Chapter 34: A Hattie Tanner Interlude
Hattie Tanner emerged from the eldritch Dungeon Break, battered and bruised. Scarred and bleeding. Her clothes soaked in enough red to match her ginger hair.
She was still below the surface, inside a well lit tunnel that blazed with Witchpyre lanterns.
Even this far below, the polar southern winds bit through her dampened attire. Her teeth chattered, despite her high physical stats. She pulled her cloak tighter and trudged up the steep incline.
“Just one of you?” The tunnel watchman asked. “Is the rest of your party coming or cremated?”
“Cremated,” she answered. “Expedition base camp number 37 has been destroyed. I’m the only survivor.”
The watchman bowed his head. “The second one this week.”
“It’s the end of the week, so that’s a good sign,” she tried to say cheerfully.
“True. Glad to have you back. Get some shut eye, alright?”
Hattie gave him the faintest acknowledgement and kept walking.
The Dungeon was being less aggressive. Even if it didn’t feel like it when she was down in the trenches. This protracted campaign had been going on for over a few years now. Hattie had joined only a few months ago after selling off her home. This gig was scheduled to last for quite a few more years. Ideally.
For the last few weeks Hattie and her party had managed to succeed in finally snuffing out the closest Bonpyre respawn point.
The Dungeon had decided to retaliate in kind. The mind of the alien Dungeon Core had learned to incorporate the bones of the undead in a way she could have never conceived.
Teeth.
Entire floors of hot, humid rain forests. Natural mazes filled with toothy foliage.
The surprise attack had routed the entire camp into this elaborate trap.
It had cost her party their lives.
Hattie had spent the last several days just trying to fish their gore out of the jungle.
Despite her forty-three years of living in this cruel world, she wouldn’t exactly say she was numb to it by now. Seeing talented adventurers die while on expeditions never got easy. While the required funeral rites removed the burden of a prolonged burial, it was difficult to bring back nothing but ashes and regrets. There were only so many mementos she could carry with her. The urns in her bag burdened her enough.
Hattie had liked this party. They had been a good crew. One of them in particular had been a young, talented woman that had shared her bedroll for a few nights.
Her mind immediately went to the memory of pulling her mangled body out of the branches.
She tried not to think of that.
Hattie reported her efforts to the security checkpoint at the end of the tunnel, a large fortification built to withstand entire sieges.
She went through the usual ordeal of mandatory screenings and questionnaires. First response guild healers addressed her wounds and examined her mental state. When they were satisfied that her mind had remained intact and that she wasn’t at risk of Burnout, the payroll clerks handed over her daily stipend.
The guild members reminded her to take more breaks from Breaks, then sent Hattie on her merry way.
For the first time in weeks, she touched foot on the surface.
And saw the open night sky.
Her mind reeled in awe. The sight never got old. But sometimes it could take her by surprise.
The northern lights danced in the sky. They seemingly intertwined amongst the dazzling planetary rings and obsidian moon. The snow for miles around sparkled with applause. The celestial light show felt so close she felt like she could have touched them with a big enough jump.
It was a reminder of what she was fighting for. What everyone was fighting for.
Amongst the endless glaciers, snow drifts, and icy lakes a small outpost town had been established around the Dungeon entrance.
The campaign had gone on so long that perpetual campfires had transformed into permanent kitchens and buildings had been erected around them.
The only blight upon her incredible view of the sky was that damn lurching tower made of stone and bone. It rose out of the icy ground like a broken spine rib. It was a demonstration of incredible engineering feats and magical prowess; what one architect could accomplish given an endless fleet of tireless manpower.
Many ignorant adventurers had made the mistake of thinking this was actually the Dungeon. They were sorely mistaken. This building was just another institution involved in the war effort against the subterranean depths. The living weren’t the only ones that fought for their own definition of freedom in this world. The undead were equally aligned in their distaste for Dungeons.
A Dungeon Core could imprison souls. Cores could tether immortal beings, bind them to service, lock them away, and throw away the key until their minds broke. When human minds broke, their lives ended. When the minds of the dead and Dungeons broke, the world ended.
Yet life went on.
The Evergreen Ossarchy in particular was not fond of their workers being poached into other terms of work. The corpsocracy would prefer to flood an entire Dungeon with molten aluminum and destroy all the resources, rather than deal with the skull ache of the extra paperwork resulting from a loss in labor force.
Stolen story; please report.
Hattie had seen it happen once before. Like pouring liquid metal down an anthill.
It had taken weeks to mine out the bodies.
As much as the Evergreen hated most Dungeons, they were not fond of Hattie either.
Thankfully, their presence in this region was minimal. They had been outbid on this expedition by a rival undead mercenary company. This lurching citadel was no threat to Hattie. The skeletons that prowled those dark halls were of a different mind.
She still hated them. The walking dead were a grim reminder of what kind of world she lived in.
A party of undead mercenaries shambled by with hollow eyes of flame, headed towards the fortress checkpoint. They carried adventuring gear, clearly designed to help in the defense against the Break.
She nodded to them in passing. They nodded back.
She could still respect individuals, even if she stood against their masters. The respect was mutual. There were rules and regulations on how Dungeons could be assaulted. The entrance fees for time slots could be exorbitant. Dangerous alien ones were no exception.
The only times regulations were ever lifted were in times of international crisis. Which would not happen for a while. Her party’s efforts and the efforts of the undead mercenaries had helped with that.
For now, the Dungeon would rest.
And so would she.
Hattie desperately craved a cup of tea by a warm fire. Her blades needed a good cleaning. She needed a long bath.
She needed the comforts of real life.
The middle aged adventurer headed straight to the guild hall. It was a sprawling facility with plenty of rooms, services, and facilities. Like a massive research outpost combined with an indoor shopping mall.
Upon arriving, the gigantic guild doorman greeted her. "A message arrived for you,” he drawled.
“Which frog?” She asked.
“A red one.”
“A tomato frog? One with black stripes?”
“That’s the one,” he replied.
She smiled brightly and thanked him, then rushed inside.
In the postal room there was a large room with an indoor pond, like a swimming pool filled with lily pads and algae. Dozens of various colored frogs leaped about, a cacophony of croaks and ribbits. She checked in with the postal worker, who then used a large net on a pool to retrieve the tomato frog.
The woman brought him over in cupped hands and grimaced with concern. “This little fellas has already been waiting a few days to deliver his message. I’m sure he can wait a tad longer if you want to get tidied up first… He’s not going anywhere,” she said.
Hattie held out her hand. “It’s important. It’s a message from my brother. I’ll clean up after.”
“Alright, suit yourself. Don’t blame me if you get blood on it.” She patted the amphibian on the head.
She then pressed down on a particular spot in its back. The tomato frog’s eyes bulged for a moment, then closed. Its long tongue shot out. But instead of a normal sticky red tongue, the messenger frog’s tongue was brown, wide, and splotched with black ink. Like parchment paper.
The postal worker tore off the piece of paper like it was a receipt, then handed it over to Hattie. The remaining frog tongue raveled and rolled back up into its maw. It croaked, then hopped into the pool with a splash.
The exhausted woman covered in blood read Brill’s message scroll with a furrowed look.
Perhaps Hattie did deserve a break.
Unfortunately, there was no rest for the wicked.
The Dungeon here could wait. There was another Dungeon she needed to slay.
****
Hattie Tanner despised taking the river ferry. It never sat well with her. But it was a necessary evil if she wanted to get back to Brill and the new homeowner quickly. Even with using her Shortcut Skill, it would have still taken a couple weeks to arrive.
After making the proper preparations, she had left the polar outpost and traveled for a full day out of town, reaching the first stop on her journey.
The Wild River ferry station.
A singular ticket booth marked the entrance.
A skeletal guard with a badge pinned to his rib-cage barely looked at her as she approached. His right hand had been replaced with a rubber stamp mold at the wrist. “How many?” He asked.
“One. Passage to the southern provinces, please,” Hattie handed over a journal filled with sketches of the Dungeon. Including drawings of the local fauna and portraits of her adventuring companions.
The booth attendant took the book of art and flipped through it.
"I don't like it." He shrugged.
"Fine. Hand it back. I'll pay in coins."
"No, this will be payment enough." He set the book aside. His right hand dipped into an ink pad, then he stamped a ticket with it. He slid the ticket over to her.
“Enjoy your trip,” he said dryly. Then began to look at her sketchbook from the beginning. He took much more time.
Across all the necropolis's and ghost towns that Hattie had visited, they all had populations with one thing in common. The grave shifters all demand eternal entertainment. A drip feed of consuming experiences is their only escape from the grind.
Despite all the industrious machinations of the undead, the ability to create evocative works of art had evaded their grasp.
In a twist of fate, the unliving required the living. To illuminate the darkness and bring meaning to a hollow existence of drudgery.
The ferry station was thankfully covered by a wide canopy to keep the weather at bay while passengers waited in this frozen tundra. Janitorial undead went through the eternal motions of shoveling snow that was only there part of the time or sweeping dust that never had the chance to accumulate.
It was an eerily silent place.
Except for the chorus of groans and agony in the distance.
Hattie averted her eyes. Refusing to look at the river. She could wait patiently for the ferry to arrive.
Three hours later it arrived. The ferry was like a sick and twisted reversal of a rowboat. Long metal poles stuck out horizontally from each carriage at even intervals.
The living and the undead disembarked. Fresh adventurers for the Dungeon, most likely.
Hattie carefully minded the gap, refusing to look down. She situated herself upon one of the long wooden benches. She sat with her hands in her lap, staring at them. Trying to block out the sounds of the River.
A whistle blew up front.
The ferry began to move.
She couldn’t look away any longer.
The Wild River had no water. Perhaps it had in ages past. But now it was a well oiled machine.
The 'river' was a shallow trench that ran for miles and miles, built off the literal backs of the shattered men. It ran on unliving manpower and churned with a torrent of grease and bones.
The river undulated and groaned. Mangled skeletal hands pulled upon the ferry pole oars, propelling the ride steadily along.
It was ghastly, horribly inefficient, and inhumane.
It was an example. A display of power for the Evergreen.
The Ossarchy made use of every man, no matter how much they were broken.
It made Hattie sick.
Unfortunately, riding down the Wild River ferry like a roller-coaster was still the fastest way to get to Poppymill from here.
As soon as she could, she would gladly hop on another form of transport, like a carriage or an actual river boat.
She sat back. Trying to relax. The ferry swayed and the dead moaned. The river surged onward, over hills and through the tundra, glistening like oil in the sunlight.
“God almighty,” she whispered. “What I wouldn't give to ride in an automobile again. Hell, I’d even take a cramped overnight bus. Or put up with Spirit airlines again…”
Hattie dearly missed the modern means of transportation from back home. She would rather walk. But her brother needed her to arrive quickly.
No matter the world, family was family.