 1 Vitality, and Purify
Jon: 2 Might/Dexterity, 1 Intelligence, and Good Bloom
Adolf: 2 Might/Intelligence, 1 Reflex, and Raise Skeletal Warrior
Joseph: 2 Dexterity/Reflex, 1 Might, and Teleport Other
Chardler: 2 Might/Intelligence, 1 Dexterity, and Haste
Ofone: 2 Might/Vitality, 1 Reflex, and Warrior’s Boon


One of the hawks in this fight rolled the Undying modifier, meaning the first time it should die, it instead gets locked at 1 HP for an entire turn.
Assholes like this are why I got Dispelling Fracture.


Ofone all but shoves himself to the front of the group, elbowing the rest of you into a nook in the stone to try and keep the beasts from surrounding you all easily.



Somewhere in the near distance, you hear a native emberleaf pod burst with a dull thud, sending carrion birds into a keening panic.


Shaking off the worst of his numbness, Adolf channels his unsightly magic to unearth the bones of some long-dead soldier from the wars in your band’s defense.


One of the birds, perhaps twisted by some overflow of the dark magic, continues to peck and claw at your ranks even as its organs dangle from a scorched hole in its ribs. Ofone hammers it from the air with a sharp blow, then brings his iron-shod boot down on it again and again until it stops twitching.
The thing about Undying is that the effect it puts in play is considered a buff, which means it’s possible to clear it with a dispel effect. Otherwise, I’d need to sit on my thumbs with this little jerk haranguing my dudes, and that shit’s not gonna fly.



With their numbers thinned, the remainder of the scavenging beasts fall without much trouble.


Joseph takes it upon himself to toss aside the corpses, and your group makes camp for a well-deserved moment of respite in the shade of the rocks.


… He’s been staring into that flame awfully intent, hasn’t he?
Mmm. I’ve never seen him like this before. Moody and wroth, yes, often when he’s taken to drink, but contemplative? That is a new frontier.
Do you think his mind is…?
No. No, I’ve seen a shattered mind before. This seems more like he’s well lost in his own thoughts.
Ah. So we ought not worry for him, then.
I never said that. Just that he has something weighing heavy on his thoughts for now. A distraction, to be sure, but not a crisis. Not yet, at any rate.


Once you have tended the worst of your injuries and recovered your flagging stamina, Adolf urges the group onward once more. He has been studying the environs with an intent gaze, pausing here and there to scribble something in a thin book with an occasional glance at the land around him.


Ore! Mining points use the carnival mallet-style timing game, and are probably the greatest pain in the ass of the three to get right.


The regal figure before you stands unmoving as your group approaches. Her onyx skin draws your curiosity, the similarity between her appearance and the canine soul-slaves too close in your mind to be happenstance.
Jackals. Scarabs. Shameless scavengers, come to plunder our lands.
And who might you be, then? Some philanderer of beasts among the sands?
Your executioner. Your queen of the sun itself. Your god, once your souls are molded as their fate deigns.
Another noble with delusions of divinity, then. Good. No holding back.



Ofone and Joseph dash forward before the so-claimed Sun Queen can muster whatever arcane might sits at her back and call. Weathered bones claw up from the sand while desert animals heed a wordless demand, all colluding to try and hem your foe into the calcified jaws of the massive skull buried in the dune.
Oh hey, Jon finally pulled a coyote from Summon 1. Their trick is hitting the target with Cripple, preventing it from running very far away – not as useful as ravens or raccoons, but it can come in handy sometimes. And of course, Control Resistance prevents Cripple from sticking most of the time anyway, but he’s still dealing damage. I’ll take it.
All of our ranged units are parked in the aura of a Seraph Shrine, which restores 10% of a unit’s max HP at the start of its turn. That should help shore things up in case they start taking hits.

Their cordon is not foolproof, but the twisted magician cannot make much distance. She splits her attentions between calling forth a living wisp of her power and shouldering through the ranks that surround her.
The ball of flaming arcana threatens to blister your skin even at this distance, but its substance is barely more than ephemeral. A few solid blows and the whole thing collapses in on itself, the sudden void sapping even more strength from its would-be mistress.
The Sun Queen is a ranged unit, so she’ll try and keep as much distance as possible from her target. She also summons these Radiant Orbs, which can shit out a lot of damage on your entire party if left unattended. They are rather fragile, though; enough so at this early stage that our summons can clear them out more or less unsupported.



A sudden flash of light fills your vision with spots. You hear the press of bodies and the clash of steel, and someone brushes past you in a sprint. It takes longer than you are comfortable with to calm your nerves and entreat the Crimson Angel for Her blessing.


Jon’s voice cuts through your daze, a wordless yelp of pain that he stifles just as suddenly. As you blink your eyes clear, you see him struggling to his feet a short distance away from the melee, wisps of smoke rising from his tunic. He gestures with force, calling up some desert flower to spew toxins at the magician in rebuke.



Wounded and enraged, the sorceress calls out to her twisted protectors, their forms materializing in a wash of malice much too close for your preference.
The Sun Queen only has a single breakpoint, which causes her to summon a number of Ancient Guardians.



One of the creatures is set on the back foot with a barrage of spells and arrows, before thick and thorned vines snare its legs. Joseph darts toward the other, his face a picture of dismissive contempt as arcs of lightning dance across his fingers.
One locked down, but the other might cause trouble. Let’s deal with that, yeah?


Away with you, dog.

Anyone who’s read TooMuchAbstraction’s LP of Angband should understand the sheer utility of Teleport Other. It’s not as imminently spamable here, but it’s also is one of the only things that bypasses Control Resistance. The ability to tell any single enemy, even bosses, to Fuck Directly Off is great.



The constant ebb and flow of arcane forces begins to draw raw pools of aether up from the ground. Chardler drags the head of his staff through one of these violet puddles, imbuing a troubling might to his craft that snaps and sparks at random, trying to escape his control even as he molds his spells into being.
Power Globules last for the entire fight when collected, and stack at least up to 50%. These are often worth putting your main damage dealer a little out of position, more so if you can grab multiple over the course of a hard fight.




In the face of a relentless onslaught of blades, flame, and venom, it is only a matter of time before the sun-scorched magician falls to your group, her guardians crumbling to dust shortly afterward.
Not that it matters too much, as it’s Poison ticks that do her in at the start of the enemy turn.


When the sand settles under your boots and your limbs cease to shake with the rush of battle, you join your companions in taking stock of your situation. You spy Joseph shaking his head already, peering into his pack with a sour expression.
Trouble, Joseph?
Fighting with that witch ruined much of our supplies. What flame hasn’t, the sand has.
I’m afraid we won’t be able to make it to the mountains, unless you’re confident we can scrounge enough food and clean water along the way.
Damn! We’ve made such progress… I’m worried we won’t be able to retrace our path whence we return.
Dot to worry, good Valkyrie. I believe I have created a map that shall serve us well when we are better prepared.
Oh? Hmm, that… well, it’s a bit crude, but I admit I’m no cartographer. You’re certain it’s accurate?
Ehn, not perfectly. So long as we keep to the edges of the desert, however, it ought to work. There are few landmarks otherwise, I am afraid.


Well, if you're certain, then I’m willing to chance it.
Good enough for me.
Rnn. We going? Get the loot.
I’ll join you in a moment. Jon? Jon, this way.
… Eh? Oh… right.
No, this way. Back to Talestone. We can’t keep on as we are now.
Ah. That… okay. Of course. … Right behind you.

Well now, we have a prime opportunity here.

I didn’t have a good idea for Jon’s build to start with, but respecs are hassle-free and relatively cheap, so I’ve been willing to just wing it on his account and pick things that might be interesting or useful for the moment. But now, I’m starting to get a better idea for what I want to lean towards; or, rather, I have a few ideas thanks to the narrative developments:
1] – Focus him as a ranged support and summon unit, as a counterpoint to Adolf’s focus on Shadow and its summons. There are 3 total summon spells in Nature, and a few support and CC skills to have which can compliment such a setup, even before I start dipping in to other skill trees.
2] – Turn him into a pure ranged attacker. For that, I’ll shift him over into Ranger and start turning him into a pure artillery emplacement, blowing holes in fools at staggering distances. A John Woo-type 2 guns build is tempting, but Joseph will most likely be going for the melee version of that, so I don’t want to double up too hard.
3] – Pivot him into a melee attacker and grab the Shapeshifting skills. We only have 2 dedicated melee units, so we can afford to have 1 more before things start getting too crowded on the front lines. This will absolutely see him crossing into a different skill tree, just to bulk up his role as a striker with useful passives.

So, tell me, kiwis, which of these would you like to see? I should be able to make any of the 3 work for now, regardless. And if you’ve noticed, much like my past projects, the loose narrative I’m building here is always ready to shift according to circumstances; whichever one we ultimately decide on will have, at the least, short-term effects on Jon’s personality. I'll leave this as an open decision for a few days before pulling the trigger and starting on the next dungeon.

 

[NerdShamer]

It certainly would be more entertaining watching an boss get mauled by an pack of animals, more often

 

[Arcade Gannon]

I like the vicious animal attack strategy Jon's got going. I say stick with #1.

Is there a cap on number of summoned creatures you can have at one time?

 

[Mooger Meng]

Is there a cap on number of summoned creatures you can have at one time?

At base it's something like 5 or maybe 6, but you're hard pressed to hit it unless you double dip into Shadow and Nature to pick up all 6 summons and the ability to call them up without AP costs. Otherwise you'll have to grind like mad to get a bunch of summon Fortunes.
There are a few pieces of gear, like the Gravestone that Adolf is using, which increase summon limit by +1 for each.

 

[Mooger Meng]

04 – Miner Complications

Without a steady march of travelers entering and leaving Talestone’s gates, her merchants have been less inclined to carry large stores of ready-made supplies as you had expected. Since your return, you have taken moments between scouring the markets for the staples your band requires to chide yourself for that lack of foresight.
Another three days have passed while you and your companions build a healthy stock, enough to see you to the gates of Undermount and back if need strikes. It would have assuaged you all to have more still, but it would take a week or longer just to gather enough travel biscuits and dried meats, let alone other durable goods.


At the gatehouse, Joseph tends to the pony your coin was able to secure, a scrawny thing laden with as much as it can bear without complaint or clear discomfort. The rest of you mill around the fountain, washing hands or faces, or discussing trivial matters in low tones.
With one exception.

Dare I ask about the bitter look?
… Should have shown up by now…
Hmm. Valkyrie, where has your friend gotten to?
I don’t know. I’ve seen him disappear for a day or two before, but this is… troubling.
Gone?
No.
Sure? Looked dazed.
No, he wouldn’t. I just… I have no idea where he went.
Other times, where?
Pardon?
Where. Does. He. Go.
Hunting, or wandering, or… just out into the woods.
Hnn.

Ofone looks around for a moment, sniffing the air and casting a critical eye all across the square. The way he begins to pace around the fountain, making what appears to be a show of his search, almost prompts you to question his intent, but you stop yourself from testing his temper just yet.
When he comes back. Where?
The poor district, of course, or toward an alehouse. The Mossy Flagon, most often.


It comes as no surprise that the blond man perks his head in the building’s direction without further prompting. Jon is quite fond of the one place that refuses to bar him from its tables, after all.
With a jerk of his head, Ofone bids the rest of you follow. Not toward the Mossy Flagon like you expect, but through a set of alleys that brush up against the unspoken border of the slums. Your nose rankles at the smell of stale urine and blood as you approach a darkened corner.


Slumped against a pile of refuse and broken furniture, your companion looks toward the quiet streets with glassy eyes. He reeks of blood, sweat, and filth, his bare chest smeared with mud, dried gore, and other substances you dare not guess at.
Ohh… nev’r’gn. Nngh.
Here.
Wha- Jon?!
Minhrvr? Nugh… S’not. H’nt bn drink. S’werit.
Oh, Meyir’s teeth. What is that stench?
Gods’ blood, Jon. You are a wreck.
Yup.
Please don’t tell me you got thundering drunk.
I doubt he has. That is not the fetid stink of cheap beer, I can tell you as much.
Nop. Bin… bin runnin’ widdawin. Muh pipple.
Here. Clothes. Been wrestling wolves, lad?
Ahhh… Puddeminnahedlok. Annaburds dun pekkin’, annadeer dun… dunn deerin’. D’go ‘skree’ whenne deerin’. S’funny.


Altima, give me strength.
We are not leaving him like this.
No, we are not. Ofone, get one of his shoulders, please. I can’t carry him by myself.
Wurr… Wurrwegoin?
River. Wash or flounder.
Uh. ‘muhthabad?
My fellow, you smell strong enough to raise the dead.
O. Y’gotta… Y’gottasoap? Orat’mato. T’mato’sgud. S’gud soop.


It takes more time than you like for Jon to scour the worst of the smell and crusted leavings from his flesh; that is to say, it takes any amount of time at all. Still, his claims that it was not liquor that addles his senses is true, though some unknown burden continues to dull his mind.
… unusual, to say the least. But there is no curse upon you that I can detect.
No, there… there isn’t. It’s not a curse, madam, it’s just a… a… thing. Perspective… thing.
If you insist, Jon.
I do.
Very well, then. Is there ought else you require?
Not for now. Thank you, Mother.
Nnn… No. Thank you.
Of course, my children. May the heavens watch over you.


Each town has 4 vendors within: a smith selling weapons and armor, a jeweler selling rings and amulets, an alchemist selling all manner of potions, and a craft vendor who sells most of the materials you can get from the maps. While the other vendors also offer a tempering service to add prefixes and/or suffixes to gear, the craft vendor has some additional function unique to that town. In Talestone, that service is Respecs; for a small level-based fee, you can reset all of a character’s stat and skill points, and redistribute them however you’d like.
Yes, Stolen Realm has the decency to put its character reset service right in the starting town of the game.


Since it’s been decided that Jon will also be rolling with a summon build, I want to try something a little different to start with, and see if I can keep his setup from just being a copy of Adolf’s. While Adolf is pooling most of his stats into Might and Intelligence to make his summons stronger and hardier, Jon will instead be putting most of his focus into Reflex and Dexterity, in order to increase the dodge and critical chances of his critters, while also putting his extra points between Might and Intelligence for smaller summon gains on the side.
For skills, he’s ditched both Bad Bloom and Good Bloom in order to pick up Nature Summoning 2 and Beast Master 1; Beast Master gives the same summon bonus as Necromancer, and Nature Summon 2 pulls more dangerous animals, as you might expect.


There you are. What kept you?
Jon.
Explains the smell. Have you been drinking, comrade?
No… not this time. Been away… Been talking.
Hmph. Wasting time, then.
Not… not as such.
You’re sure you can walk, Jon?
Yes, Minerva. I’m just… just thinking. Listening. Map… You… someone mentioned a map. Adolf?


Yes, I have one that should see us through the desert.
That… Huh. Peaks, dunes, ruins… Are you sure you… sketched these right?
The statues might be a touch lacking. But the architecture is sound, I assure you.
Very well. Time to get moving, then. Where… where’s my pack?

Thanks to Jon’s disappearance, your group leaves Talestone much later than any of you had anticipated, trekking through the forest ill at ease and arriving at the nearest edge of the Wyrmrest desert well after midday. However, now he shows an uncanny knack when guiding you through the sands, stopping on rare occasion to discuss the crude map with Adolf to ensure the route is true.
Though still speaking with distant, dazed inflection, Jon’s steps are much more firm than your father’s were; steady and purposeful, where you expected them to be tender and halting. Even with your frequent stops in the shade of ruins and outcrops, the sculpted canyon in the mountains that marks the entrance to dwarven lands grows closer far more swiftly than you had anticipated. Even so, it is still nearly dusk when you reach the abandoned outpost that leads further into the living stone.


At first, the mines are a welcome relief. Even in its state of disuse, the waystation where carts of ore and rock were once sorted and stored makes a fine shelter for you group to recover from the long march. With no bodies piled up in the corners or choking the walkways, it is a simple matter to clear the debris from a nearby barrack and allow your aching feet and prickling skin ample time to recover.


Following the tunnels and disused tracks, you come across the first sign of the dwarves in short order: one of their sentry golems, its lifeless visage staring out over a pile of abandoned carts and equipment. Chardler glances in your direction with a sour face, perhaps feeling the same low thrum in the air as you do.
The construct’s eyes flash with an amber glow as Joseph approaches, its head turning with a grind to observe your group. From somewhere within its form, a stern voice rings out.
Vertical checksum: fail. Facial checksum: fail. Possible security breach. Warning: further unauthorized action is grounds for expulsion. Present credentials immediately.
What credentials?
We were not given any when we were told to come. Might we speak with your foreman?
Request logged; alerting staff. Please return to reception area and await contact. Estimated wait time: …
Error in ret.req [int travelTime]: NullPointerException. Logging error. Notifying artificer.
Unexpected error encountered. Please return to reception and await further instructions. Estimated wait time: Seven, seven, years, ten, months.
Bah, useless thing. Moving it.
Noncompliance logged. Escalating to Class Two expulsion protocols. Please remain-


A sudden burst of sparks and raw mana causes the statue to list, slouching in place before it straightens up once more, its eyes now shining ruby red. You hear the clatter of loose rock and the grinding of countless slabs of stone echo through the tunnels all around your band, its defenders lurching into action after unknown years inert.
Oh, hell.
General alert. MORIA Defense Pattern engaged. All personnel to combat formations. MORIA Defense Pattern engaged.


The Forgotten Mines have Golems, of course, and they’re as stupidly tough as you would expect. Most varieties have a flat 25% resistance against everything, the larger ones have Control Resistance and attack a wide area by default, and the smaller one has rolled the Teleporting trait, which means the first time it takes any damage on the player turn, it teleports semi-randomly to a different hex. It’s supposed to be random, but in my limited and most likely biased experience, it usually pops the fucker closer to your dudes out of spite.

“Random” my ass.

Oh yeah, and when a unit dies, its model doesn’t just get tossed off the map. It gets some kind of momentum from the direction the attack came from, leading to occasional silliness like this smaller Golem being hurled face-first into a pillar by a rabid raccoon.

Scattered around the mines are small kegs of dried emberleaf, meant to assist in removing larger boulders and clear collapsed tunnels. None of you are willing to hold them longer than a moment after the first blasts a cloud of gravel shrapnel from one of the encroaching golems, hoping in vain to halt the constructs’ advance.


Through the clouds of dust and debris filling the air, you see blood flowing down Chardler’s face. It seems that every time you reach out to seal his wounds, another shard of razor-edged stone tears at his form.
Okay, seriously now, what the hell? Normally those Golems have something like 2 or 3 range on their slams, which, okay, fair. But in the first shot, Chardler is 5 away and still getting hit, and in the second, he’s 7 away! And he has no debuffs or DoTs on him, either!
I’m calling bullshit.


The battle taxes your budding skills in the gentle arts more than any has before. The dwarven contraptions are carefully crafted to resist all manner of wear or damage, be it from blade and spell or the fury of the mountain. Their unflinching strength, able to dislodge the uneven floor of the caverns in rebuke, leaves bruises and lacerations aplenty among you all.



When the constructs at last fall inert, an exhausted sigh of relief escapes you. Your taxed magics are not given proper rest, but you at least have a calm moment to tend your band’s many wounds without the looming threat of battle over your heads.
These damn things take too long to kill. Also, we used a good amount of mana potions in this fight – Joseph in particular is burning through his blue bar at a quick rate.


Once your hands have stopped trembling – a novel development that gnaws at the back of your mind – you usher the men onward, your meager knowledge of the dwarves’ runic script outstripping their own utter lack. Wordlessly, you hope that what little you recognize is enough to lead you through the mines and into the heart of the kingdom.


Joseph stops your advance short as you approach an intersection between tunnels, peering into the half-lit distance. You can almost see the shapes of more constructs which have yet to notice your approach, but something about them makes your hair stand on end.
There. See them?
Hmm. Smaller ones, at least.
No, those… I don’t think those are golems.
Must be. What else is in here?

Crouched in the shadows nearby, Jon makes a gesture in the corner of your vision. A raven, somehow hidden until this moment, swoops on quiet wing along the ceiling of the tunnel, alights on a shelf of rock some distance away, and casts a curious eye to the scene.
… No. It’s… maybe not safe, but not… not hostile.


Emboldened, you approach, though your limbs remain tensed to spring aside at the slightest movement. Jon is correct; arrayed before you is no automaton patrol, but a trio of statues, as detailed as the sentries but lacking the subtle menace in their expressions. No, these figures bear wide eyes and strident stances, frozen in the instant of turning away from some unknown assailant.
… So, the ‘noble’ dwarves would keep these sorts of monsters at their beck and call?
Not keep them. When I was a girl, I recall Father speaking of some breed of beast that lived in the tunnels, a… an ox-like creature, or some such. Capto… Cata… Camabop…
Catobopleas?
Yes! Yes, thank you. Used to be livestock before they mutated, ages ago. Now they’re pests that infest the mines, calcifying workers that get lost in the warrens.
Hmm.
… Gold can’t petrify, right?
It shouldn’t.
‘Nuff for me.
Ofone, wai-


The words barely pass your lips before he is moving, tentatively yanking on every pouch and pocket on the figures to see if their belongings remain. Your hand scarce but brushes his armor before it is roughly slapped aside with an impatient grunt.
Ofone-
Money!
Will you stop alr-
There is a sudden lurch at the edge of your perception when he pulls on a ring long since turned to granite. From the statues, a stale gust of wind ushers forth with a gray, ether-charged plume of dust.
Gahk!
You- hhak- you galoot- Kheh! Hak!


You hook a numb hand into the neck of Ofone’s armor and pull him backward, stumbling on your own sluggish feet and falling to the uneven floor in a tangled heap, hacking and coughing all the while. After several attempts, it becomes clear that the two of you are fighting your own limbs as much as you are one another, and Chardler steps over to help.
That looked unpleasant. Other than your pride, is anything hurt?
Gmph!
No, just… ugh. Just stiff.
Hmm. Well, it doesn’t look like there’s any deep damage. Some minor discoloration, however. Look.
… Nhn. Feels a little dull right there. A peculiar tingle, though.
Some enchantment?
Possibly. Ofone?
Hell if I know that wizard jumbo. Hand’s’re numb. Dangerous?
Maybe if we spend too long exposed. Otherwise, it should clear up in time. Let’s not go rifling through any more petrified pockets, shall we?
Hmph.
Since it’s a lower rarity, this Fortune isn’t as good as Ancestral Protection. Only granting Armor but not Magic Armor is one thing, but the movement reduction is a deal breaker for me – you usually want more armor on your melee tanks, who need to be able to, yanno, get into the fight!


Do you need a moment?
No.
Nnn.
Very well.
… Do you hear that?


From some distance down the tunnel, a soft chuckle floats to your ears. A table, wholly out of place in the surroundings, sits to the side of the tracks. More curious still is the elven maiden seated behind it, illuminated in odd shadows from the violet light that shines from the glass sphere set before her.


Silver-white hair frames a gently lined face, from which two eyes of solid, unsettling black peer in your band’s direction. Her lips rise in a demure smile at your collective approach, while willow-thin fingers trace sigils and patterns along the surface of the orb.
Such a curious thing, fate is. Mine is to offer its glimpse to others. What might yours be, I wonder?
And what price are you asking of us, seer?
Only a moment in time, and your interest. What lies beyond the veil may well be more demanding of you, however. Come, one and all. Come and see.


You step forward with muted disquiet, the looks on your companions’ faces showing much the same, if anything at all. The elf maiden begins to drag her fingers on the surface of the crystal, cutting a flowing script into the nimbus of arcane energies that cloud the surface. The hole she cleaves open into space and time grows wider, engulfing more and more of your perception until it becomes your entire world for a single, frozen moment.
Ah, right. This event makes you choose an outcome for every party member separately. All 3 of these are nice Fortunes, depending on the build you’re going for – a percentile increase in physical damage, magical damage, or a flat bonus to max HP. Of course, you have to land an unmodified roll or suffer dungeon-long debuffs to the same areas.



You stand in a blasted hellscape, a portrait of flame, magma, and jagged stone. The shattered remnants of a land that challenged the gods. Before you, a shelf of rock shudders and moves, casting rivers of molten stone into the glowing lakes that surround you.
A single, baleful eye splits open as the figure struggles to unfurl, a serpentine thing that narrows with unbridled hate when it locks onto your form. Somewhere in the far distance, you hear a menacing whisper-
They wake.
The liquid stone forms into a dreadful figure. The head of a great dragon, set upon an impossibly long, serpentine neck, rises high above you all, slithering around your party in a display of sinuous might. Its single eye, planted in the center of its form, regards you with contemptuous curiosity, its head canting back and forth while it observes.
They wake.
Then, without warning, its maw splits open in a fountain of screaming gore. Flaming magma and boiling blood, flecked with chunks of bone and meat and jagged rock, disgorges from its phantom throat. Your ears fill with a thousandfold screams, least of all your own, as the foul torrent rips through your skin and chars what little remains to ash and cinders.
As suddenly as it began, the vision is gone, leaving you a shuddering child whose every fiber cries out in fatigue. Your eyes wander to Jon, looking as drained as you feel, then to Adolf and Joseph as they shake themselves, wisps of smoke rising from their belongings. Only Chardler and Ofone seem unfazed, but not unaffected; the blonde warrior is glowering even more firmly at the space where the seer’s table once stood, while Chardler tamps the butt of his staff on the cavern floor, observing the uncontrolled sparks that issue from the tip with each motion.


Is… is everyone alright?
Urgh.
Grfmrgl.
Define ‘alright’, madam.
We… we shall endure. Come, best to keep moving.
The hell was that?
Wizard tricks.
No, the… the creature. Was that supposed to be… be a dragon?
More like the nightmare of one.
Of a dragon, or… or maybe one that a dragon suffers?


Still wizard tricks. Come on, weaklings.
That- you- wait!


Patrol!
Don’t care! Meet your gods, runts!
What in blazes?!
As Ofone all but charges forward, time grinds to a halt. The world locks into stillness, and a lilting, puckish laugh rings in your ears that sends a cold shudder down your spine.
From the shadows, a small figure imposes itself on your vision. Scarcely half the height of your forearm, its form hovers before you on gossamer wings with ethereal beauty, its features warping and shifting even as you observe her entrancing movements and predatory grin. However enchanting the fae’s visage might be, it cannot hide the crushing aura of madness and malice that washes over you like a grim tide.


What have we here? Such delicate flowers, seeking rot in which to bloom. Impulsive, murderous fools.
Wonderful.
Who-
Shhhhh. No words, little meatling. Don’t ruin the moment. I offer a gambit. Embrace my madness, my joy, the sting of my ever-changing love. I shall reward you with blood and boon, my affection.
My hate.
Oh, boy. Every so often, you’re given this “event”, that gives all the enemies a couple of modifiers but also guarantees some improved gear for your trouble.
Usually, I just ignore these out of hand, since the modifiers it slaps on the enemy are more trouble than the rewards are possibly worth.


This sword, however, is tempting. Purple gear would be nice…


… but we’re still low level and I don’t want to deal with retard-tough enemies that explode when they die.


… No.
No?!
No.
You…
YOU…
… Intriguing little creature. Not to worry, my sweet. There will be another time.
I shall break you yet.


No sooner does the creature vanish in a plume of blood-tinged vapor, the world around you explodes into motion once more. A team of miners, incised by your intrusion, charges down the tunnel with weapons drawn. Picks and staves glint in the low light as your band readies to meet them, and you notice with some alarm the satchels that the dwarves unhook from their belts as they approach.


And just think: this is the kind of shit I’ve got to deal with already. No, I really don’t want to deal with something that can get 75% damage reduction, thank you very little for your time, game.


You shout a warning to the others, weaving spells of protection as they turn their focus to cut down the nearest demolitionist. But their swift response is not enough to prevent the others from tossing glowing bundles in your direction, forcing you to scatter before the emberleaf satchels burst in your midst.


But the unstable substance is indiscriminate. Chardler sets as much of the stuff alight as possible, making quick and bloody work of the bulk of the patrol. The devastation is enough that you need to turn your eyes away, feeling your meager meal fighting to escape your stomach.
Trouble, comrade?
Nhh… Nothing I cannot learn to endure.
You can. You shall. Can’t have you turning green in the face of danger.
I know, Joseph. A little blood doesn’t bother me, but that… that is a different beast.


You hear a clatter from one of the nearby piles of equipment as you ruminate.
Jon! Catch.
Gwah!… Hmm. Some fine craftsmanship.
Got runes. Must be wizard nonsense.
There’s something there, yes. Thank you.
Hrmph. Dwarf armor’s tough. Gun oughtta punch better.
Ever the… practical mind, eh?
Can’t kill with a dream.
Oh hey. That’s not a bad weapon for Jon, for the time being.



Level ups!
Minerva: 2 Might/Int, 1 Vitality, and Mass Cure. We’re starting to run into enough AoE attacks that we need a responding heal.
Jon: 2 Dex/Reflex, 1 Might, and Beast Master 2. Summons are still the priority here, so making them more powerful is the obvious pick.
Adolf: 2 Might/Int, 1 Reflex, and Curse. Since his attacks are pathetic, Adolf’s non-summon turns are best used slinging status effects and popping barrels.
Joseph: 2 Might/Dex, 1 Vitality, and Aura of Lightning. Since he’ll be spending a lot of time in close range, the Aura isn’t a bad call.
Chardler: 2 Might/Int, 1 Dex, and Immolate. It’s a free action that ticks Heat every turn, which isn’t bad at all. Not great, sure, but not bad.
Ofone: 2 Might/Vitality, 1 Reflex, and Shield Mastery. It’s mostly to make him a bit more tanky, since I’m starting to waffle on his build. Pure defense is not exactly encouraged, but there are 4 to 5 other people to deal damage on the team.


More over here.
Huh. Quite the number in poor repair.
Shameful. You would think they know the value of caring for their tools.
… ‘Nother this way.


You follow Ofone into a dead end tunnel, watching him like you would an excitable child who aims to thrust his hand into every crevasse he can find.
Hmm. Big!


Dusty, too. Unused?
More money!
And unlocked.
Easy money!
Ofone, please. You can’t be that daft.
Hrm… Maybe not that much. Copper, maybe. Dwarves don’t eat as much copper.
What?
Eat gold!
… What?
Got to! Don’t farm, don’t hunt, don’t raid, just dig.
I think you’re confusing them with merchants.
Same thing!
What?! They are not!
Eat gold!
The dwarves at least have the decency to fight their own battles, thank you!
So?
They are direct with their threats, not an insidious cabal that threatens to unravel the social order-
You try to ignore the growing argument, instead turning your attention to Jon as he peers at the chest with narrow eyes.
Is it…?


Slowly, he raises the barrel of his rifle at the lid, his mouth drawing into a thin line.
… Breathing. It’s breathing. Move.
Pardon?
Mine!
Move!

Gah!


Ah, the classic mimic.
This thing is classed as a Champion, and it sure feels like it. Inspiring makes all enemies within 2 or 3 hexes (including itself) hit harder, Cursed makes it debuff anything that it hits AND anything that hits it, and Redemptive means it explodes into healing for enemies when it dies. Whatever goodies lie within, we’re damn well going to have to fight for them.



The creature leaps into the middle of your formation, snapping its maw at anything it thinks it can reach. In the scramble to make distance from the abberation, you spy a crate of fulminae powder left behind by some long-forgotten mining crew. You heft it toward Adolf, hoping that he can further relay the substance toward the crazed thing, but the container lands on its corner and detonates at the necromancer’s feet.
Goddamnit, I hate when inputs don’t process right. I intended to huck this Lightning Barrel further, but instead of moving it with Adolf, I shot it with Minerva.


Cursing your poor fortune, you funnel your magic into revitalizing the stunned man, knowing full well that his mindless servants will be far too useful to be left aside. Thankfully, the nearby barrel of rime crystal has not degraded to the point of uselessness.
Eh, shit like this is why I got Purify.



Ofone takes great umbrage at the creature, at the very thought of potential wealth denied; each swing of his axe is accompanied by a furious swear upon its lineage. From some unseen shadow, a bristling boar squeals into the fray at Jon’s call, slamming into the mimic with force enough to send splinters of oakbone into Joseph’s boots.
Nature Summoning 2 pulls better units than 1, of course. Boars cast Fracture much like a Warrior does, and have more combat power than the smaller animals.
Meanwhile, the Mimic itself hits fairly hard, has 2 AP per turn, and its only attack is Bleeding Cleave. It hits a sweeping area and piles on the Bleed debuff, making targets take more physical damage and lose HP if they move. Nasty, sure, but we have enough chaff to hurl in its face to keep it from shredding Ofone and/or Joseph easily.


After a pitched battle, the hinged jaw of the creature shatters, and with a sickening squelch it falls lifeless to the stone. Gilded innards slough from the mock chest, glittering in the torchlight with thick mucus and flakes of precious metal. Ofone regards the stuff with naked greed, until he at last notices that it is nothing more than a lure to entice fools into cramming limbs into a ravenous maw.
… Bah! Useless.


Not quite. Some of that looks real enough. Past victims?
The rewards are worth it, though. Along with the loot, the whole party gets to choose a single Fortune from this group.


The Summon Scroll is nice for just about anyone who has nothing better to do, or dedicated summoner builds. The Silver Signet gives a tank build like Ofone some much-needed bite for doing what it’s going to do already. Both are neat, but also have level-based variables that make them less useful to grab here and now.


Quite likely. Is… is that concoction bubbling?
Yes. … No warmth at all. Strange.
That stuff looks like blood. You sure it’s safe?
It’s not outwardly malign. Safe enough for now, I suppose. Perhaps Tyra might like to study it?
Hmph. She would, I bet.
The Scarlet Elixir, however, has no such worry. It’s just a once per encounter Haste effect with no cost and a small movement boost, for free, that anyone can slot. This is the most broadly useful Fortune, rather than only benefiting 1 or 2 characters at best.


Is that a building ahead?
Looks to be. We could use a moment of quiet.
Yes, but do you see that figure in front?


I can feel the energy from back here. I don’t suppose there’s another way around?
Not that I can see.
… No. Must be a… guard house, or inspection point, or… a something.
Damn.
Nothing else for it. Are we prepared?
RAAAAAAAARGHWARGHLEBARGLE!
That’s a ‘yes’, then.


Good news: this thing is a little weak to physical attacks, rather than resistant to them.
Bad news: It has a breakpoint every quarter of its HP, and they’re a bit of a doozy.


The massive construct before you is not the same unshakable guardian as what stood at the mine’s entry. With a steady cadence of sharp blows and spellcraft, great hunks of its crystalline form shear away and shatter on the stone floor.

However, these shards are quick to coalesce into smaller golems of their own, imbued with elemental energies siphoned from the glowing minerals nearby.
Every time this boss passes one of it HP gates, it instantly spawns in a trio of lesser Golems nearby. This can shit up the battlefield pretty fast, and while they aren’t tough, the damage can pile on quick if you’re not careful.


A sudden pop reaches your ears, the melee in the narrow chamber becoming half-obscured with thick smoke. You don’t recognize the substance in the moment of battle – some mixture of adulterated emberleaf pollen, perhaps – but Joseph and Ofone vanish in the cloud, replaced with the clash of steel on stone and the furious snarling of wild beasts.
Thick brambles burst up from the stone, weaving into a crude barricade to prevent the constructs from easily reaching the rise where you and Chardler have taken position. Your fellow magician cants his head when you shrug one shoulder, a momentary recognition that Jon is still in control of his faculties.


Ah, there’s the wolf from Nature Summon 2. Its Howl skill reduces the damage enemies deal by something like 20%.


Unable to see through the haze, you close your eyes and try to focus on your pulse, the blessed gift that Altima grants to all living creatures. A thrum tugs at the edge of your perception, then another, and another still – faint things, obscured by the deathless corpses, half-spirit animals, and sparking constructs all battering against one another, but there regardless.


You edge closer to the melee, feeling an uncomfortable heat rest on your shoulder as Chardler steers you away from a sharp drop. Behind shut eyelids, you see his blood flare orange-white in his outstretched hand the instant before a flaming missile passes over you, and the faint outlines of your companions become further indistinct as more shardlings rise from the golem’s leavings.



By the time you lose focus and are forced to use your mundane sight once more, the golem’s form is much diminished, having lost so much mass that the stone core around which its crystal was grown stands exposed. The men are quick to capitalize on the opportunity, hurling their every strike against the softer material whenever they can manage.


Soon enough, the Golem falls, and its remnants are quick to follow.
Oh, and as one final “fuck you”, killing the boss does not dismiss the summons – you still have to clean the last of the little bastards out manually.


The tunnel falls silent at last, save for your group’s heavy breathing.
Wh… well, then. I’d say a… a moment to put our feet up sounds… marvelous. Agreed?
Mmm.
Oh, yes. Quite.
Hmm. Can’t let our guard down. See all the tracks? This place has been used recently.
Not so recent, but… yes. Best to keep our heads… down, so to speak.
Have we leeway to get a fire started? I don’t look forward to nearly breaking my teeth on dry tack again.
If we keep it small, yes. Care to help me gather tinder? Plenty enough around with all the broken wood…

 

[Arcade Gannon]

Facial checksum: fail. Possible security breach.

Ofone's beard just isn't up to dwarven standards.

 

[NerdShamer]

Slumped against a pile of refuse and broken furniture, your companion looks toward the quiet streets with glassy eyes. He reeks of blood, sweat, and filth, his bare chest smeared with mud, dried gore, and other substances you dare not guess at.

It ain't an Kiwi saga without the occasional acid trip.

 

[Mooger Meng]

05 – Grim Prospects


What once was a bustling checkpoint now serves well as a secure bolthole for your group. The few provisions that remained have long since molded into uselessness or been shot through with pests, and the medical supplies befouled by time and ignorance. Had your pace not seen you to the mines with such speed, you might have worried that your own supplies would not last through the trip back to Talestone.
You rise from the low campfire, leaving Ofone and Joseph to tend their weapons, and approach the doorway where Jon watches the pack pony as it rests, tossing the odd glance into the tunnels.
I think we’ll be ready to move soon. Any danger?
Not… more than… usual. Patrols… don’t seem to come here… often.
I see. Might I ask you something, Jon?
Eh?
I still find myself concerned. You say it’s not a curse, but you still seem distracted at best. If not a curse, then what?
Ah. Distracted… yeah. Distracted. Good… good word for it. … Listening. Attention. As much as I can, to… to you. Ancestors. Spirits. Nature… everything. Like juggling, you know?
Hmm. I see.
Heh… No. You don’t. Not really. Not… not that scatterbrained. Appreciate it, though.
His reply lacks the wry edge you’ve come to expect, holding a note of sincerity instead. It’s a welcome change.

So, those animals aren’t quite flesh, then?
No. Something… else. In between, I think. Can… perceive, if I try. Sort of.
… Wait, perceive? Like, through them?
Yeah. Scouting, now… patrolling. Watching. Safe, for now. ‘S how I know… “know”. Don’t know what you can’t see. Might be… missing something.
I’ll trust your judgment. You’ve done us well thus far.
Damn kind of you… We going… soon. Yeah?
Yes. I’ll let the others know. Don’t strain yourself.
Why not? You… might want the… the practice.
Hah. I’m sure I’ll get plenty along the way.



On the journey through once-familiar roads toward the heart of the old dwarven lands, Father's journal has become as much of a boon companion as your fellows. Each page is a mote of guiding light on your path, his courage and wisdom ringing in your mind as words you never before heard pass his lips. At times, when these tales and musings draw you into reverie, you can almost feel his comforting presence nearby.

Between the two maps, the party leveled up again.
Minerva: 2 Might/Vitality, 1 Int, and Empowered Light 2 for more healing.
Jon: 2 Dex/Reflex, 1 Int, and Venomous Skin. Until I can get the third tier of Nature Summoning, he’ll be grabbing a few more support spells, and this might prove useful to toss on Ofone.
Adolf: 2 Might/Vitality, 1 Reflex, and Poison Cloud. What would Adolf be without ready access to magical Zyklon?
Joseph: 2 Dex/Reflex, 1 Might, and Twister. This is a bit of an oddball template spell, with limited range that starts from the caster. It’s got a generous enough range for characters who don’t stay in melee, and with Joseph getting in the front line, this should give it more targeting opportunities.
Chardler: 2 Might/Int, 1 Dex, and Hot Head 2. More damage on the damage dealer, please!
Ofone: 2 Might/Vitality, 1 Reflex, and Howl. This is the same skill that Wolves use, and the area debuff ought to help keep Ofone alive when things to Very Wrong.

Our party is starting to get enough investment in their main trees that I’ll need to start saving their skill points soon. The 4th tier of skills need 2 points to purchase, and the 5th need 3, and both of those are where the real silliness starts to happen.

Mine, Windbag, Mine - Darren Korb - Bastion​

As you delve further into the tome, however, the once-gallant writing becomes scattered and erratic. Slowly, his neat penmanship skews as his thoughts begin to fragment, mirroring the decline of his mind into an erratic tempest of muddled obsession. Tales of adventure, maps and trade routes, notes on the kingdoms and towns, all fall away in the face of a single mania: the sealing of the dragons.
Bats aren’t anything special, other than having Attacks of Opportunity.


Father was barely a man when that fated day came, and what little you know of it yourself is shrouded in uncertainty and speculation. There was a thread beyond the ancient drakes that bound these tales together, but the recollection is so dim that you cannot trace it, and for all your prodding Father knew little more himself.
Hrn… There. Ahead.
Any way around?
No. Too narrow.
Good. Girl! Nose outta that book!
Hmph! No need to shout, Ofone.



In the press of combat, you hear the blond man snarl something once more about your damned attention, but with your focus so absorbed by your craft and your ruminations, the words fail to make purchase in your mind.
Perhaps this feeling is like what Jon described. So many worries, so much information demanding your attention, and little time to process it all.



As the last construct crumbles inert to the floor, your hands are already digging in the satchel at your hip in search of the journal’s worn leather.
Again?!
Mmh.
Minerva, what on earth is in there that you’re so absorbed in thought?
My father’s travels, his mementos… memories. Maybe portents. I’m still not sure.
Read with your eyes, then, not your feet. Need to keep moving.


Hnn? … This way.
Just stalling.
No. Look.


Ehh… Fine.
Now, it seemed, Father had been making up for lost time. Spattered across the pages like bloodstains are a raft of theories, fragmented charts, half-formed thoughts, and esoteric symbols penned with a dread urgency; things all too familiar from the singular sheet that prompted your search. Thinking back, these coincided with his extended disappearances from your home, and your nerves twist into a familiar, worried knot as you see his writing further deteriorate.



A bullet ripping through the air a hair’s breadth from Ofone as he stoops into the chest shatters your reverie. From the dirty armor and glowering greed on display by the approaching figures, they are driven more by a lust for treasure than any thirst for knowledge that drives your band.
Mine!
MINE!
Well, perhaps not. You cannot lie to yourself and think that the others care for much else than gold and survival in this place.
Hostile adventurer parties in the Mines are a little tougher. Paladins do paladin things, being tough and prone to healing allies, while Hunters are nature critter summoners – Jon-lite, if you will. Half the calories, half the flavor, costs more, and enjoyed by trashy white chicks.

From the fissures that split open to disgorge barriers of thorny vines, Adolf winds tendrils of black magic into the rock. Within moments, more cracks appear beneath the hostile party, spewing out a foul cloud of venomous gasses trapped beneath the mountain with countless lost miners.



To your alarm, when the heretic Paladin falls, his form all but bursts with a crushing wave of arctic energy, chilling all of you to the bone. Ofone is fast to shake it off with little more than a jovial bark, an odd grin plastered across his face as he moves to hem in the Hunters bearing down on you.
Oh, right. The Paladin had the Frozen modifier, meaning when it dies it immediately dumps 5 stacks of Chilled on every player unit on the map.
Well, that’s a good excuse to toss out Warrior’s Boon and Purify.


Without their guardian, the remaining brigands fall easily, but a chill still runs down your spine at the thought. Whether from the lingering cold or the knowledge that such banditry runs rampant in the old dwarven lands, you cannot say for certain.


Joseph gives a heavy sigh as you continue to thumb through the journal.
Are you not done yet?
Nearly, I promise. At least for now.


You wanted to get here so quickly, and now you hesitate.
Might I have a look? I dare say it might hurry us along if you’d share your concerns.
… Take a moment. Someone ahead. Hasn’t… seen us, yet. Might suspect something.
You beckon Chardler over your shoulder, attempting to explain in hushed tones the worry that wears at your mind with every page you read. You fail to state your thoughts clearly through the whirlwind of doubts, though it seems that he at least understands the fear behind your muddle.
In the last entries, Father’s frustration and despair become clear. In his mind, this was a race against time itself, where he struggled to complete an ever-shifting puzzle with half its pieces lost to ignorance and neglect.


A few of Jon’s words puncture the veil of frenzied thought you have wrapped around yourself.
… No, not moving. Lights… beyond. Better workmanship. Smooth.
Been waiting to test a dwarf.
Well, this is your chance, then. Valkyre?
Hmm? Are we going?
Yes.
You nod, closing the journal with a snap and thrusting it into you satchel. You know such distractions need to be pushed aside, regardless of how much your mind wishes to lose itself in such minutiae. Forcing yourself to do so is another matter, but the men have been more than willing, perhaps even impatient, to provide such prompts.


In the dim light, a single figure stands in your path, only discernible from the stone around him by his slow breathing shifting his outline. Broad and stout, like a spire of rock jutting up from the cave, his form is less shaped from his long life of toil than it is chiseled from the living rock. From behind an unkempt beard flecked with dust and debris, his mouth sets into a hard line at your approach.
His Majesty said ye would come, child. But I did nae believe any of yer kin would be daft enough t'approach here unbidden.
The good Bergentrueckung has been more reticent than usual of late.
Aye. As has all the world.
Foreman... please, sir. I need to speak with His Majesty. My father must hav-
Yer father ne'er knew what was best for him! Ever hunting for another secret, another forgotten truth! And aye, we could respect that dedication, but we ken that some things - dangerous things - are best left buried. Pity he never learnt the same, and that ye are bound and determined to follow him.
With a single motion, the massive foreman shoulders his equally large pick, his eyes settling into unyielding points with a shake of his head.
I take nae pleasure in this, child.


So, the Prospector. Attacks of Opportunity, Control Resistance, summons enemies, and the Indestructible trait for 50% damage reduction against the last damage type suffered. As well, he has two breakpoints at 75% and 25%.
He’s a bit of a tough cookie, to say the least.


The dwarf charges into the center of your formation, swinging his tool with what you think is wild abandon. By the time the third swing lands near the center of Ofone’s shield, casting splinters toward your face, it becomes clear that he knows all too well how to use his talents with focused skill.

Joseph makes a swift gesture, casting the foreman across the cavern in a clap of thunder. He swivels around in his moment of disorientation, locking his gaze in your direction before slamming the tip of his pick into the rock with a snarl. Spikes of stone burst up from the floor, causing the whole cavern to shudder ominously around you.
Every few turns, he marks a bunch of spaces to take damage his next turn, and his basic attack hits in a fairly long line to mess your dudes up if you stay in too tight of a clump. Even better(?), those area attacks can and will overlap multiple times – being in the crosshairs of 3 or 4 instances of floor damage can fuck even the toughest of heroes up in a hurry.

Ofone rushes to meet the dwarf in a gap in the pillars, laughing and whooping at the top of his lungs at the prospect of a stern fight. Through the plume of dust and debris that fills your vision, you hear more than see the thundering bootfalls of the foreman’s work crew hurrying into the melee to assist him.
By the way, those HP gates are when he summons, usually somewhere near his location. I don’t know if the number is based on your own party size, but for a full crew he pulls 4 extra dwarves.



Jon reacts quickly, calling a wall of thorns into being to cut the bulk of the foreman’s reinforcements from the melee. Those who manage to clear the wall are cut down with haste by your companions, while Ofone matches bellows with the burly dwarf in a flurry of rock dust and sparking steel.



The industrious dwarves hack a clearing in the bramble mere seconds before an errant spark from Chardler’s magic sets the whole thicket ablaze. Adolf and Jon weave their spellcraft in response, calling forth their own soldiers to keep Ofone and Joseph from being surrounded and turning the tunnel into a whirlwind of violence. You know you cannot seal every wound the pair suffers, but the greatest of them, left by gouging picks and raking hatchets, are quickly mended from afar.



The last of the workers falls, but you hear more shouts ringing from further beyond the battle. The foreman grits his teeth, glaring at the foes closing ranks around him, and smashes one of the cavern’s pillars in response, dropping a cascade of heavy stone across the entire chamber. In the scramble to avoid the crude deadfall, you lose track of the rest of your group in a haze of debris and tremors.



A flaming missile cuts through the dust – Chardler, then, and the foreman somewhere near where it landed. You orient yourself, reaching out to sense the lifeblood seeping from open wounds, and weave a barrier around Ofone as his boots slide across the uneven terrain. A roar reaches your ears, then a choked cry, and a final thundering of falling stone as some far tunnel gives away and collapses in on itself.
You stagger out of the dust, giving a glance toward the now-sealed opening, then turn your eyes to the foreman’s still body.
Well, that was interesting. There was enough DoT and reaction damage built up that the Prospector died when his summon skill activated, hence the dialogue box being the “summon” bark rather than the “defeated” one.


The others approach soon after, while Ofone grins at you all, turning his head to spit gobbets of blood onto the stones away from the dwarf’s remains. Chardler taps at the body with the butt of his staff, an odd, sour look etched on his features.
Haaaahhh. Good fight, stunty.
What was that he said about entering unannounced? Did he not see the thieves beneath his very nose that we encountered?
Might not have. He seemed preoccupied with this… uh. Group of tunnels. Block? Warren? Got to be a proper term for that.
Gallery, I believe.
Hmm. Sounds good enough for me.
Likely they were posted as guards for this entrance. I think. That’s the… Dalmir crest, not Harrowen. Why are they doing guard work?
Just miners here… Hmm. Must be keeping the warriors inside. Stupid.
Or desperate. One would think if they were so frightened of what lay beneath, they would keep more sword-arms in the tunnels… and perhaps, stop digging for a while.
There’s a guardhouse ahead. Best take a moment to rest up before we introduce ourselves to the locals.
At swordpoint?
I’d rather not, to be honest, but I doubt we’ll be given much choice on that.


The old dwarf's words send a chill down your spine. What sort of secrets had Father discovered in the bowels of the mountain, that turned even his old friends against him? Did it have any bearing on the dwarven kingdom tearing itself asunder, or was it some personal grudge that marked his once-welcomed line as a pariah to Ironheart's people?
There are no further answers here, among the abandoned ore and gemstones. No doubt remains that the dwarf king holds them; it was now a matter of if he will divulge them peacefully, or if you must hew them from his stony countenance.

 

[Mooger Meng]

06 – Wrath of the Mountain


These mines seem to go on for ever.
The dwarves are an industrious folk. It would reason they need much raw material to feed their forges.
Even so, it’s a wonder they don’t get lost more often.
I’m told they have a very good sense of direction while underground. But the tunnels here seem far more unstable than I remember them… Certainly more than they would like.
Path’s clear… for the moment. Are we ready?
We should be. Adolf?



Mmph! Just a moment, Valkyrie.
… Are you two day drinking?
Waterskins’re full. Not wasting it.
Waterski- What happened to the keg?
Broke.
They had… that much sitting around?
Some left. Want it?
Small… small beer, yes?
Sadly.
… One for nerve, I guess.
Same.
I’ll pass, thank you.
Jon…
Just the one. I know.
The party leveled again after the last map. By and large, everyone is getting the same stats they have been. As for skills:
Minerva, Adolf, Chardler, and Ofone sit on their skill points for this level. Jon picks Good Bloom back up, and Joseph grabs Gathering Storm to help shore up his lacking mana pool.


Even now, the ruin left by the foreman’s fury continues to stymie your advance. Every tunnel you hope can take you into the heart of the kingdom is choked with debris, or so treacherous even to your untrained eye that you dare not lead the others inside. Only those clogged with constructs and obstacles are sturdy enough to travel, forcing you all through the path of greatest resistance.


A malicious giggle floats past your ears as your companions make ready to cast aside another golem patrol. One of the constructs pulses with barely-contained magic, trailing frozen vapor and leaving a thin layer of rime on the stone around it.
The Freezing mod we’ve seen already. Ice Tomb makes the unit spawn a bunch of AoE cold damage bombs just about every turn, and Miniature increases the unit’s AP and movement at the cost of its max HP and damage.



Run all you’d like, my sweet...
Quiet, you.


Huzzat? Something wrong, Minerva?
It’s nothing. I just... thought I heard something.


… Holy hell. Look!
What the…?


Woah.
Oh, hello. I don’t know this event!


Floating above a brass pedestal on a shelf of living stone, a ruby the size of a grown man’s torso casts a soft crimson glow over the entire cavern. If you squint, you can see the facets shifting ever so slightly, pulsing like a massive heart in time with the blood of some unseen, unknown presence.
You do not merely hear it in the back of your skull, but feel the thrum in your very bones, in every fiber of your being. It is intoxicating, like some sign plucked from the Crimson Angel’s bosom and placed in your path.
Hmm, okay. Nothing special so far.


It calls to you. Your blood writhes, seeking to leap from your veins and join its glorious presence. In the corner of your eye, Ofone inches in front of you, and it takes all of your control not to lash out at his greed and impudence. Rage sets your blood to boiling as the men bicker among themselves, a hand landing heavy on your shoulder to turn you away from Altima’s treasure by force.
Uh… huh. Well, it can’t be that bad, can it?


Jon shouts something, and your ears ring with the clatter of metal-shod boots approaching at speed. Even as your eyes avert from the ruby, your vision washes with red, the encroaching heathens making themselves known as willing sacrifices to Altima’s glory.
… Me and my big mouth.


Chardler and Jon hook their arms under yours, dragging you bodily behind the shelf where it rests in spite of your venom and rancor.
Well, let's see. That’s a Paladin, 2 Hunters, a Crusader (Armored, Attacks of Opportunity, and rolled the Freezing trait again), and a Soldier, all of whom have 2 AP for this entire fight.
This is going to be unpleasant.



A strange flower springs into existence beneath your feet, soft and blue and disgusting. But it soothes your weary mind, granting a clarity of focus to see the choicest veins and arteries that trap Her crimson love within unworthy prisons.
It takes a concentrated effort to stay your foot from crushing the bloom. The thing is useful; it may exist, for now.



The first of the interlopers falls, his death fueling some bewitchment that drapes oppressive cold over the cavern. Near the Ember, it melts away no sooner than it forms, his inner warmth nearly shining as brightly as Her tribute that spills to the floor now in droves. A flick of the wrist, a wave of the hand, and the Steel looses more of Her boon, to your eternal delight.



For a moment, you consider allowing The Greed to pay his deserved tribute, but pragmatism makes you think better of it. He can bleed much longer than these paltry shells, under your watchful eye.
Ofone is taking a lot of heat in this fight, as is his job. Minerva is able to keep up handily, between Shield of Light and Cure.
Without the Crusader and the Paladin, this fight is well in our favor, but it’s still a bit of a slog. The remaining Hunter has plugged herself into a little bolthole with a single point of melee access, dragging things out even further.



The Beast puts an end to the last trespasser, her blood filling choking lungs from a sizzling hole in her throat. Your pulse slows, but Her blessed hue still fills your vision, drawing your gaze to it once more, ignoring the dull shouts from your servants.
Yes, Mother.


You feel it clearly, now: the Crimson Angel’s pulse, in your own veins, your very soul. The ruby shudders, casting its holy light over you, sharp and all-encompassing. Blinding.
Warmth spreads through your being, dulling the pain, so comforting that you barely notice your staff drop from slicked fingers, clattering to the stone as Altima’s love suffuses you. Soft, thick, pure, and… runny?
I love you too, Mother.
Your vision blurs, and you take a moment to regain your bearings. Jon has you propped up on his leg, his ruddy face quite pale, and that worry is reflected on the others as well. Even Ofone stares down at you with an unusual frown half-hidden by his beard.
… Down?


Yes, down. The rough stone digs at your back where you are slumped, staring up at the empty pedestal. You start to rise, then drop back with a hiss, a sharp pain in your chest making itself known. You are coated in blood; so much that it cannot all be yours, but surely some must have sprang from your flesh.
Minerva, please. Say something. Tell me you’re still with us.
I’ll kill you soon, Mother.
Nnngh… Jon?
Oh, thank the gods.
What… What on earth happened?
Aside from you having a psychotic outburst? Well, those bandits died violently, then you stumbled over to that gemstone. It exploded, and… Well, you weren’t moving for a moment there.
Blinking, you press a bare hand to your chest. There is a new hole in your tunic near the center, the flesh beside your breast sore and sensitive. Your eyes shoot wide once you realize what lay in the shard’s path, and you stare down as well as you are able.
Beneath the steady beat of your heart is something else, eldritch and foreign. A presence settling into your form: watchful, possessive, and demanding. Something that tells you that you are not alone.
Nor will you ever be again, whether you wish it or not.
That… really, really does not look like it’s worth it. 3 extra AP is nice, sure, but that’s a fucking steep price to pay. If you overestimate what you can do with that one turn, you’re losing someone for no good reason.


Are you certain you should be moving about, Valkyrie?
I have to. We can’t stay here forever.
Speak up if you start feeling faint, at least.
Jon, I’m fin-
No, Minerva, you are not fine! You just had a shard of… of Sunnis only knows what get jammed into your heart, and fell down bleeding like a skewered hog. Nevermind taking a blow to the heart is usually fatal, I don’t think anything has that much blood in it!
I swear, Jon, I hardly feel anything unusual now. Aside from the way by boots are squelching…
Don’t feel- That’s not- I don’t even- Gah!
Are you really that worried?
YES! Stop playing at- no. Don’t… You don’t have anything to prove to us, Minerva.
Bullshit.
Even if I do, I can’t just turn back and leave you all. I don’t have enough food.
You-
Jon. It’s alright. No need to worry yourself sick. I’m not about to drop dead.
… Okay. Okay, fine. I don’t believe you for a second, but… fine.
… I’m a little surprised, I admit. I didn’t think you were-
- that much of a limp cock!
What?!


From the far end of the chamber, voices ring out in snide tones. There are no miners or golems to be found, however. Merely a group of straw-packed training targets.
No kidding. Only way he’s going to get her wet. Of course, I doubt she could even care if he got it up. Not old enough for her.
Always lookin’ to bend the tree backwards, yeah?
Yep.
… Excuse me?
Oh, she hates it when you speak the truth.
Better’n that slick-looking cocksucker, he just hates it when you open your yap at all.
Probably doesn’t want anyone to know where the bodies are buried. It’s a damn shame.
Mmm-hmm. Hell of a party that was.


How curious.
And then there’s this asshole!
“Oh, woe is me, my people hate me because I didn’t die in a fire! A bloo hoo, I’m gonna burn the world down!”
What about the other one?
Aside from all his ‘friends’ being dead, because he’s a maladjusted dropling? … He’s got a really, really stupid mustache.
Filthy merchant-born scheisseschwein! I-
Yeah, yeah, heard it all before.
Hmm. I think whoever enchanted these should have hired a proper comedian to help.
Spare the time, lanky? You lot are a bunch of jokes, anyway.
Oh, hey! Guys! Lookit!
Hmm, proper color, certainly broad enough… posture could use a little work, of course.
Hey blondie, you looking for honest work for a change? We might have an opening for ya.
Yeah, c’mon. You’ll fit right in!


… Keep talking, runts.
What, you still mad that your clan threw you out? Not our fault you can’t keep your blade under control.
The kid would have been worth more than the lady at the markets, you know. Kept you swimming in cheap beer.
Or maybe, juuuuust maybe. We don’t care if you’re a little fish. Fried. Ffffffffffffffff-
…
-ffffffffffffffffffffff-
…
-ffffffffffffaggot.


DIE NOW!
Heh. Gottem.
Sometimes, the game feels the need to remind you that it isn’t deadly serious.


Gods beneath, is this amateur hour? C’mon, put some effort in! Hit me like you mean it!
For all their taunting and threatening posture, the strawmen are just that: simple targets, meant to provide the unskilled with much-needed practice.
This is one of such times. This “fight” is against a bunch of enemies that do not fight back at all, and give some bonus XP when you’re done.


RARGHLEWARGHLEBLARRRRGH!
There you go, pup! Feel those muscles burn!
Burn, you say? I can oblige.
Heh, this one gets it! Good, good!


DIE DIE DIE DIE DIE
It takes Joseph and Jon much effort to restrain Ofone’s boundless rage after the dummies fall to the ground, but they manage with only a smattering of bruises.


A good start, but it’ll take more than that to slay a dragon. A lot more.
… Who said we are to be dragon hunting?
Everyone.
No one.
Must’ve been the wind. Been screaming a lot, lately. Warping, howling. Laughing.
And its mistress never said who’d be hunting whom. Keep training, yeah? You’ll need it.


What strange constructs. They seemed too crude to be dwarven make.
Too vulgar, as well.
Who cares? Dead now.
Howling on the… No. Can’t be.
Hmm? What is… look there, ahead. What is that?


A safe. Proper dwarven work.
Dear me. That thing is massive!


Money?
If we can get in, certainly.
Burn it!
I’m afraid it won’t be that simple.


Hmm… I don’t recognize any of these runes. Gods only know how to get it open without the code.
Burn. It.
Ofone, even if I could conjure up some flame hot enough, it would destroy the contents as well.
Bullshit.
You wish to argue pyromancy? With me?
Bullshit!


Hmph… Move, please.
Jon steps between the pair before they come to blows, his eyes glassing over as he gestures at the massive iron container. With a whisper and a mote of ether, animals slink from the shadows and approach the safe. A raven alights on the handle, pecking gingerly at the smooth iron; a boar presses its flat snout against a seam near the hinges; a fox leans on the impressive filigree to press an ear against the door.
Slowly, gently, Jon’s fingers twist the dial this way and that, perhaps sensing something through his menagerie that his own body cannot. Long minutes pass where his body stands all but unmoving, the creatures grunting and shuffling as they replace his eyes and ears in the task.


After an uncomfortable wait, a soft click sounds from the door of the safe. The animals scurry away and vanish, and Jon shakes his stiff body as his senses return.


Money!
Hng… You’re welcome.
A wry grin crosses Jon’s face as Ofone all but dives into the container, scooping up the gold and trinkets inside with a single-minded drive.
A bit of a child, isn’t he?
So I've come to learn.


Your ears perk. If you strain them, you think you hear the chittering of some unknown creature drawing close, beneath the clatter of coins inside the vessel.
Jon’s head snapping up all but confirms your suspicions. He levels his rifle down the tunnel at some faint blue point in the shadows, calling the others to attention before it can close the distance.
Oh boy, cave spiders. The big crystal one has the same resistances as the Crystal Golem boss, which is to say 25% to elements and -25% to physical. The smaller spiders can use Stealth, and all rolled the Resilient trait for 20% damage reduction across the board.



As they approach, your eyes jump to a barrel of emberleaf powder nearby. A simple bolt of raw mana sets the container off, the sudden flash of its detonation backlighting the creatures as they tumble away, tossed aside for a moment by the concussive wave.


The largest of the group, its abdomen shot through with veins of blue crystal, charges through the flames. Ofone stands at the edge, kicking and battering at the things, forcing them back into the fire while he dutifully ignores the wounds their fangs leave. The stench of burning chitin assaults your nose even as you woke to purge the spiders’ unusual venom from his blood.


The smaller creatures attempt to hide in the ever-moving shadows cast from the melee, but they are purged swiftly by fire and lightning in the very crevasses they shelter within.
Blast spells will continue to remain useful for knocking anklebiters out of Stealth.


Your group marches onward, more cautious than before. The slow pace affords you all time to gather yourselves for whatever might lay ahead.


Beside you, Ofone stops dead, glowering at the floor and sniffing. A frown grows on his features as he steps forward, his nostrils flaring. Then it reaches you: a fetid, moist odor that reminds you too much of the slums. One of earthy desperation and decay.
… Ugh. Something die over here?
No, that is not a charnel stench. More like…
Bull shit.
I beg to differ, Ofone. It’s quite real.
Not bullshit. Bull. Shit.


A rumble passes beneath your feet as great footsteps shake the floor of the cavern, a tall and horned creature stomping forward to challenge you.
… There’s the bull.


I shall say it once, little ones. Leave now.
I’m afraid we cannot. We must speak with His Majesty.
Then you die.
Direct! Nice change.
Same.



Ofone and the minotaur slam into one another in the center of the chamber, knocking loose a pile of barrels into your midst. There is a sudden clap of thunder before they alight, the blast nearly ruining your balance. You stagger backward towards Chardler, thorns erupting from the floor in front of you, and see the great bull’s horns turning every which way. With a shouted prayer, you gird Ofone’s body in a protective shell.
Then the horns swivel, lowering in your direction. The minotaur leaps, trailing flames as it hurls itself over the barrier toward you.

There is a sudden rush of air, the only warning you have before the beast is upon you. Fright speeds your limbs, your staff turning away the first strike by inches. Then one of its massive hooves snaps forward, striking you square in the chest with a dull, heavy thud, nearly forcing you to the ground.
Well, shit, this isn’t good at all. Not only did he ignore Ofone and run over to the squishies, but the Shrine gives +20% crit chance, too.


A heavy hoof slams down on your foot, pinning you in place and ripping a scream from your throat as you feel bones break. You barely register the sound of wood on stone nearby as you struggle to wrench yourself free before the creature’s axe falls upon you.
A wash of flame and debris pushes the bull-man away just enough for you to scramble backward, into a scintillating cloud of some medicinal concoction the miners must use for emergencies. The agonizing manner in which your shattered foot pieces itself back together puts any other possibility to rest.
Healing barrels provide a strong dose of up-front HP, then leave Holy Ground behind for a couple of turns afterward. Tricky to use, of course, since it doesn’t discriminate, but powerful.



From beyond the fire, a snarling, squealing beast charges through the bramble, colliding with the minotaur once again with vigor and fury. Seconds later, a boar materializes at Jon’s command to join Ofone in your defense.
Then the air snaps with a flash of light and a sharp stink, and the creature is cast to the far side of the room for Joseph’s meddling.
Also, Teleport Other works at a fairly generous range. Outta my face.



The beast is quick to try and close the gap once again, but you companions are prepared to meet it now. Feral might and moldering bones rise up to keep the minotaur held in place, that it might be put down and your path to King Ironheart might be made clear at last.



With a final, defiant bellow, your foe falls, punctured dozens upon dozens of times with spell, steel, and shot.
Hff… hagh… Is… is it finally dead?
… Yes. Yes, it is.
And you, Minerva?
Well enough. My foot is still a bit sore, but it works. A little tending and it will be right as rain.
Ofone! Don’t ruin the skull! I can still study this beast.
What?! Good fight. Need a trophy!
Just a horn? Why not the axe?
Eh… Not my style.



Behind where the Minotaur made its stand, a stout gate fashioned from seamless metal imposes itself over your forms. With some prodding at a contraption in the nearby gatehouse, Joseph manages to grind one of the massive slabs open, so that your group may at last enter the Dwarven Halls.
Minerva grabs Shield of Retribution, an improvement over Shield of Light that explodes when depleted.
Adolf picks up Exorcism, a damaging buff removal spell.
Chardler gets Fissure, another heavy-damage AoE spell with start-on-self targeting like Charge and Twister.
Ofone gets Vitality Break, which saps 50% of his current HP to deal a single heavy hit, with the damage increasing the more HP is spent for the attack.
Jon and Joseph sit on their skill points for now.

Mother Russia Bleeds (Title) - Fixions - Mother Russia Bleeds​

The sight of the Halls, even in disrepair, weighs on you with melancholy for your youthful days with Father. More than ever, you wish you could enter this place as a guest once again, rather than stealing in by violence.
Eh?... Who goes? Aniki?


Aniki! Aniki! Aniki no watashi!
Dezkar! Hae’attem, lads!
Shit!


You do not make it far before a patrol intercepts you. Not a set of swarthy miners with picks and shovels, but soldiers true, clad in fine armor and brandishing superb weapons.
Jesus, that’s a tank’s tank. Indestructible we already know, and Regen is going to be a lot more problematic on a unit that can take more than a couple of hits before folding like a cheap deck chair.


The squad moves with purpose and unity, only disadvantaged by your sudden appearance. Their sergeant, barking orders from behind his thick shield, crashes into Ofone like a pallet of bricks and wreathes himself in protective wards.
Then, a harsh utterance from Adolf sees those same threads constrict around him, throttling the dwarf in his own armor. Ofone gives a roar with newfound vehemence, a cold shudder passing over you as the blade of his axe flows crimson before it ever touches the shorter man’s flesh. A wash of blood, far greater than such a wound should loose, sprays into the air.
A... Altima? Please...
Blood.
Woof. So, at full HP, that shot of Vitality Break did 351 damage – a little under half of its target’s max HP. Ofone officially has a damage option now!


Ofone staggers in place, dazed and drained, breathing heavily as you weave life back into his flesh. Then, your heart tightens as you hear him mutter beneath his breath, steady and pulsing.
Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.


Then, it becomes a chant.
Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.
P-please. I don't- I-I-I... I can't...
Yes!


Soon it is a howl, and to your horror, your own heart thrums in time with it against your wishes. Resonating with his call, his plea. His demand, to Her.
Blood! Blood! Blood! Blood!
Make... make it stop.
Yessssss!


It echoes within you, across a thousand killing fields and every slaughtering soul upon them.
BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!
Please...
YESSSSSSSSSSS!


Your mind founders, awash in an intoxicating sea of crimson sentiment. You know, somewhere deep down, that to give in would mean losing yourself forever to this joyous madness. To drown and dissolve in Her presence, like a lump of sugar in piping hot tea.
BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOD!
please make it stop
KILL FOR MOTHER! KILL FOR YOURSELF! KILL FOR EVERYTHING! KILL! KILL! KILL!


No sooner than the last of the patrol falls still, the entire chamber gives a threatening shudder. Over the chorus of shouts and chanting in your mind, stone collides with stone nearby. Someone is-
MAKE IT STOP
No.
MAY CHAOS TAKE THE WORLD!


Everyone is screaming. Everywhere.
The very earth cries out in agony around you. A tortured groan keens out from the mountain, its form riddled with tunnels and warrens, hollowed out from inside. Weakened. Wounded.
It bleeds.
MAY CHAOS TAKE THE WORLD!


There is a great crash as the chamber, abused by decades of unceasing combat, collapses. Countless tons of rock fill your vision before all goes dark.
You have meddled enough.


Sleep now.

---

I was planning to record a whole lot more, but when I went to go start the next fight, my goddamn computer crashed. Thankfully, the game saves at the start of every new area, so when I restarted it, the party was right where I left off.
Well, most of them.
I noticed I only had 5 members in the party. So, I abandoned the quest, which got the remainder to level 7, then checked the roster in the main menu, and, uh…


Chardler got fucking deleted.
This is problematic, to say the least. Now I need to go back, remake him, then get him up close to level parity with the party, all while tying not to overshoot, or accidentally unlock a shitload of the map, and/or hoping this shit doesn’t happen again.
So! Uh, tune in next time for Chardler’s wild solo adventure/drug trip as I get that done and over with.


Fuck’s sake.

 

[NerdShamer]

That… really, really does not look like it’s worth it. 3 extra AP is nice, sure, but that’s a fucking steep price to pay. If you overestimate what you can do with that one turn, you’re losing someone for no good reason

Seems like an emergency use of inducing tard rage is in the works...

Chardler got fucking deleted

He's fine. He just needs some amateur defibrillation.

 

[Mooger Meng]

He's fine. He just needs some amateur defibrillation.

Nah, man, he's gonna get, like, a potato battery and some drugs, delivered by the fuckin' absenthe fairy or some shit.
I knew I was going to have to make shit up when I started this, but holy hell I wasn't expecting to have to actually factually fight my computer for it.

 

[NerdShamer]

a potato battery

You're conveniently forgetting that you have an murderous wizard with electrical powers for this

 

[Arcade Gannon]

Rocks fall, Chardler dies. What a shame.

 

[Mooger Meng]

07 – Chardler’s Bogus Journey


First things first. Full disclosure time – if the game is going to play silly sausages and delete my crew, then the gloves are off and the stash is open. I tucked a bunch of stuff in here for a rainy day, and frens, I hear thunder.
Chardler gets the best of what low-level gear I can give him for now. It should suffice to give him a leg up while he’s by himself, until more level-appropriate gear starts dropping for him.

Flatline – Scattle – Hotline Miami​

… Ugh… Ouh… Head…


Wake up, dumpling.
Time to die.
Ghuh?… Urghf… Hrrng.


Get up. I won’t tell you again.
Hnng. Hrrrrn. Who… the hell do you… nnf… think you are?
Your savior. Your jailer.
The only God that can hear you now.
So fall on your knees and beg for death, and I may yet be merciful.


Another one? Nevermind, then. Not worth the bother.
Oh, I am worth everything you have, and more. All you could ever hope to be.
I merely ask for your soul.


… Freewind? No. No, not quite. Smells… wrong. Feels wrong. Simulacrum? Interesting.



Ghr! Fangs’re real enough… No support.
They are dead. I killed them.
Will it make you love me? Will it make you hate me?
I don’t care. I still own you.


They wake, lad.
Hmm. So I’ve heard.
No point, you know. Trying to stop ‘em. They’ll rouse eventually. Then all the land will know what it’s like.
You won’t have to be alone.


I can live with it. I know that pain, and there are few I would wish it upon.
Then know pain, my love.


Bleed.
Ugh. Always more complications.
The nice thing about running a character solo is that fights tend to be very quick, one way or another.


Suffer.


Fall!
It’s hopeless, lad.
Perhaps, but what other choice do I have? Curl up and die?
YES
That seems unproductive.
Have it your way, then.


Gwuh?
Be with your people.
RIKKI CHIKKI CHIKKI BREEEEEEEEEE!
Pouches… Emberleaf? Hmm. Not good.
These are Imps. Imps suck.


None of that, thank you.
Most of them do fire damage here in the desert, and the little fuckers with barrels on their back are jihadis that explode when they die, naturally. They also have the Unpredictable modifier baked in, meaning they’ll choose targets at random instead of following the usual targeting rules, just to make them an even larger pain in the ass to deal with.


RAKANISHU!
Yes, yes, bak-bak-tun to you, too.


Hmm? Water here…?


Pure… Interesting.
I’d rather have gotten this later, but it’s pretty well tailor-made for Chardler’s build. For now, it’s a nice boost.


It hurts…


You could have saved her.
Please…


Don’t leave me…
You watched her die. Slowly. Painfully, in the fire.


It hurts…
It’s alright. I’m here now.
Liar.


She didn’t deserve it. None of them did.
None but you.


Wha…?
Ho, traveler! A moment?


I’ve all but found it, sir: the lost treasure of Moltendunn! But for one final set of charts, you might share in the glory and plunder! If you could spare the time, young man, for this mapmaker was a wily foe…
Hah. We really ought’ve known better. Moltendunn was lost for a reason.


But she insisted.


The old gent was over-thinking his maps. Everything was hidden in plain sight. We just had to know how to look. Rotate the shape.
This event doesn’t give you anything up front. Instead, it primes another one to fire off later in the dungeon.


And there it was, dangling in front of your scorched nose.


Sinking into the sand and rock. More hungry for treasure than you were for bread.


Or perhaps it craved for the flesh of fools, cooking to perfection under the sun. Sloughing from the bone.
To explain this event, it’s a two-step check. Failing the first check costs some HP and hits your party with a dungeon-length debuff, but the second doesn’t have any penalties other than kicking you back to the first.



Gods, we were there for… hours. Tried everything we could think of.
Bleeding your life away for your greed.


Some kind of reactive charm, that tried to match our speed. Had to slow down, pace ourselves. One handful of sand at a time.


And the simple treasures that spelled your doom.


We thought it was some kind of wolf talon, or maybe from some raptor out of the Emerald Jungle. Should have figured it was a dragon’s. … I shouldn’t have let her wear it.


The gem must have been what he was after. The roads had long since fallen into ruin. Something, anything to make the journey easier.


… The feather. That’s why. A feather and a claw. Who ever heard of a feathered dragon?


You might not have known, but you suspected. No mere embers could bring such complete destruction.
Hmm.


A house fire? Really, now.
No one had seen a dragon in the flesh for generations.
But they wake.
You woke them. This is all your fault.


… You are a terrible liar.
Oh?


Hurfl!
You think to lecture ME on falsehood?!


If all the world’s woes could be piled at my feet, you would be thanking me.



This is my gratitude. It is punishment.



You will praise me and kill! You will love me and die!


I believe I can quote Ofone’s dubious wisdom in that regard.
Blood.
Oh hey, the pack of little mimics instead of the one big one.



No. Fuck you.



Has to be something useful in here…
The Fortunes from this version are a bit more focused than from the large mimic. Whetstone’s good for a beatface build, and the Force Generator can let someone bust open enemy formations more or less at will if they have enough self-teleport spells.


Hmm? Voices…?
The Crystal Ball is the winner for Chardler, though. Getting this on a dedicated sniper build is crazy, but for now it’s another modest damage boost. Once he gets back to the party, of course.


Is she asleep?
Soundly, now. It only took half the pail.
Goodness! Hah, look at that face. I think she’s getting fond of you.
It seems so.
Mm-hmm. I know that look. What troubles you?
I… Nothing, Hugh.
It’s not nothing.
… Am I… fit for this?
Why not? She trusts you.
Only because I’m feeding her!
I trust you.

… Strange.


Sumbit to my love, and you will die. Struggle, and you die slowly.
I shan’t even pretend that I care what you have to say.


Hello. That staff is awfully tempting. Even at such a low item level it could easily replace the one Minerva is using, and I can hang on to it for later. But those modifiers are going to be a serious pain in the ass…
Oh, hell with it. It’ll be quick either way.


How fortunate, dumpling!
Neither do I.


Oh. That is a lot of fungus.


Gods, the smell is even worse!


Ugh. Can’t be healthy at all.
This insult will not stand.



… nk I f..d him! Ov.. .e.. .leed…
What?!


….n’t thi.. ...’s .reath…
No.


Mov.. … to try…
No!



YOU LIVE AT MY WHIM! YOU DIE AT MY COMMAND!
Protip: Don’t let a mass of enemies catch your solo character in a shrine that adds 20% chance to stun on every attack.


HAAAAAAAAUGH!
No! Nonononono! HE IS MINE! MINE!


..y is he on fire?! Jos…!


… potions… .. .. now!


..ying to kill …?!


… .. .ood as dead if we ….


… … .gain!


HHNNNRRRRRAAAARRRRG!


… on’t believe it.
… old you it would wo…
… zard. You dead?

Huhhhng. N-n… not… y-yet…
Good enough. Tend him, we need the girl.
Of course. Do brace yourself, Chardler. I’m afraid this will hurt…
G… grand…

 

[Arcade Gannon]

If there's one thing you can count on Hitler and Stalin for, it's saving lives.

 

[Mooger Meng]

08- Fragile Stability

There is no pain in the darkness, no sensation. A lukewarm void envelops your senses, blotting out everything else. It is a feeling not unlike sleep, but something deep within you rails against it.
Mortal.
… Nnh?
The voice does not reach your ears. Rather, it imposes itself into your mind. You do not recognize the speaker, but something about its tone is deeply familiar, almost comforting.

Awaken, mortal. There is need of you.
Hhng. Hnn?
Your goddess demands an answer.
Buh? I…
You plead her assistance, yet shirk when it arrives. Beg destruction, then abhor murder.
Wha…? N-no… Mercy. Mending. Not… not death.
Truly?
Mother… Mother told me. Blood is life. A precious gift. … Sacred.
Is that what you believe her to be?
She… she answered. So many times. So many wounds. I don’t… don’t want to bring agony. Too much around me as it is. I… I just wanted to help…
The gods are old, mortal. Older still than you can yet imagine. Generations of worship build their temples strong.
But they are not invulnerable.
I… I-I don’t understand.
They need you now. Awaken.

Pain trickles into your form, a dull soreness that throbs in time with your pulse. Every lump and bruise, all your aches and sprains begin to howl in a chorus of agony as your consciousness returns, threatening to blot out the voices of your companions.
Someone presses a vessel to your lips, tipping it back with a careful motion. A measure of bitter liquid flows past your tongue and soothes the most pressing of your wounds in seconds, leaving you a coughing mess as the dregs catch in the wrong part of your throat.
Hhk! Khah!
Easy, Minerva.

Once again, Jon props you up, giving you a few firm thumps on the back to help clear your throat. You blink, the low torchlight of the room stinging your eyes, and cover your face with your hand as you drink the remainder of the potion in slow, cautious sips.
Hhk… Ugh. Thank you, Jon.
Don’t thank me just yet. How are you feeling?
Hurt. My head hurts, my chest hurts… My bones, my muscles, my… Khff. All of it. My everything hurts.
Not a surprise. You caught a lot of that cave-in.
Is… is that what happened? I can’t remember.
Yeah. Big one. We’re safe… for now. Sort of.
Sort of? Ow…
I hate to rush you, but we’ll need your magic as soon as you’re able. Chardler got caught in a… something. None of us are quite sure what happened to him.
Ssss… Altima’s light… Ngf. Is he stable?
For now. Adolf is tending to him until you’re ready.
Oh, good.
…
… Wait.
WHAT?!

You leap to your feet, ignoring your body’s protests as you barge into the nearby room that Jon points you toward. Adolf says something, but the words are lost in a flurry of thought once you take in the pyromancer’s litany of injuries.
Soothing light pools into your hands without hesitation. With as much care and haste as you can manage in tandem, you weave the golden prayers into his battered flesh, your vision clouding with a red tinge as you peer past the outer shell and into the cavities where his blood flows. So many wounds, hidden from plain sight, stand out with an angry hue.
Chardler is conscious enough to hiss through clenched teeth while you bind his injuries. Threads of light dance on your fingers as they wrap around cracked bones and pierced veins, stitching torn muscles together again with gentle pain. You stop short from sealing them all fully as you find them; it would be irresponsible to spend all of your strength before mending the rest of his body.
Only once you are certain that his internal wounds have been set to heal do you turn your attention to the remainder outside. Your mouth turns down as you find the many burns pocked across his flesh. There is no way these were all here before; you know from your brief time in his presence that Chardler has far too much control for his magic to run so rampant.
During your reverie, more voices brush against the edge of your mind’s perception. Joseph and Ofone returning from some misadventure, you suspect. They keep a respectful distance after a single question, its nature and your answer lost in a muddle of overtaxed thought as your attention leaps from spell to wound and back again, over and over in a flurry of mental activity.

It feels like hours until you at last allow yourself to relent, even though you know that is but a trick of perception. A small campfire burns a short distance away from the pallet where Chardler lays, the other men huddled around it and speaking in quiet tones. Adolf sees your approach, giving a small nod as Jon shuffles to make room for your leaden limbs.
Fräulein. How is he?
On the mend, but he will need more time. As will I, I am afraid to say.
Tired already?
He was badly injured, and I was little better when I began.
I don’t… think she trained for this, Ofone. Not a… Not a fighter, you know?
Hmm. Don’t have forever.
Indeed. The dwarves are bound to investigate, in time.
I am inclined to agree with Minerva, I fear. Herr Chardler will be much more useful if he can move under his own power.
Collapse… blocked a lot of tunnels. Been keeping… an eye out. Sooner we move… better, true. But for now… for now, have some time.
Once he can stand, then. I’ll want to be sure he won’t bleed out on the march.
Good for me.
And I. What paths do we have, once we can move?


Here. Made a… a sketch. Or, tried.
Hmm… It makes sense enough for now.
This leads to the… Reichpalt market quarter? I think. One of the markets, at least.
You know this place?
Dimly, at best. I traveled here with Father a small number of times.
New gear.
Ah, yes. We found a small armory below, while you were working. The armor will need some adjustments, but the steel serves well enough. Make sure Chardler has a look before we depart.
I’ll be sure to do so. Thank you, gentlemen.

Several hours pass in relative calm. Your group sits near the fire or shuffles around the room, honing weapons, checking armor and packs, propping against dented armor for a nap, or tending the buckled shield that serves as a crude griddle over the campfire. Chardler stirs at some unknown point, stifling the groans from muscles stiff and sore as he struggles to sit up.
You help him to his feet, keeping careful watch as he stretches to ensure none of his lingering wounds threaten to reopen, then brief him on the tentative plan as your mind recalls it. He hobbles to the side room, spending some time picking through the gear that Joseph and Ofone were able to recover, then joins the rest of you at the fire for a time.
When impatience and nerves urge your group into the creaking halls once more, Chardler surprises you buy dragging his hand through the embers of the campfire, scooping the very flame into his palm before smothering it against his chest. From the heavy sigh and how his face sets into a determined line, it would seem this is not the first time he has braced himself in such an unusual manner.


You lead the group as well as you are able, thankful for Jon’s scouting to correct your fragmented memories of the paths within the halls. The route weaves through a collection of workshops and barracks, the difference between one and the other slim at best, staying out of sight as well as possible.
It isn’t perfect, of course. Every rattle of Ofone’s mail or crackle of wild lightning from Joseph’s hands reverberates like cannon fire in your ears. However, slipping past the first three patrols before you are found out bodes well for your journey, if not the state of the kingdom.



… Hnn. Uncoordinated.
Or worse. Is… is that rust on their armor?
Pardon?
Here, look.
… Indeed it is.
More coming. This way!


Jon waves you into a half-lit building, its idle magma forges casting unsettling shadows across the breadth of the floor. In the center of the room, a single suit of gleaming parade armor stands at attention, its empty helm keeping a silent watch on its abandoned and half-finished bretheren.
What in the hells is going on? A tempered patrol would never let their equipment fall to rust.
So?
Readiness of one’s gear is a point of pride for any dwarf worth their flint, from the King himself down to a greenbeard in the mines.
Indeed. But times are harder than ye realize, lass.


Gods only know what sickness of the mind has been wrought upon our people. Clan wars with clan once more, as they did in the dark reaches of generations past, uncaring for anything but whatever pocket of the city they’ve claimed.
Captain Irons, at yer service. Though I’m afraid my days of combat are well behind me.
The voice that issues from the armor reminds you of Father: older, grizzled, and rough-hewn, yet calm and level. Its fine steel gleams in the dim light, an orange glow highlighting the golden embellishments and delicate etchings. Even to your untrained eye, it stands out as a piece able to hold the line in battle almost as well as it could lead King Ironheart’s processions.
Another dwarven artiface that speaks on its own. Intriguing.
Another? Ah, then ye’ve met the Nettles, I take it.
Those scarecrows in the mines?
The same, lad. Meant to weed out the unfit, that their superiors might impose needed discipline. Products of the same magus that crafted myself, in an age past.
… Patrol’s gone. Clear for the moment.


May I bend yer ears for a time, adventurers? My spellbinds might be wearing thin, but my mind remains sharp as ever, and I’ve a notion to pass on a sliver of what resides in this battered plate before time and neglect bring even that to rust and ruin.
Dwarf tricks?
What I can, with the moments ye deign to spare.
Hmm. Not a common offer.
I… I don’t know what use I could make of it.
The knowledge itself is a worthy treasure.
Says you.
Well, for us, anyway. More practical for the rest of you.
Jon?
I can keep an eye out, don’t worry. Besides, you might need to know some of this yourself, just in case.
Somehow, I don’t envision myself wearing field plate any time soon.
Oh, come on. You’d make it look cute!
W-what?!
Even with a thick coat of gore on it?
Hey, someone will find it appealing.
Ugh.


For a time, your group huddles in the abandoned workshop, puttering between the shelves and the central floor where the ensorceled armor stands, searching for some substance or another to apply to this cuirass or that axe. He is critically encouraging of the technique on display, explaining the small tricks and advice he has gathered over his many years with an endless patience that makes your heart ache.
Hmm. Plenty of room to improve, now. But it’s a fine start.
If you insist, sir.
I do. Ye had practice with this before, young lass?
Eh… Of a sort, yes.
Are… Are anyone else’s fingers getting sore?
Mmm. Hate to admit it.
Only my hand.
‘S why you hold the whetstone the other way.
Bah, it was a shallow cut, all told. The sweat is making it worse.


I think I saw some… some tomes in the back, if you… want to take a break.
Would that trouble you, Captain?
Not the least. If it’ll be of use to ye, then by all means, peruse.


Most of the books are illegible, ruined by mold and pests years ago. Of those that yet survive, many are in the dwarves’ runic script and far beyond your meager knowledge of the language. A small number are in the human tongue, though their contents are chiefly mundane: manuals of arms and techniques of battle, or treatises on metalworking and jewel-cutting. Interesting, to be sure, but not useful in your quest.
Chardler calls to you and Adolf after some time, clearing a space on the stone counter to prop open his finding that you might all crowd around it. A welcome sight rests within the pages, as many of the notes revolve around magical formulae for artiface and enchantment. They are nearly all in code and cipher, others in a form of shorthand that their author felt natural.
It is intriguing, but worries at the back of your mind.
Fascinating…
Well, it makes a certain amount of sense. I hear dwarven craft is quite able to hold magic, if you can work it in to begin with.
Hmm. Oh, these are intricate patterns. More than I expected them to be.
The runic script is quite angular. Almost like… like they’re designed to draw a lattice across the surface.
… Minerva? What’s the matter?
You don’t answer your companion’s query directly. Instead, you poke your head through the doorway, trying to catch the construct’s attention as your frown deepens.
Oh shit, Edwin’s? Nice, this Fortune can allow some real Shenannegains.


… Captain Irons? Might you know a man named Edwin?
I do. Part of the cabal that first created we Iron Knuckles. Young man, rather skilled at his craft. Always seemed a bit sickly.
Not heard his name in a lifetime, though. Have ye found something of his?
A… journal of some sort, I think. Notes on enchanting and empowering steel.
Aye, that’d be his handiwork. Ye sound troubled, lass.


It looks like there’s some kind of ritual in the pages. It… I don’t know how to properly describe it, but something… feels wrong about it.
Hmm. Tell me one thing, lass. Are ye worried for my sake?
… Somewhat, yes.
Oh, come now. No need to fret. My bindings are worn threadbare, and fit to snap without yer meddling.
Sir, if this untethers something-
Lass. So long as ye and yer lot here can pass on what ye’ve learnt, I can be content with that. And perhaps it might renew them, instead? Edwin was meticulous at maintaining our weaves.
Don’t like this.
Mmm. Minerva, warn us if you’re going to try it, yeah? Thinking we might need to leave, fast.
… You’re probably right. Let me confer with the others.
Right, so here's the thing about Edwin's: this is a slightly better version of a skill from the Fire tree, Fever. However, Fever doesn't increase spell power and is a tier 4 skill, requiring a minimum investment of 8 points just to get it. Sure, this takes up a Fortune slot, but I think that's a lot more valuable to a build that isn't already half-spent in the Fire tree.

Back with us, then?
Yes. What have you two managed to decipher of those notes?
Enough to enact a few rituals. I must say, there is a striking similarity to those I am familiar with.
… Wait. They’re necromantic?
Not as such, no. Some central theories are used, but they do not require a full life to enact. Bits and pieces, drawn from the channeler and other willing parties. Simple enough to replicate.
Perhaps it’s some method to preserve soldiers on death’s door? Better a half-life than none at all.
Perhaps so. You’re willing to perform one, I take?


For a better understanding of my craft? Of course!
A few seem safe enough. I shan’t turn down the opportunity.
Very well, then.
You turn to the doorway where a fox sits on its haunches, staring at you with glowing eyes.
Make ready. Fair or foul, we shouldn’t stay long after.
The creature rises and trots back into the foyer. Ignoring the curious looks from the men, you set about preparing a small circle for the ritual itself.

Powdered bone? Really?
A stable binding agent, Valkyrie. … What is this measurement here? ‘4 hds wide’?
Hmm… Four hands? Measured across, not long. Give us something like… this.
It seems constrained. Well, perhaps it does not need so much room.
I hope not. Now, for the runes… Ugh. What is this jumble?
… That… Oh, that simply makes no sense.
Are you sure those are correctly translated?
Phonetically, yes.
Maybe… Ah. Try them three letters forward, I think. ‘A’ for ‘D’, ‘B’ for ‘E’, and so on.
… No, still not quite right.
It jumps here. See? Mid-word, a few more up.
Ah. There we are.
Careful of the bound when you scribe, it’s very thin. Gentle strokes, fräulein.


Between the three of you, the ritual materials are set with little difficulty. Transliterating the chant is time-consuming, however, and intoning the words threatens to strike your lips numb. Chardler takes up the task with aplomb, hardly missing a breath as the words continue between you unbroken. Even Adolf, with his curious accent, is able to shoulder the remainder of the burden with little issue beyond his mouth twisting around a handful of alien utterances.
When the room falls silent at last, the tension of the ritual holds firm a moment longer. You feel it resonating with your bones, vibrating with less menace than a miscast spell, but unsettling never the less.
The feeling passes just as Joeseph thrusts his head through the doorway with a slight frown.
Finished?
It seems so.
Good. Jon says more are coming. We move, now.
Nice. I'll probably show off the one Very Silly Thing I've done with another character who has Edwin's at some later point. For now, just keep in mind that we have it (unless someone gets fucking deleted again).


You pass by the still form of Captain Irons, noting with some relief that his armor still hums with magical power. Jon crouches at the door to the workshop, glancing back once as he hears your boots approach, then darts out into the streets against a crumbling wall. You see a flash of blue-black move in the shadows above before he waves the group forward, whispering a warning to stay close to the walls and as low as possible.
Countless boots pass near the alleys and abandoned streets that Jon ushers you through, ringing an unsteady cadence through the halls. Joeseph mutters something about discipline in passing, and it strikes you that these patrols are not marching with the lockstep you recall hearing in your youth. Worry and some other, nameless ill gnaw at the back of your mind once more, so deep that an ache sets into the base of your skull.


Or perhaps it is the enchantment causing your disquiet? A lone chest sits abandoned in the streets, surrounded by dropped purses whose contents still glitter in the torchlight. The lock is barely fixed, just enough to give the appearance of security. Waiting for its long-dead owner to return for its contents.
The fine hairs on the back of your neck rise, and all eyes turn to Ofone.


The taciturn warrior glowers at the box for a moment, then busies himself among the nearby rubble. After a quick search, he approaches the chest, stopping several paces short, and cants his head critically at the suspicious container.
Then, his sword arm winds back, hefting the brick he dug out of the wreckage, and hurls it with all the force he can muster at the lid of the chest.


The mimic springs open with a pained shriek, slinging blood and venom across the stone as is charges toward you.
A quiet sigh of relief escapes you before the battle is joined. For all his impulsive greed, at least Ofone is able to learn some kind of lesson.



The creaking oakbone smolders as Chardler turns his full attention upon it, stubbornly resisting his attempts to set it alight. The smoke that rises in response looks foul and green-tinted, and stings your nose as it wafts past.
What a fucking annoyance. Toxic forces you to take a bunch of Poison stacks, and Earthshaker is the same time-delay AoE that the Prospector tosses out.


The melee around the creature turns chaotic in short order. Hacking blades and raking claws assail it from all sides, while it snaps its maw and bleeds thick venom in response. Its howls of pain and rage reach a troubling pitch, the stone beneath your feet shuddering in response before spikes of rough rock burst from the street.


By some heavenly grace, the pillars holding the roof of the cavern refuse to buckle, but a sense of urgency sets in among your companions regardless.


The others redouble their efforts to bring the beast down, and you turn your whole focus on sealing their mounting wounds and purging venom whenever it attempts to take root in their blood.


Your victory, however welcome, is short-lived. Even as the mimic’s half-digested treasures spill out, the shouts and the stamps of dozens of greaves reach your ears.
Whoreson of- More coming. Lots.
Money!
Grab a sack, then!
For a moment, the bearded warrior is taken aback at Chardler’s sudden vehemence. You all but thrust a purse into Ofone’s unresponsive hands, snatching up a scroll case that pokes from the pile of slick coins.
Here. Hurry!
… Right.
Since we already have the “generic” reward from this – discounting Charder, of course, but he has other ways of getting haste – we’re going to grab the Summon Scroll. It will be best exploited by Jon and Adolf, of course, but Minerva and Chardler can get some use out of it, too.


Ofone shakes off his stupor, scooping as much into the bag as it can hold without bothering to pick through each fistfull. He is only a few steps behind the group as Jon leads you away once more, weaving through a ruined quarter of the undercity with as much haste can be managed without announcing your presence to the whole ward.


Only when the joyous shouts of gold and greed fade into the distance does your party come to a halt.
There, that’s… good enough. Must’ve seen the remains.
Fuckers.
Better they fight over it than we’re forced to hold off half the city.
I know, I know. Still.
A sense of dread washes over you unbidden. You cast a narrowed gaze around the environs, seeing nothing that stands out as extraordinary in the rubble and silent ruin of the once-proud halls. Jon is whispering something to the crow perched on his rifle; Ofone leans against a cold brazier, still fuming over the lost gold; Adolf is reading the curious scrolls you fished from the mimic’s corpse; Joseph gazes back the path you came, wary of pursuit; Chardler glances over to you, his mouth slowly curling down as his eyes flit to some other point in the room.
…
Adolf is reading the scrolls.
The scrolls you know nothing about.
And muttering to himself.
Barada… Nicktu?
What a thoughtful dumpling you are!


Your eyes snap wide at the faux-sweet voice that punctures the silence. The mad fae hovers just above Adolf’s head, a coy grin splayed on her lips, radiating malice.
I really ought reward you for such kindness.
Do you love me as much as I love you, little ones?
Both the rewards this time are blue. Not completely shit, but not really worth it, either.


Oh, piss off.
I thought so!
Join them.


The fae’s presence collapses in on itself, a sickening wave of arcana vomiting across the ruins in her place. Piles of rubble shudder as corpses, both fresh and long-dead, push the broken stone aside.
What in-
Wizard!


Got to be something useful-
Caused enough trouble already, Adolf!
No, no, this is-
Aha! Ich ben ein berliner!


Mimic!
Wait! Ours!
What?!


… Huh. I’ll be damned.


Ofone drops his axe with a clatter and stomps toward Adolf, grabbing a fistful of his robes before the magician can scramble away.
Meddling little shit!
Ghh! Calm down! We’re fine!
Always trouble. Barely worth it!
I swear to you, that was not my doing! There was no necromantic energy at all here. I would not have tried to read the scrolls otherwise.
Still your fault!
You’re certain of that, Adolf?
Undoubtedly.


What happened, then?
It seems we’ve caught the attention of someone, or… something. Whatever it is, it wants us dead. Or worse.
Uh... huh. Could you be a little more vague for us, Minerva?
Believe me, Jon, I would love nothing more than to provide details. But it… changes. It’s some manner of… of chaos, personified. And this isn’t the first time it’s rammed its nose into our affairs.
More complications, then.
I’m afraid so.


The pacified mimic hobbles up to your group, its tongue lolling out of its lid like some mutant dog. It makes an odd, wet sound, then tips forward, disgorging the auric contents of its gut at your feet before falling still and silent.
Ofone releases Adolf’s robes and crouches to the slick pile of coins, keeping a wary eye on the creature while he deposits the money into another pouch. When the mimic does not move to snap at his fingers, he rises to his feet again, giving the creature an awkward pat on the lid as he does.
Good… thing.
The floor shudders again, and the mimic stiffens for a moment before clattering away in what might be panic. It isn’t the same feeling as when the cave collapsed, but is similar enough to make your blood run cold.
The hell is that…?

Attack of the Glyphids – Sophus Alf Agerbæk-Larsen & Troels Rohde Jørgensen – Deep Rock Galactic​

Another rumble issues beneath you, more violent than the last. Sections of the ruined street bulge as some creature displaces the earth itself with its rapid approach.
Scatter. Scatter!


No sooner than Jon speaks, the floor explodes upward from beneath your group. A great worm-like thing, glinting in the cavern’s light with corrosive slime and flecks of gold embedded in its hide, erupts from the ground in a spray of caustic debris.



You struggle to regain your footing as a blast and a wave of heat crash over you. The butt of your staff digs into the now-uneven terrain as you right yourself, the auriphagic worm shrieking as the rock beneath it bursts into wild flames. Shadows dance on the far walls, of Ofone and Jon’s minions hacking at the prodigious bulk that whips and flails in unexpected pain, all while a horrid stench of burning meat and earth assaults your nose.
Chardler got a lucky stun past the boss’ resistance, so I get to ignore the first special action for a bit. Score!


From the edge of your vision and half-obscured by smoke and flame, you see Joseph heft a pot and wave his free arm at Ofone with a shout. The blond man backpedals with wide eyes, and a sheen of crackling magic envelops the container before Joseph hurls it into the fire near the creature. The explosion shakes you to the bone, and the clap of thunder leaves your ears ringing and all but useless.


Somehow, your companions are able to pressure the thing with such unbridled violence that it hardly can spare a moment to react.
And somehow, it got stunned the second turn, too! Welp, this thing’s fucking hosed!


When the flames die down, all that remains is a smoldering tube of disgusting, gilded meat that Ofone is all to eager to put out of its misery.
lol, I don’t even remember what this boss does. GG no re.


You blink and stagger in place. Your hearing is overwhelmed by a dull chime, and your vision riddled with floating spots. Jon waves his arm at you, trying to catch your attention, or so you think from the little you can perceive for the moment. He approaches, says something you cannot understand, then tugs at your shoulder, ushering you and the rest of the group away while you struggle to focus enough magic to remedy your sad state.

 

[NerdShamer]

lol, I don’t even remember what this boss does. GG no re

It summons other giant flesh eating worms.

Why? Because fuck you, that's why

 

[m1ddl3m4rch]

Your goddess demands an answer.

Hey, I recognize that sprite! Did you use Ultima, the Arch Seraph here to hint that Minerva's deity is actually a lucavi?

 

[Mooger Meng]

Hey, I recognize that sprite! Did you use Ultima, the Arch Seraph here to hint that Minerva's deity is actually a lucavi?

Nah, it was just on the same sprite sheet.
I mean, c'mon. I named her deity Altima, what the fuck did you think I was going to use?

 

[Mooger Meng]

09 – In the Halls of the Mountain King

When your vision returns, you begin to recognize the fine masonry of the inner cloisters of King Ironheart’s domain. The well nearby suggests that this was once a muster station, or perhaps a hospital; some institution valuable enough to receive its own access to the aquifer. You focus on your body a moment longer, ensuring that no lingering wounds remain, then step out to speak with the men and perform the same task.
Bruises and sprains are treated with a simple benison. What your magic cannot allay, the warm brew over the fire and a short rest are more than able to care for instead. While the others recover their stamina, Chardler inclines his head to a nearby room with a pinched, stern expression.
Minerva. A word?
You follow the pyromancer into the secluded doorway, confident at least that he has no untoward motive.

What troubles you?
That graveyard, or whatever it was with the corpses. You heard it, too?
That fae, that… that thing?
So, yes. You said this wasn’t the first time you’ve encountered it?
In the mines. At the time, I thought it might have just been some wandering spirit or rootless fae cast from the courts. I’m not so certain now, but it’s unquestionably hostile to us.
Hmm. I think it might have had some hand in the collapse when we reached the halls.
What? Why?
While I was… indisposed… it kept hounding me. Conjuring up all manner of twisted reflections of my past.
That’s… concerning.
Indeed. I worry for what it might know of us already. Has it said anything about your Father?
No, but…
But?
But, just before the collapse, it… imposed itself on the world, I think. I thought it was just the gem shard driving me to madness, but I… I heard things. Heard it screaming and howling, unhinged with bloodlust, and other… other voices that I feel I should recognize. Chanting for-
Blood. Like a hymn.
… Yes. You heard it, as well?
Might have been then. Might have been while I was unconscious. The line between the two gets a bit blurry. And I suspect I may not be the only one.
…
We should be careful. That creature could prove to be a troublesome foe to deal with.
But… but what does it want from us?
Near as I can tell? Utter servitude. The ‘whitherto’ and ‘whyfor’ seem irrelevant, if its words are to be believed.
Pants on, you two! We need to get moving soon.
Pfeh. Jon seems in good spirits, at least.
Crude as a palisade log, I swear…


Glad that got your attention. Everything alright?
Close enough. Where are we headed?
I’d wager we will find King Ironheart in the throne room.
Predictable. Do you remember the path?
Not clearly, no, but I can hazard a guess. I recall the murals grow more elaborate on the approach.
Hmm. Wish we had a proper map, but it’ll have to do for now.
That might send us even more astray, you know.
Got food from the back, at least. Well, maybe edible.
I can’t see how it could be worse than tack.
Bite it. You’ll see quick.
Keep an eye out for charts, and stick close. The squads here still have their wits together.

Echoes of the Past – Sophus Alf Agerbæk-Larsen & Troels Rohde Jørgensen – Deep Rock Galactic​

As you stalk through the once-resplendent halls of the dwarven hold, you recall the wild rumors and prying questions from travelers and tavern-hounds alike: how did a man like Father forge such a bond with the Mountain King?
At times, he would spin some wild yarn with a puckish sparkle in his eyes. At others, he would simply claim to possess a personality the dwarf sovereign found agreeable. When you grew old enough to ask the questions yourself, his answers helped to piece together the truth from the many tales you had heard.


… Th’hell’s that thing? Wolf?
Don’t know. Bigger, though. Looks-
Ichtar! Attaf!
Goblin!


From the shadows, a group of wolf-like creatures emerge at the call of their handler. They pulse with some strange magic not unlike Jon’s, even if their sinister air is little more than a result of standing against you. Adolf finds himself on the wrong side of the approaching pack, but if he is concerned, it fails to show.


You quickly notice why. The goblin must not have recognized the container of fulminae dust, and to be fair, you did not at first, either. The barrels and pots the dwarves use to hold the common alchemical powders are marked with symbols you still do not recognize without prompting.
Regardless, she knows now, for the scant seconds of life that remain for her.


Your heel disturbs a similar jar against the railing behind you. It is heavier than you expected, and it takes you a moment to decipher the runes inked onto its surface: they relate to fire, if you recall correctly.
Joseph turns at your shout, sheathing his blades in a flash of motion to free his hands. He plucks the jar from the air before it hits the stone, rolling with the momentum to hurl the jar even further toward the pack. The red-tinged powder spills out onto the floor when the vessel cracks, possibly so befouled that it cannot react as it should.
Then a sphere of flame lands on the pile, shaking the room and providing a neat remedy to the problem.



Without the goblin commanding them, the pack is felled without great issue. Their fangs and claws are sharp, yes, and feral instinct is not to be dismissed lightly, but you have the advantage of numbers and higher intelligence.
For the most part.


… Hmm. Vicious things, aren’t they?
Fitting that subhumans need to leash such creatures to their whim, when they cannot persuade proper men.
Minerva? Up here. Have a look.
Oh… That’s a lot of rubble.
Wonder if that’s how the gobbos got in.
Possibly.
Give me a hand, would you? Want to see if there’s a map nearby.
What, you don’t trust my intuition?
Usually, yes. But an appointment with royalty? Heh. We can’t afford to be late.
Father often discovered many treasures during his adventures - some actively hunted for, others a mere byproduct of his daring. He quickly learned from those who bought them that the lion's share were more than mere trinkets, but fragments of half-forgotten histories that could serve to unveil greater understandings of their former peoples.




King Ironheart, being of a long-lived race that pained to keep their ancestors in memory, caught word of Father's knack, and was intrigued that a human such as he would aim to return these findings to those who might cherish them. Over many seasons, and by many relics thought lost in the clan wars, the king began to see Father as not merely some treasure hunter, but a man who strove to preserve their heritage and bridge the gaps in the glory of their ancestors.
Level 8 unlocks the second Fortune slot, so everyone that isn’t Chardler gets to slot an extra Fortune before the next room. He’ll catch up afterward, so no worries there.
Minerva: 2 Might/Int, 1 Vitality, and Light’s Strength. Remember, Might is the catch-all power stat, even for spells, so this will make our healer that much better. She also slots the Summon Scroll for extra minion spam.
Jon: 2 Dex/Reflex, 1 Int, and Mass Entangle for our first map-wide CC option. He also slots the Scarlet Elixir alongside the Summon Scroll.
Joseph; 2 Might/Dex, 1 Reflex, Thunder Bolt and Chain Lightning. I probably should have gotten one of those earlier, but oh well. He also slots the Sharpened Fortune for lack of anything better for now.
Adolf: 2 Might/Int, 1 Vitality, and Mana Drain. This will help shut down hostile casters and keep his mana pool from drying up too fast. He also slots Polished, since a pile of armor bonus is about the most useful thing I can give him right now.
Ofone: 3 Might, 2 Vitality, and Warmonger 1. He also slots Polished to make him better at his primary job.


Anything?
No, sadly.
Damn. Nothing for it but to keep moving, then.
He was not wholly correct, of course, as you recall Father's pack often jangling with coin. But neither was he quite wrong, when weighing the sums you counted against what other merchants might have paid instead.


… Someone ahead?
Looks that way.


Merchant.
Easy, now.
Not seen you before. Friend or foe?
No friend of the goblins, for certain. Or the dwarves, from the look of it.
Relax. Not here for you.


Hmm. Everything else jumps at my throat first chance… Good enough for me, if you’ve coin. Buying or selling?
Both.
Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a map of the nearby halls, would you?
I may… but it won’t come cheap. Word gets out I pawned one, the king’d have my head.
Pardon my presumption, but with how dire things seem now, you’re not safe in the first place.
Besides, we just happen to have this sack full of dubiously-magical odds and ends that fell off the back of a war crime!
… Must be brave or retarded if you’re laying it on that thick.
We’ve been hearing that quite often lately.
Dungeon shops usually aren’t very interesting, but it’s a chance to offload some of our junk and pick up a few supplies. Every shop is themed, much like the ones in town; this is clearly a potion shop, but it has some selections we don’t get to buy under normal circumstance.


Done?
Yes. Thank you, sir. Keep your head down on the way out.
And you lot, too. Be well.


More shambling dead. This Ironheart seems a poor steward of his people.
All the more reason why I intend to find out what befell him. He is… was better than this.
All is ash…
Hmph. If you claim.



I still have found nothing that betrays any sort of rebinding ritual. Just where are these all coming from?
I thought you would sound more pleased about all the corpses shambling around, Adolf.
Hardly. For one, there are little more than scraps left to study once we have finished with them. And without being able to locate their source, even intact specimens would provide paltry insight at best.
Ever the practical sort, eh?
Like butchering hogs, Herr Crow. You use all but the squeal.


Chardler catches up to the rest of the party after that tussle, getting 2 Might/Int and 1 Dex. He picks up Burning Reach to keep him a little further away from the potential danger zone, and slots the Brilliance Fortune for a little more Int for now.


Though these halls are not alien to you, your visits were so infrequent that you cannot claim familiarity. These are crumbling corridors, their twisting passages clogged with debris: shattered paving stones, ruined furnishings, rusted armor, battered shields, and the occasional shard of bone that deigns remain still. They are much like Father's mind, and it was here that you began to first notice his ailment.


Another?
Could be some breed of mine pest. This one looks like it’s gotten into more iron than gold, if anything.
Either we’re closing in on another armory, or the throne room is close. The statues here look like the map’s, but these worms made a hash of things.


Hurgh! Watch that gunk. Eats stone like a starving dog!

Ugh. Seems they all smell horrible when set ablaze.
Almost as bad as Jon did in that alley.
You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?
Something about that sour odor of rotting meat. Never has sat well with me.
How’d you get here with Ofone, then?
Fuck you.
Oh, he just smells like someone vomited in an ale barrel. That’s mundane.
You, too!
It was subtle at first, like some creeping mist. His gaze would lose focus, his confident gait would falter for reasons unknown. But the speed of its advance frightened even the most seasoned of the Menders.


Some riches unattended, my drunken fellow. Would that assuage your temper, perhaps?
Yes. Fuck you for asking.
You’re welcome.
Trouble?
No. Thinking.
In mere seasons, the tapestry of his worldly knowledge frayed and unraveled, turning the kindly father who ushered you through these halls with sagas of kings and battles long past into a tottering man who struggled to recall even the simplest of tales.


Do you need a moment?
Carpets still intact, doors that haven’t had their gilding chiseled off…
We here?
I think so.
Yes, but we don’t have one.
Focus, then. We will need you.
Of course.


Your footsteps echo against the bare stone of the throne room, empty save for the Mountain King himself. In spite of his stature, you would never have thought of King Ironheart as a small man; as he stands among the half-ruined chamber, the melancholy he exudes makes him seem reduced in a way that his height never could.
You don’t need to look back to know your companions are fanning out along the room, perhaps already bracing themselves for combat. But you cannot bring yourself to stride into the heart of the kingdom with ill intent without first speaking to its ruler.


There is no way that King Ironheart failed to notice your arrival, but he does not react in any way you expect. His eyes stare at a point past you, lost in some troubled thought that wears at his very being.
When he at least speaks, it is with the weight of age and regret. His voice still rumbles like you recall as a child, but his pensive tone raises the fine hairs at the back of your neck.
Long ago, our halls shone with the light of thousands of torches. Our forges burned like the sun herself, crafting wonders the likes of which the world has nae seen since. Held fast against all manner of foes, from without and within, when all others would crumble. I first thought the humans were begging sympathy for their own folly, the knives they placed at each other's throats... until they came for us, rendering our proud halls and all within to ash and tallow. Swift destruction, delivered on great and terrible wing.
The dragons?
I dinnae know who or what drew their ire, but all the lands suffered under their predation. We spent many long nights in search of some answer, some reprieve from that endless tempest of fire and fury. Our every path lead us to the same dark conclusion. If there had been another choice, if there had been more time... We tried to find a better way, lass. Let none claim we did nae try.
Your Majesty, if what you say is true, then I must beg to know. My father was here, searching for some news of the dragons. He feared tha-
King Ironheart’s head snaps toward you, his eyes blazing with madness and fury.
Yer father's insatiable curiosity will be his undoing, if he yet lives! Always delving where mortals need nae, ever heedless of what things beyond his ken might lurk beneath. He had the nerve to delve greedy and deep into my kingdom, to wake things best left to slumber! Those damnable rogues proved incapable of silencing him, just as they have you. It is my failing, then, for trusting mere humans to do proper work. And so the task falls to me.
King Ironheart, please! Come to your senses!
The regal dwarf squares his broad stance, then hesitates for a moment.
I cannae allow you, or his legacy, to leave these halls, lass. These secrets... this shame... must remain here.
Nae matter who it ends.



King Ironheart is barely able to twitch his beard before the others spring into action. You feel the impact of his hammer against Ofone’s shield almost as much as you hear the ring of steel on steel, the sheer force of the blow sending the blond warrior staggering backward several paces.
The air around the dwarf catches into short-lived flame, quickly doused by a spray of rime crystal. The racket almost covers the unusual snarl from behind you, moments before a large black shape barrels past your legs toward the center of the room. Somehow, Jon has bent one of the ferocious wolf creatures to his command, now loosed to your aid.



A side door explodes into splinters as a group of honor guard spring to their king’s defense. Jon is once more quick to respond, tangling the warriors’ legs with a full hedge’s worth of thorns to buy time for the rest of you to act.
You pull a scroll from the case on your belt, ignoring the heading and reciting its incantation as quickly as you are able. A crate near your feet begins to shudder, its lid whipping open with a fanged maw within seconds as the newly-formed mimic clatters across the stone to defend you.


Even in his ruined state, King Ironheart still holds some care for his people. Every one of his guardians that fall only serve to push him to ever-greater heights of fury.
Aside from his two summon breakpoints, each enemy mob you kill in this fight gives a damage buff to the boss. It's not permanent, and can be dispelled if you have the means, but it's still worth taking into account.



Splinters of bone, bark, and woodflesh fill the air around the king, his weapons a blur of steel and hate that smash at everything around him.



Once again, you see Ofone’s blade glow with a crimson nimbus an instant before it strikes home, spraying all and sundry around the dwarf with a fresh coat of blood. Your vision clouds as you search the melee for wounds to heal, and feel your breath catch in your throat when the warrior’s form comes into focus.
He is all but glowing. It is not a wrathful light or some sign of divine indignation, but certainly not a calm and soothing presence, either. Almost as if it is replacing the blood that his blade offered.
You push it from your mind, and focus on the task at hand. Unlike Adolf, you cannot abide to work your craft upon a corpse.
I just want to point out that of the 6 units surrounding the boss, only 1 of them is directly controlled by me.
This party is heavy on summons right now, and I find that pleasantly silly.



Though King Ironheart is relentless in his strikes, there is such a press of bodies surrounding him that he cannot possibly hold them all at bay. Even the second group of warriors that pile out from the nearby halls do little but slow the inevitable.
Also, like the Prospector, killing Ironheart does not clear out the summons, because fuck you.


So, let’s just skip the shit, shall we?


With a resounding crash, the armored form of King Ironheart collapses to the floor. The madness in his eyes fades as his life flees, and for a final moment, you see in him the noble soul you recall so fondly from days long past. He gives one final smile - sad and tired, but genuine - before his breathing stills.
In your moment of reflection, you almost fail to notice the soft glow from beneath his cuirass. Intrigued, you extend your hand towards it, the light so pure and gentle that it stands at odds with the oppressive gloom of the cold hall. When you move the armor, its source floats lazily upward in some unseen breeze.
After a moment of confusion, you recognize it as a robin's feather. Dwarven minstrels often use them as symbols of life and new beginnings; a trend from Talestone that managed to embed itself in dwarven culture, somehow. You reach for it, watching the delicate thing twist around your fingers while the air flows this way and that.
When it alights on your palm, the world around you blurs and falls out of focus, only to be replaced by a scene so vivid it was as if you were witnessing it with your own eyes.

Here, in the full splendor of the regal mountain hall, you are surrounded by warmth and song as courtiers mingle with commoners in a grand revelry. Nearby on the stately throne sits King Ironheart himself, free of the doubt and turmoil you witnessed in his final moments.
No, this vision is of Ironheart in his prime, robust and full of mirth, eyes shining with delight and kindness: the very ideal of the goodly king he once embodied. On his lap sits a giggling dwarven child, her face a picture of reverence and glee as she tugs on the braided beard of her father, all while joyful laughter echoes from every corner of the hall.

The world asserts itself once more, and you are brought back to your senses in the empty hall. The feather retains a strange warmth as it rests in your hand, unmoving as you recall a jumble of passages from Father's journal. This very artifact had appeared in his ramblings, which you had at first dismissed as yet another figment of his addled mind, some fanciful creation to cling to hope and sanity. Yet now, as it lay in your hand with a soft radiance, the gravity of what you once overlooked begins to settle.
There are other such objects detailed in the journal, his discoveries scattered across dozens of pages. Each is tied to some person of note among the realms, an item of significance held close to their wounded hearts. Father did not know fully what these fetishes could accomplish if gathered together, but he was certain they were the key needed to forestall the approaching calamity; now, with the feather in hand, you cannot help but believe that his madness may have given him insight.


The next trinket he wrote of is said to be in the possession of "a sultan from the dunes of Wyrmrest". Surely with all of his travels before, Father would have known the man's name. But as you wrack your memories for the exotic sound the desert peoples' tongue embodies, you realize with a start that you cannot quite recall it, either…

---

It’s that time again, Kiwis. Ofone is next on the “I don’t have a build” chopping block, and while there isn’t as good of an excuse as there was with Jon to completely retool his current setup, I can make it work regardless.
Right now, he’s a pure Warrior, focusing on standing out in the front and being hard to get rid of. Vitality Break has given him a very nice option to shit out damage every few turns, but that alone doesn’t make him a damage dealer. With the second Fortune slot open and our party creeping up on level 10, I can think of another potential 3-way split to take Ofone’s build:

1: Side hop into the Light tree to pick up all the close range skills that Minerva is ignoring, acting as a lynchpin for the front line with passive buffs and some extra healing. He’ll pick up a lot of auras this way, so the focus here will be letting Joseph and the summons do more of the heavy lifting while he piles on as much Armor as possible.

2: Start going into the Shadow tree and piling up as much Lifesteal as he possibly can. Again, this means going into the parts of the tree that Adolf is ignoring, turning him into a more aggressive and self-sufficient tank that hits things as much as possible to stay alive. I’ve run a Lifesteal tank before in co-op, and it’s risky by nature, but certainly possible.

3: Head into Monk for a balanced build with great core stats and more crowd control. This won’t quite be paint-by-nubers boring, as Monk does get some hard CC and push skills, but there are passives in here to make a character’s core stats skyrocket if you’ve got the skill points to grab them. While not a dedicated damage build, this will still allow Ofone to get some good licks in every so often, and gives more tools to directly mess with enemy formations.

As usual, I’ll wait for a few days before deciding on which of these paths to take, then start working on the next update Soon™.