The cross-country train plugged along at a good speed, rattling now and then. Rhen’s eyes were fixed on the petal sticking out of his id syntial that read, “D.O.G.” in flashing letters at the center. There was a single hashmark on the top of the petal to show he owned one dungeon, and within that tiny hash was the dungeon identification number.
His finger traced the mark, lingering on the faded scar that ran around the id syntial. Rhen battled to keep his thoughts from going to the dark, caved in dungeon of his childhood. Eleven years wasn’t long enough for him to forget the pain, nor his mentor’s face.
“You’d be proud,” Rhen whispered, assuring himself he’d made all the right choices from back then to now—at least to the best of his ability.
The door to his train cart rattled open and Rhen pushed his jerkin down, smoothing out the material.
The woman who’d opened it was a busty fifties something with a fat cart full of delver’s goods. “Need anythin for your dive?”
Rhen patted his overstuffed backpack. “Got it all right here, thank you.”
“You sure you aren’t in need of… this!?” She pulled a small mooring piston from the side of her cart. It was intended for pumping fresh air though a tube run underwater, for dungeon levels that were separated by lakes or rivers. Rhen was most certainly not in need of it.
“No, thank you.”
“What about one’ah these?” She removed a multi-purpose pressure gauge and anima sensor that was missing one of its needles.
Rhen scowled. “That one looks broken.”
She stuffed it back in the cart. “You just ain’t seen it clearly. Who’s dungeon you divin, anyway?”
Rhen beamed proudly. “Mine.”
She laughed, her whole bosom bouncing. “Hope ya have enough to save a resurrection profile in town.”
She slammed the door shut, leaving Rhen to scowl alone in his little alcove.
“Hope ya die on ya first run,” he mocked in her voice, then turned to the tiny window.
The wild landscape flew by in blurs of blue and green. He’d seen his fair share of forest dungeons, but somehow seeing it outside with a wide-open blue sky made it more enchanting. SB9102 was the perfect plot, situated close to a decent sized dungeon town, but well enough into the wilderness that he wouldn’t have random people wandering by.
The trees thinned and little pockmarks of building clusters appeared. The train slowed gradually, letting Rhen take in the setting of Yu City. It was a far cry from Desedra City with its towering skyscrapers, packed streets, full markets, and multitudes of temptations.
The buildings of Yu were constructed with wood and brick and didn’t make it past three levels in most cases. The streets weren’t paved, or really maintained at all. Thick wagonloads of ore bumped along, losing chunks of material out the back with every divot in the road. A child picked up the dropped pieces, throwing them back into the wagon that was pulled by a simple horse. Horses were strong, but not like dungeon monsters. Anyone who could afford a monster drawn wagon was much better off than one with a horse. It spoke to the state of the city, and what Rhen could expect.
He spotted an inn not too far from where the train came to a rest. The sun was setting, and his body ached from a full day of work on top of four hours of train travel. He knew he might not get another chance for a soft bed and a hot meal for many weeks, so he decided to splurge a little.
The city smelled of dirt, raw ore, and horses.
Blech.
Rhen covered his face with his sleeve to prevent powdered horse poop from flying up his nostrils and pressed on for the inn. A cute little sign hanging over the door read Bustling Brood and colorful roses bloomed on either side of the stained-glass windows. It was a nice place—maybe too nice for Rhen to afford.
He stepped into the scents of fresh bread and roasting gamey meat. His mouth instantly salivated at the thought of having meat that hadn’t come off a horromoth or some other slimy dungeon monster. The music hit him next, a jaunty little tune being performed by a Sephine, lizard-like humanoids with two extra arms. This orange and yellow Sephine played a tall bass in two arms and a lyre in the other, creating a sweet harmony.
Rhen liked this place.
He approached the bar where a man with a thick moustache waited. “Room and board for one night?”
“One private room left at ten imperial marks, or you can sleep in the entertainment hall for one.”
Rhen cringed. Ten marks was a quarter of what he had left, and quite steep for a private room. Yu must’ve been in dire need. Rhen couldn’t afford it at that price. Ah, what was one more night in a room full of thirty dudes? He’d have eternity alone with his dungeon soon.
“Group situation please.” Rhen placed the shiny imperial mark on the counter. He didn’t like carrying a lot of coin with him, preferred storing his money on his ID syntial, but he knew going into a small town like this, he’d need cash on hand.
The barkeep ferried the coin away with a wink and a gap-toothed smile. “Welcome to the Bustling Brood.”
Rhen kept his pack securely about his shoulders and looked around. Several tables were already packed full of scrappy looking dungeoneers, but there was one near the bard’s stage that was empty save for one man. His hair was graying on the sides, and what was left on top had been slicked back. He wore a tattered green-gray jacket tied off at the left elbow where he was missing the rest of his arm. He had dark, stained pants, and his boots were in about as good of shape as Rhen’s.
Rhen made his way over to the older man. “Are you saving this spot?”
His furrowed, bushy brow of salt and peppery hair nearly obscured his purple-hued eyes. The old man looked down at Rhen’s feet, then scanned him all the way up to the top of his head. After a long beat, his eyes went wide with delight.
“Is that you, Gerald?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. My name is Rhen.”
The old man’s eyes lost their sparkle, and his face sagged. He kicked out the chair across from him. “Sit yourself down, Rhen.”
Rhen set his pack on the other seat, then plopped himself down in the offered chair. He opened his bag and took inventory of the tools he’d been able to buy before he left Desedra City. He’d been able to get a small hand operated drill, not the industrial sized stuff Desedra rented out, but it would do fine alongside his tremor blast ability.
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Next was a good length of rope, some carabiners, and a simple harness. He didn’t know how deep his dungeon would be after he got in it, but the assessment said at least two levels, so he’d need to climb. He preferred not dying alone at the bottom of a dungeon because he was too stupid to strap in, so he’d spent the three marks on the basic climbing gear.
Lastly, he inspected the small canvas tent. It was used and a little holey, but it would serve him fine for the time being. He didn’t plan on living in a tent for long. Rhen wasn’t too bad at carpentry and planned on building himself a little cabin just as soon as the funds allowed. A tent would do for now.
“New dungeon owner, huh?” The geezer’s voice was gruff, but friendly.
“I am.”
“Thought you could do it better than Desedra, saved up everything you could, bought yourself a little plot?”
Rhen nodded.
“You know how to mine, or just delve?”
“What’s the difference?”
“For six marks, I’ll tell ya, and my secrets. All my secrets…” he whispered conspiratorially, like he knew something no one else did.
Rhen had a good forty marks left, but he needed to save those for when things inevitably got tough. Not to mention he’d need healing salves. His natural regeneration was passively increased because of swift twitch, but not enough to save him from ruin if he broke a leg—or lost an arm. How hard it must be to get by as an old, one-armed man.
“How about two marks and you can have my ale?” Rhen offered.
The old man laughed in a kooky way. “I know my worth, kid. It’ll be six marks.”
The barkeep dropped a bowl of stew and a mug of beer in front of Rhen. He slid the mug across the table to the old man.
“My apologies, but I’ll have to decline your expertise for now, mister…?”
He accepted the drink. “It’s just Wyland, no mister about me. What about you?”
Rhen faltered. Had he not introduced himself? “I’m Rhen, no mister here either.”
Wyland took a long pull of the hoppy beer, then muttered to himself. “Looks like Gerald.”
Rhen dug into his meal and turned his attention to the performance on the stage. The Sephine had move on to a slower song, something to help the dungeoneers towards sleep. It seemed too early for that, but then again it was a smaller city. He probably wouldn’t find all-night parties here like in Desedra.
When all the delvers had finished their meals, and yawns went off precipitously around the room, the bar keep ordered everyone to start preparing for sleep. They dragged the tables to the edges of the rooms and sat them up on their ends to help make space. Everyone claimed a spot for their own and rolled out their beds.
By sunup, the inn was bustling again—hence the name Rhen realized, but where the “brood” part came in, he didn’t know. Perhaps some inside joke. He tucked his bed back into the flap of his pack and gratefully accepted a steaming roll from the barkeep. These smelled like nothing he’d ever had before, and he’d had a lot of breakfast rolls.
This roll was coated in a syrupy sugar on the outside, with flecks of cinnamon and sugar inside. The bread was hot, fluffy, and sweet on the inside, with little chunks of fruit and meat, left over from last night he assumed. While strange, it was also quite divine.
The door to the inn opened and a well-dressed beefslab of a man with orange hair strode in. He looked like a Shin’Baran, but Rhen couldn’t tell without a closer look at his eyes. He moved around the lounging delvers with mild disgust and stopped at Rhen’s feet.
“You’re Rhen Zephitz?” he asked, an unimpressed scowl on his face.
Rhen stood and turned to face the wide man with arms so thick they could no doubt crush every bone in Rhen’s body if the man so wished. There was no way he could’ve offended someone so soon, right?
“Who is it that’s asking?”
He hooked a thumb at his chest. “Peter Welsh, owner of the Welsh Dungeon Cluster.”
“It’s good to meet you, Mr. Welsh.” Rhen held out his hand for a shake, but Peter didn’t return the gesture.
“The delvers in here work for me. You got that?”
How was it possible that he was outted the night he arrived in town. Welsh must’ve been watching that plot… Why hadn’t he bought that plot if he didn’t want the competition? Rhen wasn’t here to give him competition, yet he couldn’t help but stoke the man’s anger.
Rhen smirked. “And what if they want to change dungeonship?”
“You think sleepin’ on the floor makes them like you, like you’re one of ‘em? They’re my delvers because I’ve got the profitable dungeons.”
How dare he storm in here just after dawn to accost him over an offense he hadn’t committed and then claim to know what he was?
“I’m not here to pilfer your delvers, Mr. Welsh, though my dungeon will no-doubt be profitable,” Rhen said a little louder than he needed.
Peter leaned in closer. “I’ll hold you personally responsible for any of my losses. Now, do you got that?”
“I’m sure the D.O.G. would have something to say about your claiming ownership over the delvers in your dungeon, Mr. Welsh.”
Peter bared his teeth in an attempt to smile. “You’re makin’ a mistake.”
“That’s to be seen.”
Peter turned and stormed off, smashing his way through the inn door with a growl.
The other delvers looked between each other with glazed-eye confusion. Rhen was confused, too.
What an idiot.
He bade Wyland goodbye, who offered his secrets once again at six marks. Rhen strapped on his pack and took one last look at the city behind him. In a few days’ time, he’d be back to trade. Maybe then he could afford some of Wyland’s secrets—or boot repairs. There were a lot of things high on Rhen’s list of to-buys once he had the marks for it.
The trail out of town shrank in width until he was at the precipice of the forest, walking on a narrow strip of dirt overgrown with blue-green grasses. The tall blades danced in the breeze, looking like waves on an ocean. Birds chirped, squirrels chittered, small predators rustled bushes, and the whole forest sang with life.
Rhen pulled a deep breath all the way down to the pit of his stomach. Now, to find his dungeon.
An hour passed of Rhen following the softly trodden trails through the forest when he came to a large, white barked tree with pale green leaves. He opened his bag and pulled out the map he’d been gifted from the Dungeon Owner’s Guild. It was magically infused and linked to the id syntial on his side, making it valuable, but only to Rhen… or whomever had that three-by-three patch of skin over his ribs.
Rhen placed his index finger on the seal of the map and it unfurled with a magical flourish of purple sparks. It laid itself out flat between his hands, black ink seeping onto the page from seemingly nowhere. Eventually the ink revealed the tall white tree to his side as the Waiting Willow—a common meeting point for the cluster of dungeons in the area.
Rhen’s marker appeared on the map beside the tree, a purple pulsing orb, and then his dungeon came into view, scrawled out in elegant script: Zephitz Dungeon. It was still a good three hours away, but excitement swelled in him from the pit of his stomach. He felt like a jittery lizard, itching to take off in every direction at once.
Several paths snaked off from the Waiting Willow, but none in the direction of his dungeon—he’d have to build that path himself, starting now.
With his crescent moon blades in hand, he slashed his way through the tall underbrush toward his prize. The passive syntial in his boots allowed him to absorb anima from the severed plants and even the ground itself, which was enough to give him an extra two hours of energy. He paused at a stream, panting like mad and dripping sweat.
The water looked clean enough, so he splashed himself with some and reviewed the map again. His previous trek time hadn’t been indicative of carving his way through the forest without a trail. But now he seemed about two hours out.
The anticipation was making him hungry.
But there was no time to stop for a meal. He filled up his water skin, strapped his bag on his shoulders, and headed on his way. The stream cut through the forest quite nicely in the same direction of his dungeon, so he made better time by following close to the bank.
Energy, like a buzzing swarm of bees, tickled his skin.
Rhen stopped. He’d felt that every time he delved close to a strong monster. The raw anima pouring off it would cause a disturbance in the air, detectable by anyone attuned to using anima.
Rhen crouched, becoming still and quiet as he looked for a threat. A distant snap pulled his attention. It wasn’t a twig breaking, but a whole branch. He opened his map and found that his dungeon was right in the path of that noise. It wasn’t uncommon for monsters to roam out of their dungeons in the nearby areas, but if the volume of that sound was any indication, the monsters in Rhen’s dungeon were going to be huge. Huge monsters were a double-edged sword. Usually harder to kill, higher level, with more syntials, but also bigger cores, more anima, and greater powers to impart.
Rhen crouched lower, hiding himself amongst the waving grasses, then crept toward the noise. A shadow moved between the branches ahead and Rhen slowed, focusing his gaze on the movement. Horror filled the pit of his stomach when Rhen realized it wasn’t a wandering monster from within his dungeon…
It was a Defiler.