Twin shadows slowly orbited the sharpened barricades of the encampment, tethered to the canopies of the guardian mangroves. Liv wrinkled her nose, unable to avoid the pervasive miasma of the surrounding battlefield. Carrion birds were happily feasting on the offal.
“Something wrong?” Logan was stoking a campfire that her forces were studiously avoiding. “I’d have thought you’d be pleased.”
“Oh, I am! Normandy looks awesome. It’s just…” She motioned to the field of fetid meat and decomposing slugs, looking a tad green about the gills.
“Normandy?” Logan inquired curiously.
“Yeah, it was…” she had been about to say it was a reference to the Second World War but realized that the explanation wouldn’t mean much to the Halfling. “It was a place where soldiers landed and set up a base of operations to engage in a far-off war.” As she spoke, Liv’s expression turned even more sour, glaring menacingly at the flock of blackbirds who seemingly paid her no mind. Logan hummed in acknowledgment of the explanation, focused on stacking kindling, before changing the subject.
“You got out here fairly swiftly. Are you feeling any better?” he inquired.
“A bit. SP production is still down, but with a higher base pool to pull from, it’s getting easier.” Logan had learned that her mind was bafflingly alien, and asking the dungeon too many questions frequently just resulted in headaches.
“We can’t get too comfortable yet, though. I’m putting my money on the enemy regrouping as we speak.” Liv sighed.
“We’re about as ready as we can be. Scout has sentries hidden all along the border, in case they try to sneak around us, and this camp is as fortified as we can make it given what we have on hand.” As he spoke, Liv’s frown deepened.
“I don’t like the idea of sitting here while they rebuild. Shouldn’t we take the fight to them?” Her question surprised Logan. She was usually so confident and headstrong.
“Where would we take it? We don’t know where the enemy is, how many they are, or whether they have more traps lying in wait. Without a better understanding of what’s out there, we’d risk a lot more lives.”
Liv grumbled, knowing he was right and not liking it one bit. She stared out at the field, pondering the possibilities for a while.
“You look like you want to set those ravens on fire with your eyes.” His jab brought her back to the present. Liv snorted loudly in an unexpected chortle of laughter, Logan joining in as the tension broke. After a moment of breathless recovery, the specter of the dungeon voiced her thoughts.
“I think we’re looking for a core crystal,” she said pensively. Logan’s stiffened at that.
“Another dungeon? How? Why?”
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“Think about it.” Liv began ticking off her fingers one at a time. “It claims territory just like I do. It seems to create all kinds of monsters to defend that territory. It coordinates otherwise mindless creatures into a unified force.” She looked down at him, meeting his gaze. “It’s just like me.” Logan looked away, staring at the carrion-eating birds as he processed that.
“I can certainly see where you’re getting that conclusion, but it might be premature. You lot are literally forged by the Allfather himself to resist corruption,” he rebutted. “That book said the Moit could spawn more diverse and advanced forms when they achieve high enough numbers. I won’t discount your idea, but we can’t make any assumptions either.”
Liv grimaced at the term ‘forged’, disliking the mechanical, inanimate imagery that came along with it. Frustrated by her own uncertainty, she bent her ire back towards the heedless avians again. Gods help those ravens if she ever saw them again…
—
Huginn stood amidst the furthest of his ilk, notable only by the impeccable shine of his feathers. His keen eyes took in the movements of distant lips, intrigued by the progress this young dungeon was making.
“We should warn her of the danger,” he croaked.
“Wuff?” Muninn’s caw was muffled by a beak stuffed with liver. The blood-flecked corvid tipped back his head and gulped down the morsel. “We spoke of this. That is not how it is done,” the keeper of lore chided.
“Perhaps it should be. Knowledge is power. With only a few words, we could make her success that much more likely,” explained the clever to the wise. Muninn shook his head in exasperation.
“She is like an egg, brother. If you crack open her shell before the proper time, she may never develop the strength needed to fly.”
“May,” Huginn snapped. “Is the chance of failure any excuse to allow that egg to be swallowed by a serpent? Is not a chance at a life better than none?”
“And what good would it do, brother, to tell the chick of the serpent before it has any way to defend itself? Knowledge rarely brings joy, you know this better than most.”
“Why not try? What is melancholy when weighed against survival?” Huginn demanded.
“Because it is cruel,” explained the keeper of memory. “Because others have been driven to madness.”
“Others?”
“Yes.” Muninn sighed. “You have tried this before.” Shaking out his feathers, Muninn dipped his head back down to tug at another strip of flesh, leaving Huginn to ponder. Not for the first time, he wished he had his brother's gifts of memory and empathy. Then again, without him, Muninn would do naught but maintain the status quo, just as he would do nothing but repeat the past were it not for his other half.
His thoughts were interrupted as a deep shadow stained the astral to the west. It was not yet visible to the naked eye, hidden as it was behind a copse of trees, the corruption of space was unmistakable. It warped the very magic of Miðgarð around it. The scion of the outsiders was here.
“Time to leave!” Muninn ordered, already taking wing and circling sunward. Huginn looked up at him, and then back to the growing aura of the hidden scion. He could not feel the urgency his brother expressed and knew it would be wisest to follow suit. The raven’s gaze turned then to the Dungeon and her companion. Perhaps… Perhaps just this once. If he could not convey knowledge, could he at least offer a warning?
Lifting his head skyward, Huginn held his wings akimbo and began to caw loudly. His hollow cries caught the attention of their mundane counterparts, the feathered corvids taking up the warning cry en masse and filling the air with a cacophony of metallic voices.