Dungeoneering For Dummies

It took us about twenty minutes of wandering back allies and through the occasional half collapsed building to reach the apparent dungeon; it was fortunate for me that simply following the guys who looked like they knew where they were going looked identical to just knowing what I was doing, because I’m not certain I could have found this place even with a damn map.

When we finally reached what appeared to be our destination -which I could only tell from the way everyone started walking notably slower once a particular building came into view- a particularly tall thug in well maintained gear near the front began to speak. “Alright, as a refresher for those who've had the poor luck of being here before and a crash course for the new guy,” he nodded his head my way, “basic dungeon safety comes down to one major rule; remember, no matter what it looks like, no matter how it seems, absolutely every single thing inside the fuckin’ place was planted on purpose by an evil minded critter that wants to eat you.”

I frowned slightly, keeping pace with the group’s generally longer legged pace as I considered the tall man’s words. It made sense, if a dungeon had access to the system it would benefit from killing, and even if it was simply a living (or equivalent) being, it would need some sort of fuel to live. In that case, I can also assume any apparent treasure or even food or drink would only be there if it furthered the ultimate goal of killing intruders; sabotaged weapons, trapped or even cursed armour, poisoned food, I expected the maniacally murderous works to lurk within.

I was more than used to not trusting my surroundings, to expecting danger at any moment, but to willingly enter the domain of what may as well be a malicious, predatory deity was still a galling thought. The impromptu leader of our little group of sneaky thugs spoke up, his voice breaking me from conjuring up increasingly hopeless scenarios, “Now this place in particular used to be a standard drug den, mostly tark but they dealt some wax and leaf; place was fairly normal, until the host got the rockfuck stupid idea to start selling bloodstone in his peaceful little beanbag lotusland.”

The tall man shook his head, spitting off to the side with a grunt, “Fuckin’ moron didn’t take the fact the local gang didn’t sell the stuff, let alone it’s Lords accursed name, as enough of a warning not to sell the shit. Dribbling idiot thought he could just casually start selling what even the most alchemically liberal of nations call a “hazardous combat stimulant” in his den of mellowed out morons and it would just go fine.” He gave a low chuckle, “The place went from a smokey nap room to a butchers shop in a matter of minutes, damn fools injected that shit like common tarkofil; they had no idea what they were doing to themselves, and that ignorance killed them. By the end of the week enough blood had been spilled to forever taint the place, but the blood mad freaks inside were… more cunning than usual, they had the wit to form hunting parties, drag back the weak and vulnerable to their den, and bleed them just slow enough to keep them going for days.”

One of the other thugs grunted and spoke up, his voice almost reminiscent, “They almost acted like proper vampires instead of the hideous mockeries rock suckers usually are, shame that was about the only cunning thoughts in their ripped up minds. Crack headed maniacs managed to sustain themselves for almost twenty six years, killed hundreds of people, and some of them even managed to evolve into far worse abominations before we pushed into the territory and slaughtered them. Even so, by the time we got here and burned the bastards out, this,” he waved a matte black machete at the visibly run down building, “particular slaughterhouse was so saturated in death and suffering that it came alive, twisted into a dungeon forever wrought in the image of the crack den murder pit it once was.” He spoke in the manner of one recalling events they'd personally seen, rather than merely retelling a rumor; that kind of casual certainty and calm inflection could be faked, but not by most.

That gave credence to one potential option for how dungeons came to be, but despite the man's suspected first hand experience none of these men were any sort of scholar, so I wasn’t going to write off any other possibilities. Nature had a long history of totally unrelated creatures winding up looking very similar, just look at all the carcinized not-crabs out there for a couple dozen examples; given how little I know of the workings of magic, I can't assume that extended suffering and death in a location is the only way to create dungeons, nor that it always works.

For instance, if mass death or frequently occurring death is the cause, why hasn't the whole city (or at least this sector) turned into a massive dungeon a long time ago? Unless it already has and no one noticed… but putting aside that uncomfortable possibility there has to be more than just localized killings. I don't even know if “death” alone is the cause, perhaps it's an accumulation of exp? I don't know what “experience” actually is so it's not impossible that it's not just a purely system based resource but something already existent that the system harnessed, which could theoretically accumulate in a location until the place itself evolved? Or it could be something to do with the actual misery and suffering, my only example includes the implication of extended torture before death so I can't rule out there being some sort of spiritual power from pain? There's too much I don't know to do more than guess for now.

Assuming it's limited to enclosed spaces or some similar restriction (something I very much wasn't going to actually assume), if it is in fact an accumulation of exp in one place rather than any particular ties to suffering then the death of one or a small handful of very powerful entities may be sufficient to create a new dungeon. Of course, I have zero examples of that happening and it's equally possible that the raw number of deaths is more important than the quality of those killed. I simply have too many questions and not enough data to even begin answering most of them.

However, I put those musings on hold for the moment rather than let them drive me mad; I knew damn well right before heading into danger was not the best time to clog up my thoughts with currently unactionable speculation. Rather than dwell on things I couldn’t learn more about at the moment, I decided to cast my gaze around my environment more intensely. The buildings around here were particularly dilapidated, even for this city; the residents clearly having left them for the elements to reclaim, their long disuse left most of them as little more than husks held up by the very overgrowth tearing them apart. I saw no obvious signs of humanoid occupation around almost any of them, though small animal tracks and waste were present. Thick vines, collapsed roofs, and overgrown windows and doors (all things sapient occupants tend to dislike) characterized what I could see of the visibly long abandoned neighborhood.

It seemed even the hardy addicts and outcasts of Sector Three didn't want to live next to a dungeon spawned from a medieval red room, and I'm absolutely sure the Burnpikes have had nothing but the best of intentions in shooing them away from their new prize. It wasn’t even an unreasonable precaution; potential benefits to the evictors aside, I certainly wouldn’t want to live literally next door to a pit of hate and murder, even or perhaps especially if I was frequently intoxicated. Murderous psychotics hardly make for good neighbors at the best of times, adding a mystical malevolent guiding intelligence to the whole matter hardly made the real estate around here any more appealing to the type of person that likes living.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Under normal circumstances, I’d have been marching in mental lockstep with such right thinking individuals, but with Rokharth’s metallic breath on my back I couldn’t help but fall for the old soviet trick of fearing what’s behind me more than what’s before me. Sure, this dungeon was undoubtedly dangerous and may very well kill me (something I would obviously rather avoid if at all possible), but from the way this whole crew was acting it wasn’t certain death; Rokharth is. I had far more faith in my ability to survive this mission, than I did my ability to escape Rokharth if I tried to run.

Pulling myself from unpleasant thoughts of predatory shadows, I noticed the only building that looked to be in marginally better shape was directly to the right of the dungeon, and even then it was still badly overgrown. The only truly noteworthy distinctions about it were the cleared open front door, the signs of actual patchwork repairs on the walls and ceiling, and the thin wisps of smoke peeling out from the shallow brick-and-vine chimney.

The same man who’d spoken of vampiric behavior pointed a gloved hand at the same relatively intact building I was looking at, “I don’t know why that long toothed bastard wants us out here when we’ve already got a fucking garrison dedicated to watching the place!” I decided then to Observe the man, and my new compatriots. His name was Shoikar, and other than a Trait pertaining to garroting people more efficiently he seemed to be fairly standard all things considered, if notably higher level than average. Part of me thought that was slightly odd given how he spoke of vampires, but I supposed wannabes and fanboys are hardly a mysterious phenomenon worth pondering in the moment.

Everyone here seemed to be notably above what little I'd established as a baseline (though I was nowhere near the immense numbers I'd have to scan to get an even approximately accurate baseline of global statistics), though not by enough to seem unusual. None of them had any traits or titles of true note that I could see (which didn't mean they weren't there, of course), but given their profession I had no doubt each one was a seasoned killer with the skills to match.

The only one to truly stand out as noteworthy was the tall man who'd taken charge, Roin Gloufet. He was notably fifty levels stronger than the second strongest here, and had a Title and Trait worth considering; Silent Assassin and Faceless Killer. While I wasn't certain exactly what Silent Assassin actually did, the name was more than slightly evocative; Faceless Killer on the other hand was both clear cut and far more frightening.

When in combat or while trying to kill someone, his face and identity become unrecognizable and unrecollectable. It was a downright perfect skill for people who haven't learned of the mystical technique called “putting on a fucking mask,” but I couldn't deny it would certainly make getting in and out easier if you didn't need to worry about drawing the sort of suspicion a mask can bring. Regardless, he seemed to be a higher level version of the sneaky murderers around me, and thus was more dangerous than them.

I wasn't ready to put any of these guys into anything approaching the anomalous power levels of Rokharth and his ilk, but I knew better than to dismiss them because they weren't “special.” Historically speaking, these relatively ordinary folks are the most important elements of any given faction; no one remembers the many councilors who stabbed Caesar, yet their nameless knives stole the great Emperor’s life away nonetheless.

In the end, it doesn't really matter how distinct or bland the hand holding the knife is, only if they hit their mark or not.

The partially vine-covered door to the relatively intact building popped open with an ominous creak, before a man so muscular his basic Burnpike attire looked almost painted across his skin stepped out. He wore the signature bright orange scarf wrapped around his face, tying a black hoodie with an orange fur lining closer around his head, but even through that covering I could see the massive smile on his face from the way his eyes crinkled and his clothes shifted. A quick Observe told me his name was Vladislak, and his main Trait told me he could probably turn me into a pink mist with a solid hit.

Though, to be fair, the fact that his unflexed biceps were bigger than my torso probably could have told me that much on its own.

Body Blows, the only one of his Traits I could see, seemed to be almost the opposite of my Focused Impact; whereas my Trait condensed all the force of a blow into a smaller point to get more effect out of less energy, he was able to spread the force from his punch around without losing any of its power in exchange for burning stamina. He could effectively punch every part of you all at once so long as he made contact anywhere, and with the force not diminished even a glancing blow could potentially destroy something soft and vital. It was a nasty power, inelegant but deadly so long as he had the physical force to back it up and the skill to land a hit.

The muscular goon grinned wide, spreading tree trunk-thick arms wide, “Ey ya sneaky fucks, what's a gaggle o’ you spooky bastards doin’ in my neck of the woods?” His words were decidedly unfriendly, but his tone and the reaction of my fellow thugs told me he was probably just playing around.

Roin laughed, “Ey, you musclebound bastard, how are ya? We’re out here because Rokharth told us to bolster the guard here; apparently, the higher ups think last night’s festivities might encourage some fools with more balls than brains to take a shot at this hell hole.” The tall man shrugged, reaching into his cloak and coming out with a pack of cigarettes, “I think you'd have to have maggoty mud for brains to willingly step foot in the damn place, but I wouldn't expect even that level of higher reasoning from the dregs around here.”

Roin pulled out a thick cigarette with his teeth before offering the pack to Vlad, who waved him off with a laugh, “Ey, you know I can’t stand that shit. Hell, why do you even keep offering, eh?”

The lanky killer shrugged as he pulled out a brass lighter, “Eh, my momma raised me to be generous and kind.”

Laughter burst out of just about every thug there, though only a few were obviously genuinely amused while I could tell most were just playing along. “Ah, you lying fuck, I know for a damned fact you don’t even know your mother’s name!”

Roin sparked his lighter a few times before the small contraption ignited properly, the small flame glittering off the ivy wrapped skulls engraved onto the brass case and sending shadows dancing across his equally gaunt face. He took a puff, releasing a cloud of sweet smelling smoke, “Oh well, maybe I’m just a giving soul.”

Here the muscular man merely shook his head, still chuckling as he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “Ah, you son of a bitch, I’m not falling into your bullshit. Ha, alright,” he slapped his denim clad thighs, “let's head inside, get some drinks in you poor bastards while we go over the latest horrors that damn hole has produced before you go and die in there.” He turned on his heel without another word, gesturing over his shoulder and clearly expecting to be followed. An expectation my comrades didn't hesitate to meet, moving as a semi-organized mob behind the hulking man like a pack of ducklings following their mother.

I sighed, sending a wary glance at the actual dungeon before following my nominal comrades into the overgrown building our enormous host seemed to call home.