A quick glance at the stats provided by Grom confirmed that I was easily outclassed by the level 3 hybrid, despite the backup of a level 2 swordsman (with the surprisingly clever username ‘Al_Catraz’) and a level 1 barbarian (named BrawnTheBold). Three puny noobs versus what was apparently the strongest mob of the bunch. Did our ‘general’ seriously think we had a shot at taking this imposing bastard down?
What the fuck are you playing at, Grom? Is this because I questioned you in front of the others?
“We’re being sacrificed to the strongest bastard to buy everyone else time, aren’t we?” declared my fellow swords-noob, echoing my own thoughts on the matter.
Oh well, there was no point crying over our soon-to-be-spilt blood. If we didn’t intercept DungeonDestroyer, Kriabal would be left with two opponents, not one. The hybrid slowed his advance as we moved to block his path. He had the same clammy white skin as the others, albeit a lot more of it, having noticeably more muscle to wear it across. His right arm was littered with oozing wounds, each one punctuated by a shard of highly-sharpened bone. His left arm looked more conventional, except it brandished an axe the size of my entire fucking chest. Oh, and the bar hovering above his head informed me that he had 265HP remaining, well over double my own reserve.
Hmmm. Perhaps life was better when I was oblivious to stuff like that, I considered.
Not that I needed his stats to be intimidated by his presence. The warrior was easily a foot taller than me, and the creature draped across his huge muscular back was practically skeletal by this stage, its essence almost entirely transferred into its new host leaving nothing but an oddly morbid head veil.
Groups of warriors were breaking off around us to engage their own targets, the braver warriors striking fast in order to direct the creature’s focus away from Kriabal. DungeonDestroyer understood we meant him harm, but he was staring right through us, his sights locked firmly on the warlock.
I knew nothing about my fellow noobs, besides the small amount of information hanging above their heads. This made strategizing difficult. (And yeah, that was hardly my forte to begin with.) There was no time to bring up the party menu and check my team-mates stats individually, for a start. But if the max HP hanging above their heads was to be any indication, I was the strongest fighter among us, and that probably made me the prime candidate for the role of tank.
Oh, joy!
If only Brawn had cared to perform that same simple check.
“What is this fucking game, turn-based?” he roared. “Come at me you diseased fuck!” With that my hot-headed new ally broke from our tiny sub-unit charging DungeonDestroyer with his more conventionally-sized cleaver held aloft. I watched in horror as his head was neatly cleaved from his neck with one stroke of the behemoth’s bloodthirsty axe.
-[ User: BrawnTheBold has died. Barbarian’s remaining in your war-party: 5. Barbarians remaining in your sub-party: 0. ]-
Shit! And then there were two. That just left me and a fellow petrified swords-noob to take down the mighty ‘DungeonDestroyer’. Oh well, at least our little sub-unit finally had his attention. We looked to each other, our faces each a perfect mirror of the other warrior’s fear. Then ‘Al’ glanced above my head, and a look of relief spread across his face. Yup, my role as the party’s tank had just become official.
I was momentarily distracted by another status message, this time alerting me to further death amongst our larger ranks. Only a few meters behind us a bearded swords-noob was embarking on an unintentional new career as a novelty sword-decoration, all thanks to his sub-unit’s overly enthusiastic opponent. I grimaced and mentally switched off all messages that didn’t relate to members of my own sub-unit (yes, all two of us) because the last thing I needed were distractions of the ‘you’re slightly more fucked than you were a moment ago’ variety.
DungeonDestroyer began to advance again (to get to us, or the warlock fighting behind us, I couldn’t be sure). Now saddled with the unfamiliar role of leader, I ordered the swords-noob to circle around our opponent while I got his full and undivided attention. Then I raised my shield and charged the ugly bastard.
He charged me in kind, his glitching wail drowning out my own pitiful war cry. The gap between us was quickly closed, his huge axe sailing overhead as I barely ducked underneath the swing in time. His reach fully extended, I made to capitalize on the opening, thrusting my blade across his twisted abdomen for 25HP of damage. The creature howled in pain but the satisfaction I’d gained was frustratingly short-lived. I looked up just in time to see the brute’s free hand close into a bone-laced fist. As his body twisted back and the mutated arm hurled toward me at speed. I brought up my shield, hoping to block the attack and counter with another of my own. But the massive inhuman fist struck my shield hard, causing the low-grade item to explode in a cloud of dust and splinters, the last of its durability shed in an instant. Ill-prepared for the magnitude of the partially-blocked strike, my HP dropped by a quarter as he powered through my defenses, and I was propelled unceremoniously backward and onto my ass.
With my attempts to draw the hybrid’s attention cut painfully (and embarrassingly) short, my fellow swords-noob was left wide open, and his sneak-attack was easily pre-empted. Al’s weapon was effortlessly knocked from his hand by one swipe of the hybrid’s own blade, and his avatar hastily followed it to the floor, leveled by a devastating backhand that bust his mouth open and sent him reeling.
This wasn’t good. One axe blow and the felled swordsman would be out of the fight. I couldn’t afford to let that happen, not least because my odds of surviving a one-on-one fight were virtually nonexistent. I scrambled to my feet in a desperate attempt to provide backup but was relieved to discover that it had already arrived.
Kraitos.
The remaining half-orcs had succeeded in ending their diminutive foe and begun to swarm ours. My builder buddy was first on the scene, and he was using his not-inconsiderable strength to seize our opponent in a half-nelson, rendering the hybrid’s powerful arms useless. Another two of the powerful warriors dove for the creature’s legs, lifting them to weaken his foothold and in doing so, remove his base from which to yank himself free of Kraitos grasp. The fourth half-orc was a bloody mess and clinging to his last 10HP, yet he too bravely entered the fray, dragging a dazed Al_Catraz to safety. Propping the swords-noob against an upturned statue, the bloodied half-orc hurriedly departed to seek the apprentices healing gifts.
“You beautiful pack of bastards,” I declared, rushing in to fight alongside the gang of bestial brawlers who were, truth be told, anything but. “I could kiss the lot of you, tusks be damned.”
“Don’t make me regret this, noobster, ya ain’t my type,” replied the appropriately-named BigUgly as he struggled to drag our foe off-balance. “An’ thank yer mate, here,” he continued, looking to Kraitos. “I wanted to go fer an easy target like Grom’s.”
“Grom gave himself a weak opponent?” I gasped.
“The weakest one o’ th’ bunch,” piped up the third half-orc, as he too struggled with the uncooperative hybrid. “It ain’t a patch on this horror show.”
“That untrustworthy fuck!” I spat.
Oh well, at least I had a worthy outlet for my anger. I began to mercilessly hack and slash into the flesh of the struggling creature. My weapon was made for targeting an opponent’s weak spots: maximum damage, minimum effort. But alas, without the skill to find those weak spots, it was proving to be little more than a vastly underpowered sword. Still, it was sharp, so it made the bastard bleed, nonetheless. And making my enemies bleed made me happy.
The creature’s howls intensified as he struggled to be free, my blade opening up multiple lacerations on his already gruesome frame. He was stronger than Kraitos, that much was obvious, but the other half-orcs refused to let him find his base, struggling to hoist his strapping legs from the ground, leaving him poorly balanced and vulnerable. The assault was slow, but our opponent was at our mercy. And that gave me an idea. The darkness inside me picked that moment to reassert itself. With barely a second thought, I made a declaration.
“You’re helpless and you’re going to die. Bend the knee, give me a reason to spare you.”
“W-what the hell you doin’?” stuttered BigUgly.
“I have the slaveowner trait,” I declared, shamelessly. “And this beast is a resource that’s too good to waste.” I leaned in to address the struggling creature, bringing my face as close to its own as my more conventional height would allow. “I don’t know much about hybrids, but if you’re so keen to assimilate us, I’m betting you want to survive, just like the rest of us.”
With that, I jammed my blade deep into the creature’s abdomen, a sharp reminder of the alternative to my proposition. Another glitch-like screech erupted from its corrupted lips.
“My name is Shade. Join me. Fight with me. Live.”
“I serve another master…” it began, but then hesitated, its body going limp. “…but what difference is servitude to one player over another?”
Yes, that’s right…
“I would survive,” it continued, bowing its borrowed head, its expression now one of defeat, not defiance. “I will kneel to you, slave master Shade.”
Hot damn, it worked. I’ve got myself a pet frankenmob. That’s wayyy better than a dumb shadow foal. Kriabal will be soooo fucking jealous.
“Let him kneel,” I ordered, trying my best not to sound like a giddy little schoolgirl in front of my new premium-grade slave.
The hybrid made to kneel as the nervous half-orcs slowly lowered him to the ground, relaxing their grips on his powerful frame, but only slightly. And kneel he did. But not in the way I had planned. The moment the hybrid regained his footing he reached back, grabbed Kraitos by the back of his head and flipped the huge orcan builder overhead, essentially power bombing him onto me.
Owwww. Not what I had in mind. In hindsight, the next time my inner slaveowner decides to assert itself, a risk assessment may be in order.
Pinned to the ground by Kraitos frame, I helplessly watched as BigUgly was swatted from the behemoths left leg. A split-second later, the other half-orc was being roughly grabbed by the head, the barbarian’s mutated hand easily grasping it in its entirety. The hybrid looked to me and smiled, dropping to one knee while simultaneously slamming the poor bastard face-first into the granite, a stern message to his would-be owner. Slowly returning to its feet, the hybrid proceeded to turn its attention from us and pull up its borrowed body’s inventory.
Shit, it has access to DungeonDestroyers items, too? If he has a healing potion in there, we’re fucked.
Thankfully the swords-noob was now back on his feet, and his sword had been retrieved. I watched from under the weight of a dazed Kraitos as Al_Catraz slashed our distracted opponent across the back for 20HP of damage.
The creature snarled, shutting its inventory window and raising its axe to meet the threat. Turning to face the petrified warrior, its focus became firmly locked on him, and that gave us an opening. Kraitos, now back to his knees (and thankfully, off me) capitalized on the distraction with a devastating uppercut to the last place any of us would wish to receive one. The creature doubled over, howling in pain.
Like a swarm we all descended on our opponent at once, two lowly swords-noob’s and three half-orc’s, all attempting to punch, slash and club anything we could, albeit with little to no strategy. The swords-noob landed another decent blow, once again drawing the beasts ire, so I preempted its predictable attempt to retaliate, grabbing the hybrid’s axe by the hilt just in time to stop it from cleaving my fellow swords-noob in two. There was a struggle for control over the huge weapon, but I had the added advantage of three frenzied half-orcs on my side. Relishing the gift of a momentarily distracted target, they pummeled him from all sides. His focus now split, I finally pulled the gigantic axe free from his powerful grip.
-[ Item acquired: Axe of Tallos. A berserker-class weapon, this heavy-duty axe is capable of wielding mana. The Axe of Tallos is an enhanced item: channeled mana output is doubled by a complex series of runes etched into the blade. Durability: 212/300. ]-
Yes, now we’re talking. I have an axe in one hand and a dagger in the other. That’s got to be the equal of a sword, surely?
With a half-orc on each of its arms and a fleet-footed swords-noob keeping the hybrid occupied, I maneuvered behind my foe. Then I swung the huge blade, but to my horror, I only succeeded in striking my opponent across his lower back with the flat of the blade for a paltry -10HP damage.
The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
What the hell?
-[ Warning, you do not have the berserker trait, nor do you possess the acumen to wield non-sword weaponry. Armed combat penalty active: -66% to attack strength. ]-
Oh for fuck’s sake, can’t I catch a break around here?
Yup, it turned out my proficiency with an axe was even worse than my proficiency with a dagger. And what a time to find out.
DungeonDestroyer finally shrugged off his captors, lunging for the Swords-noob with both arms outstretched. And that was a shock in itself. My feeble attack hadn’t even switched his focus to me. And given the potential power of my weapon, that was just embarrassing. Al, to his credit, didn’t back down, diving forward and driving his blade deep into the advancing creature’s shoulder, using its own momentum against it. The thing howled, but it didn’t slow for a moment, grabbing the swords-noob’s arm in both hands and forcing it from the sword that now hung from the creature’s shoulder. I prepared myself for the sickening snap of my ally’s limb, but the hybrid’s next move was cut off by three huge grey bodies as they simultaneously launched themselves at our opponent, two diving at the backs of the hybrid’s knees with running chop-blocks while BigUgly threw his weight at the creature’s chest in a flying lariat.
Wow! It’s like tag-team wrestling, Middle-earth style.
I watched in awe as the opposing momentum of the three attackers sent the hybrid to his back, allowing the swords-noob to break free. BigUgly, who was now perched on his opponent’s chest, reached for the hybrid’s vulnerable spot: the neck. His powerful orcan grip clamped down on the pulsing vein as he attempted to tear the creatures weak-point right out of its avatar. For a moment I dared to believe that the battle was won, but the half-orc’s strength wasn’t up to the task, and the attempt left him vulnerable. BigUgly’s own throat was swiftly taken in the hybrid’s grasp. There was a sickening crack, and his lifeless grey body was tossed aside like a rag-doll.
-[ User: BigUgly has died. Half-orc’s remaining in your war-party: 3 ]-
This is a fucking massacre, I thought to myself, staring in horror at my fallen ally.
Battles were still raging around us, and the odds of reinforcements were slim. Oh well. If nothing else, BigUgly had bought me time to consider my next move. I thrust my pilfered axe into Krainor’s hands, hoping that an avatar capable of wielding a club would be equally capable of swinging an axe. Then I switched my dagger to my dominant hand and leapt on the rising hybrid’s back, climbing the skeletal remains of its original host to reach the creature’s vulnerable neck. I was going to attempt an assassination.
Hey, I have the blade, I have to develop the skill eventually, right?
DungeonDestroyer seemed unconcerned by my attempts to scale his hulking avatar. He now had my fellow swordsman’s head in both hands, his huge thumbs placed over the screaming noob’s eyes. Without a moment to lose, I reached the summit and plunged my assassin’s blade deep into the squirming artery that ran down the behemoth’s trunk-like neck.
-[ Assassination failed. You do not have the proficiency to use this weapon to its full potential. ]-
But I’ve definitely made myself his prime target. Bollocks. Level 1, here I come…
-[ …but luck has guided your hand, severing a vital aspect of your opponent’s control over his avatar. Critical hit dealt, -180HP. Damage over time effect -10HP per minute. ]-
-180HP? And a bleeding debuff? Halleluiah…
The creature lashed out madly, reaching for me as it had for Kraitos earlier. I grabbed the grotesque corpse that hung from its back and clung on for dear life, bringing down my dagger again and again for further damage. None of it came close to the strength of the critical hit, but he’d been seriously injured, and it was only a matter of time before he fell. And I had the prime position to help him on his way. That was, until I didn’t. Without warning, the hand-hold of the hellhound corpse began to fall away, its anchor to the barbarian severed by my well-placed strike.
Shit!
Determined not to give up my position of power, I held on for dear life, grasping instead for the barbarian’s necklace. There was a moment of relief as I found a new hand-hold, but the leather snapped, unable to take my avatar’s weight. With that, I was unceremoniously dumped to the floor.
-[ You have stolen a rare item from a superior opponent. XP gained: thievery +40. Congratulations, you have reached thievery level 2. XP required to reach level 3, 90. Rep penalty: Neutral. You have acquired an item from an enemy who would have put it to ill use, sparing his victims the consequences. Warning: thievery is generally an immoral act, and your reputation may drop if this skill is put to ill gain. ]-
Eh? What the hell?
I looked in my hand, and the next message confirmed the reason for the unexpected level up.
-[ Item acquired: Berserker’s talisman. +4 to armed and unarmed berserker attack. Bonus to non-berserker combatants: +2. Durability: 23/40 ]-
A souvenir. Awesome. I was also satisfied to learn that I’d weakened the creature in more ways than one: not only had my botched assassination taken roughly two-thirds of the bastards HP, but I’d seriously lowered his combat stats by stealing the useful item, and boosted my own thievery skill in the process. Result. Although dazed, I instinctively traded the hybrid’s necklace for my own lucky charm, reasoning that I was going to need all the attack strength I could get to survive the fight to come.
While I pulled myself together the others kept up the pressure, but the hybrid fought back, unleashing that glitch like scream as he almost decapitated the swords-noob with a sweeping lariat of his spike-laden arm. DungeonDestroyer was bleeding out, but he was determined to take one of us with him. Enraged, he swatted aside the weary half-orcs and loomed over the prime candidate: my fellow swordsman, whose HP was now hanging by a thread. I knew I couldn’t intervene in time. My stamina was almost spent, and the fall had stunned me slightly, slowing my movements further. But to my relief, I didn’t have to intervene. The hybrid suddenly screeched again and began to tumble backward.
A swordswoman from the rabble had taken advantage of the mob’s fixation on my ally, slicing the tendons on the back of the hybrid’s knees with a surgical strike. I can’t be certain if her intention was to help us or simply to swoop in and steal the kill. But I’ve never been so glad to see a member of the Brotherhood, either way. DungeonDestroyer fell to his back and Kraitos was waiting, axe in hand. He hefted the blade overhead and brought it down on the creatures already weakened neck, severing the head completely.
-[ User: DungeonDestroyer (level 3 barbarian berserker) has died. Congratulations, as a member of the sub-unit responsible, you have received a reward. XP gained: Armed combat: 50. Congratulations, you have reached armed combat level 4. XP until next armed combat level: 75. Accuracy, 40. XP until next accuracy level, 50. Agility: 20. XP until next agility level, 44. Defense: 25. XP until next defense level: 47. Resilience: 20. Warning: resilience XP has been rejected. Cap reached. Max HP +15. Max MP +15. Mana gain: +20. ]-
-[ Would you like to reallocate resilience XP to another skill? Warning: A 50% penalty will apply. ]-
I moved 10XP into perception, then fell to my ass. My stamina was still flagging, and my body felt like lead. It was about all I could manage to give Kraitos a thumbs up. The half-orc let loose a cry of joy, axe held overhead. I was glad to be alive, and the XP boost had been more than welcome, but it did irk me a little that the builder probably took the lions share. My dark side suggested that the XP the half-orc had earned was rightfully mine, and that I would be well within my rights to demand his servitude in order to re-acquire those precious gains. I shrugged off the dark thoughts, instead turning my avarice upon the axe I had gifted him. Had I been foolish to gift such a powerful weapon to another prisoner? Given time, perhaps my growing strength would have allowed me mastery over the cumbersome weapon. Then I berated myself for my selfishness. Gifting the axe to my builder buddy had been a wise move. Besides, his aid was the only reason I’d survived the battle. I owed him one. Perhaps the axe would suffice as payment.
Kraitos rushed to join another battle, no doubt delirious over his XP gain and keen to try out his new axe on another mob, so I instinctively turned to search for my other potential ally, Kriabal. I was anxious to learn if he had survived his own encounter. Multiple battles were still taking place across the huge chamber, but it didn’t take me long to spot him. He was an exhausted crimson mess, barely capable of standing, let alone fighting. But his opponent was fighting from its back as the rabble descended upon it, the backs of its legs bleeding heavily, suggesting that the swordswoman had been here also.
She must be darting from enemy to enemy, dropping them with surgical precision. Impressive.
Spying the apprentice as he ran from battle to battle, I ordered the noobish wand-waver to attend the warlock, then noted that HarryPothead was not the only magic-user dashing around the battlefield. The gun mage seemed equally motivated, albeit to bestow harm, not healing. He raced past me, arcane pistols blazing as he darted through the melee, opening fire on distracted hybrids at every opportunity. His attacks were weak, but he was shaving off the enemy’s precious HP with pellets of hardened mana at every turn, and you know what? Good on him. He was taking a huge risk, after all, drawing so many opponents ire. If the other combatants choose to leave him in the lurch, he could easily find himself with a train of enemies on his tail.
Even the cowardly Skullfucker was assisting Grom, his sword wedged through the back of a struggling hybrid’s neck while our leader hacked and slashed at the waning mob. And as for their leader, Tiny, he was taking a page out of Grom’s playbook. I watched as he pinned BulldogBrit to the ground with one hand and used the other to smash the stricken hybrid’s head open with a jagged piece of rock. Moments later, he was holding aloft BulldogBrit’s orc-bone axes in triumph. The bastard was armed again. I was learning a very important lesson: don’t underestimate the Brotherhood.
With my stamina now back to a manageable level, I scrambled over to DungeonDestroyer’s corpse, the aches and pains of a hard-fought battle hampering my every movement. The spoils of war were gone, of course. As were my allies, who’d moved on to assist the others. But at least I’d claimed the necklace, while the bastard was using it, no less. I was promptly joined by HarryPothead and Kriabal. As the apprentice worked his, well, magic, I took advantage of the overview that his support role had afforded him.
“Where are the other two groups?” I asked. “There were three groups of noobs when we started.”
The apprentice shook his head and explained that the other two groups had not fared so well as our own. The creatures had overpowered them, completely wiping out all eight fighters. A quick glance at our war-party’s status screen confirmed this, painting a somber picture of our losses. Including myself and our leader, Grom’s Guerillas were down to a paltry two barbarians, two swordsmen, three half-orcs and two magic users. When I asked what happened to the hybrids responsible, Kriabal pointed to the corridor and explained that they were retreating.
I turned to the lumbering mobs. They were clutching their wounds and limping badly. And… “oh shit!”
“What’s wrong?” spluttered Kriabal, raising his staff.
“They’re headed back into the bosses reach,” I cried. “We’re losing our chance to pick them off.”
“Awwww fuck,” bellowed Tiny, striding over to join our gathering. Admittedly, I found myself backing away from him. Paying me no heed, he turned to the warriors on the fringes of the battle. “Don’t just stand there like a pack of zeros, get ‘em.”
The gun mage immediately gave chase, accompanied by a barbarian and a half-orc from our own party.
“No, everyone halt,” screamed Grom, “they’re already-”
The hybrid’s pursuers stopped in their tracks as three tentacles shot from the darkness to intercept them. Thanks to Grom’s warning, the half-orc and gun mage narrowly avoided the bone-tipped appendages, but for the over-enthusiastic barbarian, it was too late. The lead tentacle found him, impaling him through the neck for what was easily a critical hit. As he gurgled his last, the gun mage opened fire on the recoiling tentacles, but the twisting limbs were too fast, snapping back and taking the barbarian with them. Their staggered retreat little more than a ruse, the two remaining hybrids quickly followed the tentacles into the darkness.
“Damn you,” the apprentice cried, running to the gun mage’s side as he launched a volley of weak wand-blasts into the mouth of the corridor. “You cowardly piece of shit. Do you know how much mana I burned through healing that twat, only for you to fucking kill him?”
As the gun mage recharged his own mana to reload, the furious apprentice reached into his inventory, pulling out a scroll. A phrase was hastily mumbled, and the page erupted into flame, forming a dart that hovered for a moment, then shot across the chamber, over the fallen remnants of the raid party and into the darkened corridor, momentarily illuminating the contents as it struck the beast within. Something howled. Something big. But it was the wince of one who had stubbed their toe or banged their knee, not the tortured cry of a creature caught in the throes of agony.
“What the hell are you doing?” spat Grom, rushing to the apprentice and knocking him to the ground.
“Someone has to show that sack of shit what we’re capable of,” cried the apprentice, defiantly scrambling back to his feet and shoving Grom with both hands.
“What we’re capable of?” gasped the barbarian. “Are yeh kiddin’ me? All yeh did was force it to get involved. Look!”
He pointed a stubby finger to the corridor, where something was definitely stirring.
“W-what’s it doing,” gasped the apprentice.
“Comin’ to finish the job, I’d imagine” declared Kriabal, nervously. “It was happy to let those poor bastards do all the work for it and pick us off from a distance. But now it knows we still have range attacks. The moment you engaged it directly, you forced the bloody thing to change tactics. You’re its new target, matey.”
The apprentice looked like he’d just been informed that Tiny was his new cellmate. And as for the boss, well… it was finally making its presence known, slowly pushing itself through the mouth of the tunnel. And it was like nothing I’d ever encountered. The closest thing from nature it could be compared to was a whale, if such a thing were capable of slithering around on dry land. Its hide was dark and leathery, and its ‘face’ was almost completely comprised of a wall of enormous decaying fangs, all interlocking to form an eerie grin that was easily the height of my avatar.
As it slithered further into the chamber (and our war party rather unsurprisingly, began to retreat) I realized that the entire length of its body was covered in tiny blinking eyes, dashing my hopes of the gun mage somehow blinding the beast with a well-aimed bullet. I reckoned that it could probably perceive in all directions, something that would work against the advantage our numbers should have provided. As it continued to exit the tunnel, I learned it was the length of a fucking bus. And helping to trail its mass from the darkness were those five writhing boned tentacles, three protruding from its left flank, and two from its right, a bleeding stub likely marking what had likely been the raid party’s most successful strike against it. Just to finish the unnerving image, two goat-like legs were situated at the very back of its body. They were straining to push the beast’s mass into the main area. Evidently, this thing was not built for mobility. But then it didn’t need to be. It was a boss, and it was used to dumb-ass players like us coming to it.
“Throw it the apprentice, maybe that’ll satisfy it,” demanded Grom, his complete lack of heroism reaching new lows.
“We ain’t feeding it the healer,” rebuked Kriabal, leveling his staff at our cowardly leader’s head.
“Why the hell not?” added the club-wielding half-orc. “It’s him the thing’s after, right? He was the one that pissed it off.”
“His death could buy us time to form a proper strategy,” added one of the annoyingly ineffective guards, coldly.
“It’s no use,” sighed Kriabal, casting an accusatory glance back to the terrified looking apprentice who was now cowering behind him. “When this dumb wand-jockey attacked the boss, he did so as a fully signed up member of Grom’s Guerrillas. And if this boss is anything like the others in Atone Online, now that we’ve attacked it, it won’t stop until it’s wiped out our entire war party. And don’t be thinkin’ your off the hook,” he added, glaring firstly at the guards and then to the rabble. “When that thing redecorates the chamber with our precious red pixels, the lair will still be on lockdown. The only difference will be that you won’t have us to fight alongside you.”
There was a mumble of agreement as our nervous ‘army’ continued to back away from the emerging threat. As we did so, the apprentice mumbled his thanks to the warlock for his unexpected protection. Kriabal immediately turned on his heel, backhanding the apprentice to the ground.
“Damn healers,” he spat. “Always standin’ back and leavin’ guys like us to do the real work. And the moment you do finally grow a pair, you only succeed in makin’ matters worse. Well, I hope yer satisfied, ‘Harry’. You’ve fuckin’ doomed us all.”