After Aine's fireball engulfed the entire artillery gun in flames it resisted it effectively, Techneadore grew quite proud—his machine had withstood what he had built it for. But then the lava spell came. He had never seen such a spell; it seemed like something very specialized. It reduced the machine to a molten heap with minimal effort, it seemed. Techneadore watched the destruction unfold with disbelief through his monitors, his mechanical red eyes recalibrating to be sure.
"Impossible," he muttered, his metal fingers tightening on the console controls as the fiery wrath consumed one of his most prized artillery pieces. He leaned forward, staring at the smoking ruin of what had once been his juggernaut. The molten metal was now nothing more than a slag heap, sinking into the scorched floor.
For a brief moment, rage flashed through him, heat glowing from his processor unit which simply refused to accept it. He had designed that machine to break through any strike force's defensive lines with ease before any DPS could take it out, to leave them scattered and vulnerable. To see it incinerated—no, humiliated—by a single spellcaster made the oil in his metal corpus boil over. As his grip tightened and he broke a piece of the console off, he quickly realized his pointless anger and activated his built-in cooling system.
As quickly as he was angered, he was cold again, and instantly started thinking about what to do next.
"Well... seems I’ve underestimated you, little mage," a hint of grudging respect flashing across his mind. "Your fury is... eccentric."
He steepled his fingers, his eyes narrowing. "But fury like that… comes at a price." His voice dropped to a whisper as his cold, calculating mind began to work. "Expend too much, and you’ll burn up soon enough."
He tilted his head, watching the Legion regroup, its morale now bolstered by the mage’s raw fury, but his look was cold.
"The first days of a siege seem victorious and heroic; soon, however, it grows bitter. Losses will stack, and combat capacity will attrition away. Then despair will settle in. I will have my victory still," Techneadore thought to himself confidently.
"Hmm, it seems they want set up a camp now." Techneadore thought to himself as he saw through a camera Marek giving orders. "well, that gives me some time to plan my next move."
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The corridor fell into a quiet stillness after the intense battle. As the Legion regrouped, Marek quickly ordered the establishment of a makeshift camp in a less hazardous section of the dungeon. The camp was rudimentary but functional: a small fire pit surrounded by crates and packed gear, with a large soup pot set over the fire and some alarm bell wires around the perimeter. Engineers, skilled not only in demolition and crafting but also in cooking, had taken charge of preparing a simple but hearty soup for the entire camp.
Marek approached both of the scouts as they were setting up the last of the alarm bell wires, Odhrán and Elara, who were near the edge of the encampment. Odhrán, a young Lúthladl scout, was naturally light on his feet due to his race's ethereal and spirit-like body and quite gifted with trapfinding skills. Elara, a true dark land Huldra with dark, glistening skin and piercing eyes that reflected her sharp intellect and predatory grace, was his fellow scout. She had already played a crucial role in guiding the Legion to their current position. Marek’s tone was authoritative but considerate.
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“Elara, Odhrán, we need to scout ahead. There might be more traps or hazards we haven’t seen yet,” Marek said, his gaze shifting between them.
Elara’s eyes narrowed as she spoke up. “Why do I have to go? I’ve been guiding you all the way to this dungeon already. It’s his turn.”
Odhrán, glowing faintly with hues of silver and blue, looked at Elara with a mixture of nervousness and understanding. “If I have to go alone, I will, but we could go together too.”
Elara’s voice grew sharper. “I’ve already risked my neck to get us here and was crucial for you Wildlanders to navigate through the Darklands.”
Odhrán’s expression remained calm; her sharp remark was understandable though a bit rough. “It’s not about who’s handled more already, it’s about getting it done properly.”
Marek stepped into the argument. “Elara, your contribution has been invaluable, this is true. Odhrán’s skills are more suited for this anyway, which is why I brought him along. I'm sure he can handle it alone.”
Elara was happy to get Marek's agreement and some rest for herself. “Good luck, Wisp.”
Odhrán replied to her mild mockery by sticking his tongue out at her as she walked off.
“Odhrán,” Marek said, trying to get his attention. “Stop bickering. You’re on. Make sure you’re thorough so we don’t get any surprises down the way.”
With a nod of acknowledgment, Odhrán set off, his ethereal form gliding silently through the dungeon’s now seemingly empty corridor. The silence was punctuated only by the soft distant hum of what sounded like some small machinery.
As he moved, Odhrán’s keen eyes detected several hidden poison vent traps—tiny nozzles that would release toxic gas if disturbed. His racial trait, which made him so light he could walk on water, allowed him to step on pressure plates and delicate mechanisms without activating them, enabling him to bypass these types of dangers effortlessly.
The dungeon’s ambient noises grew more unsettling, with mechanical whirrs and clanks creating an oppressive atmosphere that got ever closer. Odhrán remained focused, his agility and stealth allowing him to avoid detection from an armored autocannon that lay in wait ahead of him, its targeting systems not good enough to pick him up. He slipped past it with ease, his translucent form making him nearly invisible against the shadows as long as he remained calm.
Eventually, he encountered a massive steel blast door, a formidable barrier that seemed impervious to any attempts to bypass it. He noted the door’s complex armor design, knowing it would require the engineers’ expertise.
Returning to the camp safely, Odhrán reported his findings to Marek, who listened with interest. Elara, still within earshot, watched him with some minor respect.
“Good work,” Marek said. “Those vents we could probably trigger with a decoy or dismantle them easily. That turret should help Aine vent some rage again,” Marek chuckled to himself a bit. “That blast door will probably take some time, but the engineers never let me down. Your scouting is appreciated, Odhrán.”
Elara gave a nod of acknowledgment. “Alright, you did well. Just remember, we’re not out of here yet.”
Odhrán offered a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks, Elara.”
As the camp settled into a moment of short rest and recovery, Odhrán felt accomplished; he had proven himself a valuable dungeon scout for the Legion so far.