Jacob was far from the first individual to have his consciousness digitized against his will, before being forcefully uploaded into the fantasy world of Atone online. Some of the game’s occupants had been storing their personal data there for years, albeit against their will. They’d become forgotten files, their corruptions confined to a very special quarantine: trapped in a violent world where every act of survival could, in turn, be the catalyst for a longer sentence.
Many were happy to keep their head down and survive, but there were also those who were determined to thrive. Nyx was one such individual, and she had long ago determined that her digital life was not going to pass her by. There was too much work to be done, for a start. Dungeons awaited discovery. Bosses begged to be used as a stepping stone to a higher warrior status. And most importantly of all, there was loot to be harvested from the cold dead corpses of the dungeon’s less aesthetically-pleasing occupants. The Warden paid well for her special kind of ‘pest extermination.’ And more importantly, she enjoyed it.
All this explained why Nyx was currently enduring a damp, naturally formed cave in her search for the zones where elder monsters lay undisturbed. The cave was barely wide enough to facilitate her hulking frame, let alone that of the party’s tank, who was making an equally awkward attempt to navigate the cavern just ahead of her. His name was Craydor, and he was the party’s main tank. Being considered the tank in a party comprised chiefly of barbarians, was quite an achievement. A level 6 combatant with incredible strength and resilience, the man stood a good head taller than most warriors in his class. His outfit was fairly generic, comprised chiefly of loin-cloth, fur boots with metal plating, a skull-embellished belt, and a metallic trinket to hold back his flowing black locks; an item that he insisted was a barbarian’s crown, despite continued accusations from his party that the golden item would probably be more appropriate attire for an elven princess.
Unlike his taste in jewelry, one thing few would dare to question was his full body suit of arcane tattoos: a powerful enhancement seldom seen outside the upper echelons of the most powerful magic-based prison-gangs. The full-body layer of arcane ink offered him enhanced durability that few warriors could hope to match, making him the go-to choice for a party member who can take excessive amounts of damage, and an obvious choice to lead the way into unknown territory such as this. Physically, he was the strongest fighter on the raid party, and came with an ego to match.
But with a level 7 status, 6 points in strength and 7 points in armed combat, his leader Nyx was no slouch in the combat stakes, either. Unlike Craynor, she also had impressive speed (5 points), and knew the importance of cultivating her leadership skill (6 points). Important areas, amongst others, in which she left the hulking brute in the dust.
The hulking brute in question suddenly tripped, before letting loose a volley of expletives. Nyx rolled her eyes. As was his custom, the tank would spend the next few minutes berating the two dwarves she’d hired to scout ahead, blaming them for not using their night vision to watch where he was going. She sighed, using the small break as an opportunity to regain a little stamina. The mission was becoming a logistical nightmare: a twenty-five warrior raid party, all under her leadership, trapped in a bottleneck that they could barely navigate, let alone walk in. They were clearly asking for trouble.
That said, the combatant immediately behind her was having no such difficulty navigating the hellish landscape: G’rrak was tall and slender, a fallen class avatar of all things. And right up until the moment that he had started talking to himself, the perverted demon had been in excellent spirits. Chiefly, because he’d been more than satisfied to stare at Nyx’s behind as she awkwardly scrambled to keep up with Craynor, professing that the sight did wonders for his ‘motivation.’ That good cheer was cut short when he received the call from what she could only assume had been his superior. Now she saw a change in his demeanor; the demon looked like something had put the fear of god (or perhaps, the devil) into it.
“Thank the gods-” she cried, as the demon finally stopped apologizing to the voices in its head and said its goodbyes.
“Oi, choose yer words carefully, love,” protested the overgrown imp, cutting the amazon off mid-sentence. “That sort of talk is blasphemy to my kind,”
“I’m serious,” she continued, undaunted by his concerns. “I thought that fucking call was never going to end. Who the hell was that, anyway?
G’rrak sighed. “If you must know, it was our glorious leader,” he explained.
“The Dungeon Warden? In your head? Fuck, he sure keeps you ugly bastards on a tight leash, eh? When you went fallen class, I figured you sold your soul for a bit more respect than that.”
The demon growled. Nyx couldn’t help winding him up. G’rrak wasn’t as bad as most of his kind. But still, how she loved getting under his dark crimson skin. Between his incessant ogling and the stench of brimstone that she was convinced was emanating from his bowels (and not ‘the bowels of hell’ as he repeatedly tried to suggest), there was a lot not to like. But he seemed harmless enough. As harmless as a seven-foot-tall demonic general with sharpened bone plates extruding from his arms could be, at any rate.
Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
“What did the little creep want, then?” she asked. Did he have more intel for our quest?”
“Pffft, the dungeon core doesn’t revolve around you lot…,” retorted the demon, “…I’ve got plenty of other problems on my plate, too. Now be quiet, I’m tryin’ to telepathically contact S’ragg.” He waved her off with one hand as he pressed a spindly finger to his forehead with the other, reassuring the amazon that his next conversation would be of the more internal variety. “It takes concentration,” he continued. “So, I could do without distractions from the cattle, thank-you very much.”
“That ability is the one thing I envy you, G’rrak,” she admitted, ignoring the demon’s unsettling tendency to label the humans as ‘cattle.’ She didn’t need to worry about his appetites… the creature knew better than to try to eat her, or any member of her party. As for his coveted telepathy, he didn’t need a mindreading skill to know what was currently on his mind: his yellow eyes were firmly locked on to her chest: all six of them.
She allowed him that small pleasure as he mentally began relaying instructions to the other demon. It was always good to have the favor of a guard, and his excessive number of eyes aside, she didn’t particularly mind the attention. Who, she reasoned, could blame him for his interest. Her muscular amazon frame was aesthetically impressive, and had earned her a great many admirers since her initial spawning two years prior. Her hair was a severe buzz-cut cropped tight to her head (she’d quickly deemed the flowing locks of her avatar little more than an unnecessary distraction for one living a life of constant battle) and her physique walked a fine line between femininity and raw power. The armor upon said frame, as was often the case for the berserker-type human, seemed to heavily protect some areas, while leaving others completely exposed, as if the designer had given much more thought to design aesthetic than practicality. Designed by a horny male, she’d decided, if the focus on her cleavage was to be any indication. And speaking of guys who really need to get laid…
“You know, this breastplate has magical resistance, so if you’re hoping to develop a perception skill that can see past my chest armor, you may as well give up now,” she advised the demon with a sly wink, deciding that she’d probably abided his lechery for long enough.
The demon, suddenly conscious of his ungentlemanly behavior, averted his gaze, rubbing the back of his emaciated neck as he stared into the glimmering ball of energy that hovered overhead, thankful for the distraction of his portable mana light. The amazon went back to her previous point, sparing him further embarrassment.
“So yeah, that ‘demonic telepathy’ talent of yours. Leading a raid party this size through a narrow bottleneck makes communication next to impossible. A skill like that would be a godsen- um, oops, sorry. Would be a great addition to my repertoire. I’m sure the Warden wouldn’t mind you passing it along. It would be for the greater good of the dungeon, after all.”
Nyx shamelessly pushed her chest out. She wasn’t above using her body to acquire new skills, and telepathy would be a perk worthy of even this unsavory prospect. For a moment G’rrak looked shocked. The expression was quickly replaced with one of frustration.
“Sorry, no can do, love. It ain’t a learnable skill, see? Comes with the demon biology. Anyhow, believe you me, you ain’t missin’ much. You do not want to go enterin’ the depraved mind-space of the other prisoners unless you really have to. Take S’ragg, fer example. He’s the welcome party I was just orginizin’ fer the latest pack of noobs. I feel dirty every time I so much as take a peak in that sick bastard’s head.
“Fuck! If you feel dirty, it must be bad.”
“Hmmm.” He replied, nodding in agreement. “If that weirdo’s subconscious is anything to go by, I have my suspicions that his arrest had somethin’ to do with finding unnatural new uses for farm animals. And I ain’t talkin’ fusion cuisine.”
Nyx shuddered at the thought. G’rrak was a soul-sucking pervert, that much was obvious, but at least he stuck to his own species. Well, his former species, at any rate.
“Rather you than me,” she replied. There was no point in pressing the issue. Telepathy was clearly a dead end. “I’ll leave you to it.”
G’rrak went back to relaying orders to his fellow demon, so the party leader returned her gaze to her grumpy tank. Tantrum over, Craynor was finally making headway again. The opportunity to rest now past, the orb of mana that lit her way began to drift forward, and she went back to focusing on the crawl at hand. G’rrak, in turn, went back to staring at her avatar’s perfect ass.
No entrance this unwelcoming can bode well for what it leads to, she told herself, as the cave walls continued to scratch at her exposed flesh, shaving off HP with every cut and scrape.
Half an hour passed, as the party Wordlessly ventured further into the cavern. The raid party had been venturing single file for almost an hour, and Nyx knew they would be tired and hungry. But she was responsible for their safety, and she wasn’t going to risk being ambushed in such a precarious position. Rations would have to wait. They ventured on.
Eventually, the cavern led them to a rocky opening. The dwarves were the first to jump into the new area, and shortly after, gave the all clear for the party to do the same. Nyx watched the tank squeeze through the fissure next. The fact that he too had to leap down suggested a much more spacious area.
“Look at the size of this chamber,” announced Craynor with a whistle, piquing her interest.
She poked her head through the gap, quickly realizing that the claustrophobic tunnel gave way to a vast, hall-like space. And there was only one possible reason for a chamber of this size so deep in an abandoned dungeon. It was a fucking boss lair.