In a place high above all other places, there is a room, and there is a boy, and he is surrounded by toys and models and trinkets.
(This is a lie; the place is not a place, nor is it a room, and neither is it above or even below any other place. The boy is not a boy, and the toys and the models and the trinkets are no such things. But mortal eyes can only see the semblance of a thing, not the truth of it.)
Delicate fingers move his toys with impossible precision – his touch is as fine as spun sugar and as unyielding as steel, as thin as sunlight and as wide as the horizon.
He watches a world die, an apocalypse of greed and blood choking the life from it – a failed experiment. His gifts too unstable and too tempting, pulling everything into a spiral of inescapable violence. Nothing redeemable remains, and it crumbles under the weight of his contempt.
He watches another world die, consumed by the ravenous dead. Sabotage, he suspects, as he watches corruption rot the world from the inside out. He saves what he can, and sends it forward, to whatever world lies next.
World after world, his eyes are drawn to; each is a little different from the last, all on their separate journeys to achieve his goals. The failures are many, but his rare successes make the effort worthwhile. Right now, his attention is focused on his newest little experiment, and what was nearly two weeks from mortal perspective is less than an eyeblink.
Eyes beyond counting glide open, and he glimpses a world, in slivers and slices beyond time and space…
* * * * *
Guild Captain Siobhan watched the fire flicker, the last few embers glowing and crackling. It was a sight she had gotten quite used to on the road this last week and a half, and one she was about to get a bit of a break from – even with the more relaxed pace, their trip had covered the ground even more quickly than anticipated, and by early evening tomorrow they would be at the dungeon's gates.
Traveling with both a druid and a wizard had somewhat spoiled her; she was used to living out of tents and keeping watch every night in the wilderness, but nature magic warded away the worst of the predators, and Vesper was a conjurer by trade, which meant their nights were spent in safety behind the smoke-gray walls of an arcane shelter. This particular shelter reminded her of nothing so much as a cozy woodland cottage; it didn't come with any of the amenities, of course, but there was plenty of room for bedrolls and a crude fireplace to keep them warm.
Despite the strong walls she found herself unable to shake old habits, awaking almost like clockwork for third watch even if she didn't necessarily want to. The rabbitkin used these otherwise unproductive hours to plan, writing in her journal by firelight and occasionally sharing quiet conversations with Padma and Vesper, both of whom were more inclined to the nocturnal hours anyway – Padma was an excellent sounding board for strategy, being a war priest, and while Vesper wasn't interested in the tactical concerns, he was an interesting conversational partner in his own way.
She'd learned quite a bit about the long history he and the dragonclad Hakon shared, both as adventuring partners, and later, domestic ones. She knew, for instance, that the magical shelter around them was a mirror of their little farmhouse on the East March, which was more than she had known about either of them before this trip – she hadn't even been aware they lived that far out of the capital. Perhaps that was a sign she should spend more time conversing with her Guild subordinates.
In any case, her ruminations were swiftly coming to an end; she could see the first hints of the rosy light of dawn, diffused through the nearly opaque walls of the shelter, which meant her team were going to be rousing themselves out of sleep fairly soon. Siobhan gathered up her personal supplies including her bedroll, and sat quietly in the darkness, letting herself have a quick little nap before they set out once more…
* * * * *
Zahur watched his growing little family with great pride and affection; everyone was making excellent progress. The twins were slowly carving their way up, level by level as they doggedly trained every day, sparring not only with each other but with the minions under their command. They both took well to leadership roles, taking the responsibility seriously, and other minions rather thrived under them. The dungeon creatures didn't grow the same way the rest of them did, but the jackal could see improvement every day, as they became more effective at carrying out their orders and ever more efficient at working as a group, displaying a rudimentary but solid grasp of tactics.
He'd been a little worried about that – the description of the minions had left him with a somewhat poor impression of their potential intelligence, but clearly their intellects were not too grievously shackled by their lack of free will.
And it was a joy to watch them work, and see what strange powers they all possessed. The moss elementals and the rose rats were not too surprising, but they had their quirks; the elementals were tough and durable, and when damaged regenerated their wounds, though somewhat slowly, and the thorns of the rats were not just sharp but also tipped with a poison that left injuries painful and inflamed (they had learned this particular trait on one very eventful and unfortunate afternoon when Finn had joined a training session and failed to dodge an attack). Needless to say, Nawra had been busy putting her alchemist class to use, brewing healing poultices and antitoxin.
The other minions were just as interesting, if a bit more esoteric. The origami witches seemed almost harmless at first glance, but a flick of their fingers turned the air into whips and planes of compressed force, impossibly sharp and steady cutting edges that thankfully dissipated on impact, leaving only little grooves behind – he had no doubt that the damage they could wreak would rise as he improved and enhanced the dungeon's minions, but at least for now they were only dangerous, not instantly lethal.
Of course, it wasn't just his new warriors that had proven themselves; the working willows had proven quite adept as assistants. They needed oversight, true, but with a competent leader they were a force multiplier like no other in the realm of domestic crafts, each one being able to focus on multiple independent projects at the same time. The blinkwells too had proven to have hidden depths, for with their mastery of divination magic they could communicate knowledge at a distance. Once Nuha had noticed this capability and realized the implications, Zahur had assigned one to every major building in the dungeon, creating a simple but effective communication network.
All in all, the jackal was quite pleased and proud with what they'd accomplished, and as he looked around his dungeon he felt the growing tingle of anticipation. Sure, perhaps wasn't the most impressive space, from what he'd heard from Finn and read in the summoned books in the library, but he was quite sure most dungeons wouldn't be is as advanced as his was in such a short period of time.
Though perhaps that was for the best – it hadn't taken Zahur long to realize that power compounded in this world. Creating all the individual rooms and upgrading them, summoning minions, weaving his new children into existence; all of these things cost energy, had drained his resources. But energy spent recovered in time, and with each improvement, each expansion, each increase in level his essence grew, building upon itself like the thousand layers of nacre that formed a pearl. When he had begun, even creating a single dungeon resident had left him weak and winded, but the constant feedback loop of his children – and Finn – using the dungeon facilities and growing stronger reinforced him.
He could only imagine what sort of terror a dungeon might become if it had that level of patience and planning without the same level of gentleness and integrity.
All these thoughts and more raced through his head. Despite the occasional setback and error, the initial set of rooms were all but complete, and nearly ready to receive adventurers. The dining hall and the dormitory stood ready to entertain and receive guests, the library and the lecture hall were primed with challenges of skill, knowledge and craft, and his greenhouse was replete with all the herbs the system would let him access. The only rooms still in need of finalizing were the arenas, and even then, only the combat arena truly needed work, as it lacked a guardian.
That oversight, however, would not go uncorrected for long; he'd been pondering how best to go about things, because in truth, he was not as familiar with the warrior's art as the wizard's. There, as in many situations, Finn's presence had proven quite valuable. While more a scout than a swordsman, Finn had known men and women with skill at arms before finding his way here, and though the boy was still reluctant to talk about his past, their conversations had given Zahur insight into the deeper workings of the system and how warriors interacted with it, and all he had to do was pull the threads together into a coherent, elegant pattern.
Inspiration came to him, and late into the night he worked. Tomorrow, he'd introduce his children to their newest sibling; he knew something amazing was waiting for them just around the corner, and all of his instincts urged him to be ready for it.
* * * * *
It's been three days.
Three days since everything came to a head, since the argument.
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Three days since Finn left the village.
And there hasn't been a single sign of him since. Not that anyone is looking; sure, plenty of villagers like him well enough, but there's more than a few with an axe to grind – and few of those who like him are willing to stand up to the elders. An old story with familiar verses, but this time feels different. Worse, more permanent. He's never disappeared this long before, not alone, and there's no sign that Finn is planning to return. And that means there's only one option.
Dodger is going to have to find him.
It's not an undoable task, Dodger thought; sure, he's much better at sneaking than tracking, tracking was always Finn's thing, but he's got a keen eye and sharp wits. And no one else is bothering; it's him or nobody.
Still, even if he's resolved to go searching, he doesn't go out on the third night, but the next; it takes that long to stuff his pack full of supplies (and steal said supplies in the first place, since there's no way in hell anyone was going to sell them to him) and to work up the courage to sneak out after moonrise. He's almost in the clear, his foot about to pass the village border, when a voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
"You're going after him, aren't you?"
Dodger doesn't turn; he doesn't have to. His sister's voice is perhaps the sound he knows best, one of the few who still speak to him kindly.
"I have to, River. You and I both know no one else gives enough of a shit to even bother. And if he's been gone this long, he's either not coming back or he can't – I have to go find out."
"… You do know the elders are going to punish you the same, right? If you go after Finn, it'll be exile, same as him."
He's quiet, for a very long moment, and his next words are barely a whisper.
"And if I don't go after him, that's as good as death. We both know he's a good hunter, but even Finn can't survive by himself out there."
"… I'll talk with grandmother. Maybe she can convince the other elders to show a little leniency. Just…be safe, please?"
"I'll do my best. No promises though."
It's on those words that he strode into the dark, nerves on fire and heart beating like a drum in his chest. It's not hard to find Finn's trail at first, as he wasn't exactly subtle about storming out of the village. It's only as the hours and days begin to pass by that the hammering of his heart stopped being caused by excitement and started being caused by fear. The trail is briefly interrupted by the signs of a scuffle; claw marks in the dirt, broken branches, and droplets of blood nearly bleached brown by the sun.
It's this trail he follows, through the winding trees and rolling paths of the countryside, from bloodstained clearing to bloodstained clearing, each one slightly fresher than the last. His hope is a threadbare thing as he tracks Finn down; an injury bad enough to leave him bleeding for hours on end is almost certainly a lethal one, and yet Dodger hasn't seen a single body, or even bits of one, and until he does he's not going to accept that his friend is gone. It's with these thoughts he finds himself looking down into the grasslands at the edge of the Blackbramble, his eyes going wide when he saw the strange structure that he would swear up and down hadn't been there before. The trail led down, straight towards the high ringed wall of the estate, and Dodger took off running, all exhaustion forgotten.
A fancy place like this surely had someone living in it, taking care of it, and if Finn had stumbled his way here, then maybe, just maybe, he might still be alive!
He had to hope; if his friend was dead, then he'd earned the ire of the village for nothing.
* * * * *
Finn dreamt.
Not all of his dreams are pleasant; indeed, many are not. As nice as life is here, his past haunted him, old memories that came and went as they pleased in the long hours of the night. Tonight was a hard night, and as he woke, his eyes damp and his thoughts racing, he made himself roll out of bed. Sleep wouldn't be coming for him, not for a little while anyway.
It's still strange to wake up here, deep in a dungeon heart, both because he'd never actually thought he'd get to see one, and because he's shocked Zahur and the others trust him enough to be alone in there. He'd often thought about asking for a room of his own – it felt inappropriate to sleep in such a private space, even invited – but Finn just couldn't make himself be an inconvenience like that. Granted that he knew none of them would see it that way, but he would, and that was enough to shy away from the question.
Not that it didn't have its perks. He was never far away from one of the jackals if he needed them, and on a night when sad old memories refused to leave his dreams be, he needed the comfort of a familiar face.
In the dining hall, Nawra was at her usual post, fiddling with one of the pots as the mingled scents of tea and milk and sweet spice filled the air. It was enticing, warming and welcoming as he made his way over to her, and the matronly jackal offered him an easy smile.
"You're up late, or early, more like. Trouble sleeping?"
Finn just nodded wordlessly, and leaned into her; he was quickly swept up in her grasp, gently hugged as she allowed the boy the comfort of her company.
"I daresay you could do with a warm hug and a hot drink. Lucky for you, I've got plenty of both."
Finn still hadn't figured out how she did it; no matter what he came to her for, Nawra always seemed to know just what he needed, and always had the perfect thing on hand. Case in point, even before she was finished speaking a cup found its way into her hands, slowly filled with a creamy, caramel -colored drink that steamed and filled his senses with warmth and spice. It tasted even more heavenly than it smelled, sweet but not cloying, strong and silky as all the layers of flavor hit him at once. It was unlike anything he'd ever tasted before, and it brought a little smile back to his face.
"… It's good, what is it?"
"Karak chai, my boy. Something gentle, sweet, and warm, to settle the belly and relax the mind. You just take your time and enjoy it, and when you're ready, we'll send you back to bed, alright?"
"…Ok."
They didn't really speak, after that. Finn wasn't yet ready to talk about his nightmares or his memories, and Nawra didn't push. She simply carried on with her nightly duties, the boy at her side as she prepared for tomorrow's meals, roasting and grinding spices as loaves of bread proved next to the crackling fireplace. It reminded him so much of home, yet so very different – so much more quiet and peaceful, for one. And the aroma; he'd never known just how intricate flavor could get, and he was fairly certain he'd never be able to go back to his regular diet after this.
Not that he would have to; it wasn't like he was planning on leaving anytime soon, after all.
He finished the last little mouthful of karak, the heavy warmth in his belly making him drowsy once more, and he offered the old jackal a quiet 'goodnight' as he stumbled his way back to bed, and crawled in under the heavy blanket.
This time, when he closed his eyes, the old ghosts of his past stayed where they belonged, as he drifted into the quiet embrace of restful slumber.
* * * * *
"Bullshit."
A heavy mug slammed into the wooden table, expertly punctuating that riveting bit of commentary. The thick stench of smoke and booze and greasy food wafted around them, stirred by skeptical words and waving hands.
"It's true, I tells you! Whole guild's in a right tizzy about it; been hearin' rumors all week!"
Four figures hunched over the table, all of them nursing drinks as they did most nights, lured by the promise of cheap booze and even cheaper gossip – and there wasn't much gossip hotter than the rumors of a new dungeon, right smack dab in the beastlands.
"Come off it. Two hundred years without so much as a peep, and a whole dungeon just pops right up, not a lick of warning? I don't buy it, s'gotta be some kind of scheme!"
"A scheme to do what, you drunk old shit? Collect border tolls from all of a dozen adventurers before someone finds out it's a lie and spreads the word? The beastkin may be a little strange at times, but they're not fucking daft, Travis."
The aforementioned Travis just snorted disdainfully, and took a deep drink of his beer – some of it dribbling into his graying red beard – before slamming his mug a second time. Jeers followed from the other patrons as the noise disturbed the room.
"Maybe it's not a scam, but still fuckin' suspicious! New dungeons don' just pop up out of nowhere, there's always rumors about weird shit going on before a new one bubbles up like one 'a Tark's fucking warts, and I ain't heard squat until today. It's fishy and you know it, you knife-eared prick!"
No one seemed particularly happy at that declaration; Travis, the red-bearded old man who slammed his mug like a gavel was all suspicious glares, and most of his drinking companions were in similar states of outrage. A rather warty goblin woman and a long-eared sylvan man in particular were sending scathing look across the table, being insulted and slurred, but no actual protest came from them. They were far too used to being on the receiving end of their companion' poisonous invective to muster anything stronger than harsh looks and vaguely annoyed apathy at the problem.
"Fine, it's fishy, but sitting here pitching a fit about it isn't going to do anything. If your trousers are that gods-damned twisted about it, let's just go check it out. We're barely a few weeks away as is, and by the time we get there the inspectors will probably have gone through and started trial runs anyway. We can find out for ourselves what all the big damn fuss is about, now quit whinging and go settle the tab before you get us kicked out!"
The older ruffian snorted as he stood up to do just that, rudely bumping the table and nearly spilling the rest of the beers as he stormed off. The fourth and final companion around the table leaned back in their seat, a dry smirk on scaled, androgynous lips.
"Well, that went worse than usual, did the whorehouse ban him again? He's always more of a bastard when they kick him out."
"Shut up, Hellas. I don't want to even think about that sloppy old fuck fornicating."
Quiet, reptilian amusement sounded across the table, and by the time Travis returned, no one was in much of a drinking mood anymore. Four reluctant companions removed themselves into the upper floor of the tavern, to stumble into what passed for beds in a rundown old border town like this.
Sleep came hard and slow that night, when it came at all, and most of the townsfolk were glad to see the back of them as they rode out with the noonday sun, seeking their fortunes.
* * * * *
In a place above and beyond all things, a boy plays with his models and his figurines. The tiniest smile curls along something analogous to lips, and eyes beyond counting blink in anticipation. The pieces move, and the plot advances.
It's looking forward to seeing how this latest experiment holds up to some… stress.