“STEALTH SKILL XP GAINED”

“STEALTH SKILL INCREASED TO 2”

Lurking with beard precariously past a towering stalagmite, the dwarf surveyed the situation deep within enemy territory. In a previous lifetime he’d lost himself to misplaced rag, and the dwarf--light on sleep as he was--resolved to see a less violent solution to his prison break. A few dozen steps back waited Waspig, leather strapped round its body bolstering flame out of sight. Another fire burned--that which crisped in the center of the cave, attended to and admired by many feral funguay. Others, his adjusted eyes observed, paced around aimlessly. Some entered and exited the shanties erected all round the milky white cavern, one or two trapped in a cycle of leaving and re-entering their homes. Watching them, the dwarf realized he remembered where he’d once retrieved health potions--their planned swiping, along with the livestock, blushed his cheeks in the dark--when had he become such a thief?

His father would be ashamed.

But the dwarf recomposed himself remembering the multiple lives at stake. Carefully, the dwarf put one foot in front of the other and left the safety of cover to crouch slow and surely towards the pen. Funguay thankfully found no reason to stalk the same area the dwarf maneuvered through, making for a comfortable trek. He slid behind a ramshackle building and peered through its sole window, jagged wood daring contact; there lied in the corne-- ostensibly--wheat bread. But sounds of soft chitters suggested an occupance, and the dwarf nervously scanned until identifying a slumped heap against a wall. The taste of mushroom loaf that remained in the dwarf’s mouth inspired fervor; he chanced creaking the entrance’s door loose. The funguay stirred, then curled.

“STEALTH SKILL INCREASED TO 3”

“STEALTH SKILL INCREASED TO 4”

Creeping in, the dwarf took his time, the bread ahead anxious to have the dwarf’s hands pressed against it--at least, the dwarf thought so. The floor, some pathetic attempt at merging rock with plank, created a dangerous soundscape, a keen eye necessary for avoiding certain creaks and groans. Breath steady, the dwarf moved along in near silence.

“STEALTH SKILL INCREASED TO 5”

“STEALTH SKILL INCREASED TO 6”

The freshly baked loaf of proven scent came into the dwarf’s hands, and he considered unslinging his sack to quickly store the treasure. But some faint notion came over, warning of a clattering of his iron poker. He accepted the premonition, turned round, and began creeping back out. In his anxious excitement he put a foot firm down onto a loose plank, its moan so unfortunately loud in so sparse a room. The funguay chittered to life. The dwarf forced his pace forward, clumsily treading over three more boards that brought the funguay to its feet. But the dwarf dared not look back to confirm. He continued in the darkness until reaching the exit ajar, slipping out and forward to unsling his bag and sling the remains of his mushroom loaf through the sole jagged opening. He waited. And he raised his eyes to find, to his relief, the feral thing feasting upon his offering, the groaning incidents evidently gone. The dwarf peered around to make sure the breaking and entering had not been overhead or seen by another. It appeared to had not. And so the dwarf advanced to the pen.

Towards iron bars jutting out from rock and dirt, the dwarf quickly identified, to his enormous delight, Pistol and Bathiel and the rest to be named. He once more unslung his sack and retrieved the loaf of surprisingly normal bread, something scored and with decent crust, he discovered, breaking apart a chunk and wolfing it down. Another part came off, and he knelt near the jail offering the sample to whoever would take him up first. This eventual volunteer sported wild locks much like Bathiel, but the dwarf noticed a distinction: eyes all almond. This must be the once slain brother of Bathiel, he realized. The dwarf decided on ‘Cath’. Cath accepted the piece with little hesitation, its docile nature appreciated. Of course, a chain reaction set off, and soon the other hogsects came to investigate what their stockmate seemed so preoccupied with. More divisions of bread were handed out: none remained. Of the three creatures that seemed nearly identical give or take their heights and tusk sizes, the dwarf chose ‘Blissey’, ‘Mustard’, and ‘Chef Girlodee’ in honor of his hens back home, though even he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep the names consistent.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“ANIMAL HUSBANDRY INCREASED TO 11”

With trust established and the issue of naming resolved, the dwarf set to his next task: breaking out the hogs. The pen gate did not appear locked in any way--but he remembered the certain sound of its reverberation, hesitation quickly following. The dwarf folded his arms and paced back and forth, unsure. He took a few steps away to glance at the continuing blaze in the center of the cave, but to his horror, he noticed Waspig beginning to wander out from the crevice he’d ordered it to. A few more hooves and it would breach the tunnel and trot out into the open, its mounted hues of orange and yellow a sure invitation to all funguay. The dwarf’s teeth chattered. He tried waving his hands back and forth in a vain desperate attempt at catching his pet’s attention, pleading to discontinue its adventure. But such a journey could not be stopped, and Waspig entered the cavern’s hub. The dwarf’s eyes shot to the funguay that turned in confusion, shambling towards his pet. He darted to the pen’s gate and screeched it open, the horrible whine of rock and iron grinding throughout. Many funguay broke from their gaze of the new fire to the source of the sounds instead, following in suit.

So did Waspig.

Light blazing across the cave straight towards him, an army of funguay closing in on his location, the dwarf fell to panic. To his surprise, the freed bugsects maintained calmer demeanors, seemingly all focused on a new scent in the air. Indeed all dashed out and past the dwarf, a gathering forming quickly around the newest bovine arrival: Waspig, fire mounted to its back continuing to blaze. The dwarf shoved his way through and immediately set about removing the bowl from his pet--to no avail. For one, it burned his hands to hell inflicting jolts of blood thumping pain throughout. Two, it simply attached to the sap beneath too well. The dwarf detached from the scene, grabbed his poker, and jammed it between bowl and belt, sacrificing his left hand to holding the former steady. The intense heat set his flesh red, but the dwarf persevered, forcing the poker further through the adhesion until at once snapping free, the bowl bouncing off and gyrating across milk. The dwarf thrust himself forward and, taking it into unburnt palm, swung and hurled the thing across the cavern, flying disc soaring and shattering against rock drapery and igniting clung moss.

Many funguay broke from their dwarfen investigation to admire the toasting of a valued food source. But some, the dwarf realized, maintained their stagger towards his party. He found Waspig among the crowd, threw his arms around it, laid kisses to the beast, then straightened himself and shot an arm out directing it forward. Obeying, Waspig began a trot back to the crevice it had wandered from, Bathiel and Pistol and Cath, Blissey, Mustard, and Chef Girlodee all following in pursuit. The dwarf swore an eighth creature too escaped within the mix, but he could pay the idea little attention: his responsibility required a defending of the flank. Leaping, a funguay closed the distance between it and the dwarf. With both hands gripped around the poker, the dwarf bashed the tool forward blowing back the feral inhabitant.

“MELEE INCREASED TO 8”

Another advanced. The dwarf held the poker out while the rest of the bugsects fled the scene. The funguay chittered, gasped, gagged, and vomit before the dwarf. Before he could process the fast series of events, one struck, the dwarf taken completely. It collapsed atop the stout form beneath it, beard caught in its clenching maw. The dwarf threw the poker to the side and, with what might his arms could muster, shoved the funguay off and onto its back, hairs ripping from his chin. With a clear break following, the dwarf drew his weapon behind and launched it away; snapped around and shoved off into the long tunnels ahead, footsteps and chitters of those undistracted heavy on his trail. His legs, little as they were, danced in such momentum he caught up with the caboose of the bugsects, ushering it forward with urgent insistence. And out the dwarf and his army escaped from the series of winding tunnels into the fresh evening of the ravine. While all the hogs stopped to lay and regain their energy, the dwarf wasted no moment: he reached for the known pickaxe and leapt at the entrance of the cave, climbing and mounting atop.

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 19”

And he swung.

“MINING SKILL XP GAINED”

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 2”

And swung.

“MINING SKILL INCREASED TO 3”

And down collapsed rock. And down collapsed dwarf.