Undead:
A sentient corpse animated by magic. Undead creature types are usually defined by their augment. Undead can be identified by red pinhole light that shines from the indication in their proprioception of the location of their body’s visual sensory region. For most creatures this is usually their eyes or eye sockets. For non-sentient walking corpses, see unliving. For walking corpses that are victims of magical cataclysm, see deathless.
No stats. The dungeon Master’s toolkit had stats. The Player’s guide had stats. Every splatbook and supplement had stats. She remembered what the stats should be. She had most of the Handbook memorized and most of the toolkit. But this wasn’t that. This was more like a reference guide for tourists. There weren’t even any pictures, only audio. Dim flashes tumbled through her head of the way Interworld GUI was supposed to look. How long had they been trying to fuck with her brain?
Even they should have known better.
Deathless. Worse than dead, worse than undead. Being deathless meant death could not touch her, but neither was she immortal. She was a corpse animated by both her own soul and the ambient magic she breathed. She couldn’t die and chances were good that she was bound somewhere and would reform there if destroyed. The deathless tended to be bound to the place where the cataclysm occurred. She thought back to mods that featured them. Usually they were insane, ancient and deadly with little of their morality left to stop them from committing atrocity. Killing was a drug for the deathless, even more than the way it affected undead. Hated and pitied by gods, hated and feared by mortals, pitied and feared by the undead, feared and reviled by extraplanars; a victim of circumstance that was forced into eternal existence without eternal life.
It meant she was stranded now, and nothing could help her get home. The people behind Erisnet, Interworld, DARPA, whoever the hell else was involved were trying to contact a god? That had to be, like, number three on the supervillain list and number five on the evil corporation task list. But who would have thought that the oft-ridiculed mostly religious opposition to the hobby would be right? And yet, here was a whole other world full of living people and vast adventure. No, not just that. Somewhere out in the world were people from Earth who had survived the transition, and mankind, in its infinite capacity for experimentation, had accidentally found a wonderwork that bypassed time and space. They had used science to rediscover magic and their experiments worked so well that people were exiting the world successfully into a whole other world full of . . .well, more humans. But also dragons, elves, and yes, even gods, apparently. That wasn’t an evil thing, that was a wonderous thing.
And the undead and the deathless existed in the shadow of wonder.
“View Cataclysm,” she said.
Cataclysm: a localized surge in magical energy. Cataclysms may be random, cyclical or caused by the action of extraplanar entities upon the liminal plane. The nature of cataclysms is chaotic, strange and unobservable. The aftermath, however, is observable and measurable. When a cataclysm’s aftermath is deemed beneficial, it is often referred to as a miracle. Other synonyms of cataclysm: act of God, divine retribution, blessing, the unthinkable, apocalypse, Armageddon, impossibility, catastrophe, paradox. Largest observable aftermath: the known universe as the result of a cataclysm referred to as the Big Bang
In front of her, the stone wall that once opened to admit her into the crypt no longer opened. Not even a crack or outline betrayed the presence of a door. It simply wasn’t there anymore. What was the nature of the cataclysm that had taken her here? She hoped it was a random or cyclical one. She feared it wasn’t. But if it wasn’t why would a god make a mortal into something that it couldn’t communicate with?
“View Ethernaut Transfer. How did it happen?”
Ethernaut Transfer:
Access restricted. Suggestion: To gain access to this information, turn Akel into a viable spawnpoint.
“well, crap. That is so unhelpful.”
“What is unhelpful?” asked Calyx. Brishauna knew that a living person should have jumped at the surprise intrusion. She lacked the surge of adrenaline that provoked a response like that. She just turned her head to stare at the undead woman. The lack of a fast twitch response might be problematic. It was just gone from her list of functions, like blinking, defecating, breathing air, sleeping, and being able to sense time and temperature.
“This book they gave me.”
“It seems a wonder to us,” said Calyx. “You have been seated there for a full week muttering about things to view. We have been listening and taking notes.”
“Wait. This book is speaking out loud?” she asked. It only occurred to her after asking that maybe the reality of an entire week gone by was more important.
“Yes, from somewhere in the vicinity of your head, but clearly audible. You have asked it about all sorts of things, and it gives brief explanations that you usually frown at. There must be a daemon serving you. It is the only explanation. Your state of being cannot accept outside changes to the mind for good or ill so of course the origin of the worldbook experience must be external to you. Do you remember the first day of your existence here?”
“I got shot by arrows,” said Brishauna.
“You did. Your opening of our door saved this fort and turned the tide of our long battle. You broke a siege that lasted three months. All but three of our people perished.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It was more than we expected.”
“But, wait, there were all sorts of people upstairs.”
“Of course. It is good that you remember them.”
“Well. . .they smelled good.”
“It is hard for us not to eat them, but we must be circumspect. We have no supplies to welcome the living. Caravans of settlers from the other forts will come soon to repopulate Akel and they will need things to eat while they replant and rebuild. This is Faryn custom. We will hope in their coming. In the meantime, we persuaded a few local caravans to come up here. They are here by invitation and so they are safe as long as they respect our boundaries.”
“That’s awfully fast.”
“It has been a month. They were already scavenging the battlefield and recovering the effects of the dead even as we disposed of the bodies. Wherever there is battle, enterprise is never far behind..”
“But aren’t they afraid of us?”
“Why yes, terrified. But they are familiar with Faryn custom. And speaking of custom, it is upon the subject I come down here to entreat you. Our feast is ended. It is time that we all clothe ourselves again.”
“You are not clothed.”
“I am on my way to bathe. I came to see if you were also ready to be cared for. You are and are not like us and therefore you can do as you please, but I strongly advise you not to remain here forever. You would run out of book.”
“I am fine.”
“You are not. The technomancers of your world produced flesh and abilities that show evidence of our process, but even if they put chemicals into you that would have been used on the predeceased, the postmortem treatment is obviously lacking. Come upstairs and we will help you to accept this trauma to your person. We cannot undo what has been done, but you may feel better about yourself with proper preparations. The embalmers are masters of their craft.”
“They applied a template. I am just like you all. I don’t need--”
“Brishaunna, you got here because you thought you were playing a game. This is not a game. You can’t just leave your body be and expect it to serve you. You must care for it or it will rebel against your apathetic soul. Leave it to humans to attempt imitation, cut enough corners to make a mockery of it and then consider themselves to have done a good job. You can’t just apply a template!”
“Well. . .It worked well enough.”
“It did not work well enough. It dishonors the many days our people spend drinking poisons and preservatives to prepare. Did you starve yourself beyond natural tolerances while magic kept your body functioning? How many days did you spend in meditation while your body shriveled around you? What were the deeds that qualified you to make the journey into undeath? How did you serve the Faryn people in life? Did you birth children for us, that the people might live? Do you remember how they held your soul for the transition, or the steps in our funerary rites? Did you take a pilgrimage to the Navel to register yourself among the protectors of the Aryn? You have none of that and your book has nothing on it. This spawnpoint deposited you into this world with nothing but flesh and a daemon guidebook. You are just a mimic of our condition and badly in need of curation.”
“I am not a progenitor. And there are other books. I know that you sometimes grant the status to a beloved ally and sometimes you use a similar process to curse your enemies.”
“Do you think you are our enemy, Brishaunna?”
“I’m human.”
“That means nothing. Humans are a disgusting species, but individuals still have merit.”
“I see,” Brishaunna said, hunching her shoulders.
“What are you so upset about? It’s true. And besides, you are not human and you are not our enemy.”
“How do you know?”
“Because it looks like the spawnpoints as you call them facilitate just another kind of birth. Sure, you came into the world fully formed, but you came into it naked and squalling all the same. You are ghrem now. You died in that other world and then you died in this one. Your human form is two whole lifetimes distant from you. That is the only way it can make sense. Souls are souls. They are sentient energy and magic. They don’t have a species.”
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Interworld GUI still said human derived.”
“Well, if it means what I think, it simply means that you were able to retain your life’s experience as a human from one incarnation to the next. All you are doing here is thinking of Earth and that does you no good on Idron. You need to come away from the stone. They are not coming back.”
“Yeah, but. . .maybe. . .”
“No, Brishaunna. We have given you time out of respect to you, but your state of filth is an offense to our custom. It is one thing if you do not wish to mingle with the living. That is fine and acceptable. But seated naked, reeking of corruption, coated in blood and draped in viscera?”
Brishauna stood. Skin tugged where dried blood stuck her flesh together. He dusted herself off, dislodging dehydrated, gummy bits of flesh.
“So. . .why am I so sticky?”
“Fourteen days of eating corpses and nine sitting there in near torpor will do that.”
“Eating what?”
“Never you mind. Let’s go upstairs and get you cleaned up.”
“I want to see Ov.”
“We can stop by on the way up. I will lead the way.”
The twisting passages of the lower necropolis had no polished stone. Stacked slabs slid into rough alcoves marked the resting places for the undead in torpor. None were occupied. Their shrouds were neatly folded. Metal decorated every surface. Nothing collected dust. The only other undead in these halls besides Calyx meticulously dusted, repaired, polished and arranged the artifacts, the floor, and even the ceiling.
“They’re cleaning.”
“Of course. Outside of those with a profession that requires it, curation is a conceit of the privileged. Life destroys. We, who mock the condition of life, curate. I am sure you will be doing all kinds of work within Ov, too.”
“Oh, I didn’t think about that,” she said.
“Typical. All the others ever think about is that we dwell here. They see the insane undead in their crumbling ruins and think we are all supposed to be like that.”
“No I mean, about Ov,” said Brishaunna. Calyx looked over her shoulder.
“What else did you think you were going to be doing with it? You are its master. That is not a title of ownership. It means you are the master of the craft of dungeon keeping. You are supposed to be its chosen steward and caretaker. What does a dungeonmaster do on earth?”
“Er. . .facilitate play. We tell shared stories of adventurers. My players take the role of adventurers and they try to solve a problem in the world setting. I make monsters, characters to interact with, places to explore, and rewards for meeting personal and group goals.”
“More of this game you’ve been ranting about for days. In your world, your craft is truly reduced to a game? A thought experiment? A self-insertion into a situation you have no other connection to other than what you and others have written about it. You have no idea, do you. Your world is dead and your dungeons are myths and legends you tell to each other.”
“No, yours are,” said Brishaunna. Calyx guided her around a corner. Brishaunna stared down a broad set of stairs so worn that the middle of each step sloped, slick with the polish of centuries of feet, into a treacherous, steep ramp. Then Calyx pushed. Brishaunna toppled, trying to find purchase with feet that were inhuman and offered no help. Hoof-like claws on the three biggest toes scraped against the stone. The sharply hooked dewclaws on the other four grasped for any kind of purchase to hold onto, but she fell anyway.
Down the stairs she tumbled, limbs snapping, head bursting open, spine snapping. Nothing stopped the pain and nothing could give her relief. The stairs spiraled downward forever. At some point an edge caught her arm and ripped it off, but it righted her so that she slid rather than tumbled. Her feet hit a hollow stone door with a boom that reverberated like a gong.
For a moment, nothing hurt. Her head swam, but then it began to seal. The roaring of her ears caused by the sudden evacuation of brain matter ceased as more matter filled the space. Limbs regenerated again, sloughing off the broken flesh and bone. Magic raced up and down her body, wracking her with pain that made her twitch and double over.
Heelbones clicked against the stone. Calyx slowly descended, an arm in one hand and a brain in the other. She threw the arm at Brishaunna, the knuckles slapping her face.
“Why?” she asked, as soon as she could form worlds again. Calyx leaned over her and took a bite out of the brain.
“Do you know why we humor you? Why even though we have had to endure your ranting and raving, treating you as a friend even as your human godfuckers tinkered with your soul? Do you know why we permitted you to partake with us? Why we even let you eat the prisoners we took such pains to keep alive? Why we entertained the will of Ahden, servant of the sands? It is respect for him alone that we did not tear you into enough shreds to prevent you from regenerating. Things like you shouldn’t exist.”
“Stop,” Brishaunna said, holding up a hand and willing magic to flow through her, but nothing flowed.
“Even your spells are a mockery. That is magic from a game, Brishaunna; bullshit ritual from that daemon they tried to saddle you with. The new daemon is so weak it can’t help you; it just yaps in your ear. Once again, so many corners cut that it is an offense to the very idea. How many years have you spent studying and learning to wield the flows of power? How much have you sacrificed just to have the ability? You are nothing and you cannot be a dungeonmaster. Ahden be damned. But you know what? I like the way you bleed.”
“Calyx,” said a grating voice. Calyx paused. Just like Brishaunna, she lacked the capability to startle. Instead she turned slowly, grasping the brain with both hands.
“Eldest,” she said. Behind her stood an elf with no eyes in his burning sockets. Oiled linens coated his skin imparting a fragrance of musk, spices, and flowers. Over that, a mantle of silk with embroidered words that Brishaunna could not understand. On his head, he wore a wig of braids gathered over each shoulder in bundles bound by golden cuffs.
“Let her up.”
“I am not going to apologize for this.”
“I will not ask you to. Finish your meal and let her up.”
“She pushed me—”
“We know what she has done. Get up off the floor. You are unharmed.”
“She’s chewing on my brain,”
“And since your body reverts to the state you were in at the time of your death, you are unharmed. So now stand and face that door, dungeonmaster. Calyx was supposed to send you up to be wrapped in linens as is proper. When the door rang through the necropolis, I knew what had happened.”
“She tried to kill me.”
“Improbable. But you needed a lesson in unlife. It was not the first one nor will it be the last. It was a lesson, wasn’t it, Calyx?”
“Yes, Eldest.”
“We usually throw them off the ramparts to teach them the meaninglessness of their bodies for the purpose of sustaining their existence, don’t we.”
“Of course, eldest. But the ramparts are destroyed.”
“Indeed, they are. And the living upstairs are not of the people.”
“No, eldest.”
“It was a test to throw her down the longest stairs in the necropolis, irrespective of the fact that it ended at the door to her dungeon, am I correct?”
“Yes, eldest.”
“And you were not going to defy our orders on a whim of opportunity?”
“No.”
“Good then.”
“This is Ov?” Brishaunna asked, putting a newly formed hand on the door. The eldest inclined his head.
“It is our door which keeps the curious from entering without permission. The gong vibrates through the stone. If we had been in torpor, we all would have awakened to its sound. But here. Since you are down here already, we might as well get this over with.”
“I will go upstairs and get bathed, then,” said Calyx.
“Stay. You brought her down and you will lead her up for her proper preparations after this. You are right. She is missing half of the ritual necessary. But you shall take no opportunities to ‘test’ her further. This will be all the ‘testing’ she will require; do I make myself clear.”
“Yes, eldest,” said Calyx. The eldest put a hand on the door next to Brishaunna’s. Lines of red magic gathered from the edges and pooled under his palm. Steam hissed from the edges of the door and it rolled away into the surrounding rock.
“Cool,” Brishaunna said, watching it disappear into a groove.
“No, very warm. These are ancient steamworks from when we Faryn were the challengers to the Aryn. That was three hundred thousand years ago. I, eldest of these who wait on Ov, am only fifty thousand. Calyx is ten thousand, and in her day another human civilization challenged us. They slaughtered the elders and she has never forgotten or forgiven. Those men became the Falli. Donem challenges it now. We know a time of testing has come. Three hundred years ago, Xan heralded their coming and so we knew. And then you appeared. The next time Donem comes to challenge our fort, we will have to let them in. They will be tested against this place. You will make sure that they are properly prepared.”
“Eldest!”
“Calyx! There is a price for where we exist. It is not solely on Ahden that she was not destroyed for her own good. I also know. You will facilitate their adventure. You will provide them monsters with which to test their mettle. You will give them a place to explore and you will let some survive to bring back tales to their god-emperor. You will give them experience that meets their goals.”
“You can’t be serious. You are going to let them play a game? Donem? This is offensive! They killed our people, Eldest.”
“Yes. So they did. But they killed the living, Calyx. The living are mutable.”
“The living will come to garrison this place. We will fight again.”
“They will come to a broken fort in the spring. By then the merchants will be starved and insane. And it will be broken still when Donem marches again with daybreak. We cannot hold this fort. Therefore, we will let them test themselves against Ov. Are you afraid, Brishaunna?”
“I don’t think I can be. But I see so many problems.”
“As do we all. Then go without hesitation. It is your stewardship. We will witness what happens next.”
Brishaunna took a step into the passageway on the other side of the door. Blue light flashed in brick shaped rectangles. At first, random points of light bounced around, then the bricks became lines, the lines became whorls, and then blinding white light stabbed Brishauna in the eyes. All three of them groaned.
“That is promising. It has never done that before,” said the Eldest. A golden pillar with a crystal orb rose from the floor.
“Touch it,” said the Eldest, “This thing is usually a lot farther into the entryway,” he looked over his shoulder, “Huh. Well would you look at that.”
The entrance shrouded itself from sight. The lights in the passage only extended as far as a good running leap. Beyond that, even with darkvision, none of them could see into it. Brishaunna rubbed the pads of her fingers with her inner thumbs and put her hand out.
“Wait. You didn’t give her the speech,” said Calyx. Brishaunna yanked back her hand. The eldest chuckled.
“Oh, yes. How can I forget in the face of this? Now listen. Even a dungeonmaster must hear these words and take them to their being. Entering a dungeon is to make pact with the most ancient of sources. A dungeon is tangible evidence that there are gods out there that know what to do with themselves. Brishaunna, prepare test yourself against a piece of the divine. Let not your pride outpace your wisdom. Turn back if your heart is not strong. Enter if you wish to declare yourself before the stone. The whole of the continent watches.”
“The dungeon is divine? I thought you elves all hated the gods.”
“We do. But dungeons are different. A dungeon core is a fragment of a divine corpse. When gods die, their bodies become wild magic. Sometimes large chunks of it crystalize. A dungeon forms around that. I do not know what that means for you, since you are deathless and immune to divine intervention. There hasn’t been a dungeonmaster in Ov for longer than Elves have populated the Aryn.”
“So, all of this is. . .”
“Old. Older than the master of the navel and he has been a lich for a million years.”
“Who was this goddess?”
“We do not know. She has given up her sentience in death. But the Master of the Navel refers to this being in the feminine and so then do we. He would know best.”
“The source of magic?”
“Nothing so simply put. Now go on, child. There are only so many questions you can ask before you simply have to discover for yourself.”
Brishaunna felt the gaze of Calyx and the eldest on her. Another thrill grabbed her by the solar plexus. It wasn’t fear, because adrenaline could not be produced, but something magical. She could think of a thousand reasons not to touch the orb. But she reached out her hand to the orb anyway.
“Oh, it’s warm,” she said, putting her other hand on it. It began to glow. Brishaunna’s knees buckled as magic pulled out of her body. Her corpse couldn’t continue moving without it and it just sagged, her face now resting against the orb. Her hands didn’t leave it. She had no strength to pull away. A hole opened in the floor in front of her. Gigantic footfalls thudded from within.
“The dragon,” said the eldest. “What is it doing up here?”
“We are lost,” said Calyx.
A massive reptilian head arced up from the dungeon’s maw. But as it entered the light, photons shot through its form, revealing spectral images of all its organs and bone. Horns scraped through the stone but did not touch it. Its wings stretched out past the physical limits of the small cavern. It bent its head sideways, three compound eyes on each side of its head and one with an omega iris in the middle. It regarded Calyx and the Eldest for a moment, then picked up Brishaunna in its maw, tossed her into the air, still holding the orb, and swallowed her whole.
“I knew it,” said Calyx, the last thing she heard before magical darkness enshrouded Brishaunna. Laughter echoed around her.
“I am the D. of Ov. Welcome, dungeonmaster.”