A comforting humid breeze exits the maw of the dungeon showering over two aspiring looters. The two looters look as if they are Telin which are a tribe of Encantator
(which is just what the humans call themselves in this place between), The Telin are most well known for two things, their scientific/pseudo-scientific approach to magic and their cold war style rivalry with “THE WIZARDS OF THE HIGHEST TOWER!!” who are a group of 600 or so pompous Telin metaphysicians that are only considered a different tribe due the more powerful members of these pointy hatted dicks having the capability of throwing a sun at you from time to time, it’s not even a very good sun, I mean if you are going to summon a demon you should at least have the proper facilities like at least have some lapsang souchong for me.
Anyways the two Telin cross the kinda dwarfish looking threshold of the dungeon, the halfway tall blonde one does a bit of a double take as the dungeon air enters his nostrils, the smell can best be described as a man with a clean but not minty mouth breathing directly into your nose holes. As the duo of freebooters continue deeper into this dwarfish tomb? (I’m gonna be honest I don’t know what this place is at all) blondy with the owlish sickle mask lags behind his smaller friend.
“So Blond, what kind of treasure we looking at?” asks the short one with the nubbed mask.
“Not quite sure but you know dwarfs and their tombs so there's bound to be at least a few hundred year old family heirloom, be it a sword or a spoon it is going to be expensive.” uttered the conveniently named Blond almost dismissively as if he was annoyed that the question was even asked.
“Well the tomb don’t look quite up to snuff for a well off Dwarfish family, there’s a bunch of repeating patterns and sudden changes in motif,” The short man is right, the culture of those maggot toothed dwarfs holds decoration in a practically religious regard, if you were to lock a Dwarf in a brutalist style building it would be at most an hour before they started to sand down the sharp edges with sandpaper made of their own beard and started carving every ounce of the building’s history, from it’s storied history to the company that supplied the stone for it, with chisels made from their own weird teeth. Sharp edges and sudden changes are an amateur dwarfish stonesmith’s way of representing missing knowledge and repeating unchanged imagery being seen as a shameful lack of creativity, as the somewhat sane Dwarf-lord Veggr “Nice accent wall, snorter could your smooth wee brain not even remember what to put there!”, right after he said that Veggr got into a fist fight with the Orck that owned the house, all around that was a good summit meeting. Anyways back to whatever shortie was saying, “but right now Fides and I need all the money we can get.”
“Oh, still trying to save up for the wedding band for her?” inquires the conveniently named Blond.
“Blond, we already got married! You were one of my groomsmen.”
Blond makes a face similar to that of a college student that just looked at a mid term that they are woefully unprepared for, “ Yeah I am drawing up a blank.”
“You accidentally ate the first slice of wedding cake.”
“Oh yeah,” Blond says this with the same energy as a five year old that forgot to feed their fish one too many times, you know the over excited kid that desperately wanted a pet but completely forgot about it after a few days.
These two “adventurers” continue deeper into the dungeon; the contrastless dwarfish carvings begin to teem with fungi and pests as the comforting humidity continues to increase. Bivagardian Swharmers clump around the corners seemingly trying to naw through the wall with their ill equipped needle like teeth. Bivagardian Swharmers are some interesting little buggers are the the spawn of a 20 or so foot blind tiger weasel which is appropriately referred to as either a Blind or a “Beacon of maddening silence”. The latter name comes from how that Nightmarish-spawn echolocates by producing a piercing sound that can best be described as the buzz that silence creates in an empty room, it sounds like a grahoom or as the Japanese and Yigdrins say Shin. Just imagine you’re hiking in the woods and the bustling tranquil sounds of skittering bugs and peckering birds are just drowned out by a piercing silence and before you can realize it foot long needle like teeth pierce your flesh, and if you’re lucky, your head and torso would be shredded first by its 4 barbed tongues. Fun fact! Bivahardian Swharmers got their name from what the common man called them (Swarmers) which was then made to sound a bit foreign and were said to come from Bivahard, which is an entirely fictional landmass that was created by a pre-hellenic greek philosopher. The reason that their common name wasn’t used was due to a Marble-head zoologist wanting to gatekeep his profession so he tried to give them a more complex name to quote “rid the halls of the heathens.”
We return to find that shortie and blondie have just encountered seemingly the first trap of the dungeon; a somewhat imperfect checkerboard pattern upon the floor and walls that perform a sudden change from their gimcrack dwarfish etchings to a brutal blunt surface like a well used sledge hammer or the molars of a horse. There are shards of crushed bone but surprisingly no bloodstains on the semi-pristine stone. The pigmy has spotted one of the skeletal shards and for the past 4 or so minutes has been standing at the edge of the imperfect checkerboard. The pigmy’s eyes stare past the bones in a near conjunctivitis style haze as all the cells in his head rub together to form the semblance of a plan to get around the trap. Blond has been angrily pacing back and forth during shortie’s thinking time.
“Oh for the love of-” Blond stops his pacing, walks over to the short king, moves him about one american yard to the left and promptly kicks the little man into the checkerboard floor. The 2 walls crash together in a violent strident bang causing the open corridor to turn into a marbled wall. “Finally!” Blond yells as he celebrates towards the shoddily crafted ceiling. The marbled walls slowly return to their origin, the blood of archaeological napoleon covers the walls like one of Corman’s Serial Slasher Films. After Blond finishes his fist pumps he looks down at the massive pool of blood adorned with mashed cobber leather and the legless torso of the oompa loompa.
The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.
“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” Bellows the pygmy in a reverent amount of pain and rage as his mask begins to crumble. Blond, realizing that shortie is still alive, attempts to push him fully into the trap but as Blond starts to grab the little man he is punched squarely in the nose by the mighty legless Larry. Blond is punched so hard that a lovely little crack is heard. Blond grasps at his bent and bloody nose and attempts to pull away but is violently grabbed by his hair by the little Don Frye and is repeatedly punched in the face. The only reason that the dungeon isn’t bopping with the beat of fist on flesh is the continued breathless shout of both the pain and the anger of his legs getting crushed.
…
“RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH
HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhuu!!!!!!”
*pow*
*bam*
*pop*
*nuh* *crack*
*spack*
*tuho*
*wham*
Oh, he stopped for a breath, he is still punching Blond though. Blond is trying his best to get the small one to stop beating the absolute horn out of him, unfortunately his best is limp wristedly attempting to slap his would be victim... and he is back to screaming.
“WWWWWWWWHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
AAAaaAAa!!!!!”
*Blam*
*Laboomsaw*
*Krakowa*
*CRUNCH*
*Dap*
*Plamp*
*Krrip*
After 3 or so minutes of punching, Blond finally manages to jimmy out of the hold of the vertically challenged mister, not due to his own efforts but rather his hair became so slick with his own blood that pygmy’s hand slipped Blond’s now ginger hair. Blond grips the side of his head ( the side with the crescent horn) and falls into the fetal position and starts to wail and cry after realizing that big John’s last punch ripped off his ear. As Blond mewls like a little bitch the pygmy looks at him with pure disdain as he throws his ear across the checkerboard trap.
“What is wrong with you?” Screams shortie.
Blond stifles back his bloodied tears just long enough to respond, “What's wrong with me?! W-what's wrong with you? You punched me in the face like…” Blond pauses presumably to recount exactly how many times he was punched, “17 times.”
“You tried to kill me!”
“We’re still friends though.”
A loud silence is heard as the one that looks like he would drown in the shallow end of the pool gives a death stare to crescent head. “No!”
“But why?” asks Blond with almost the same genuineness that the little blue speck has when he offers others help.
“You tried to kill me!”
“Yeah, quick kill , but you ruined that and now you gotta suffer slowly. By the way, since when could you punch like that?” Blond begins to wipe away the blood from his still crying face and sits down 7 or so feet from the microdon perhaps out of fear that he will attack him again.
“Fides taught me how to properly throw a punch after the Red Koba lady refused to stop flirting with me.”
“Wait, Gale’s sister? I always thought she was flirting with me, if you told me she was making you uncomfortable I would have tried harder to kill her.”
“You tried to Squalla just because she flirted with you? Why di-”
“Yeah but it turns out Red Koba are resistant to lead poisoning,” rudely interrupts Blond.
After Blond finishes talking tiny Tim continues what he was saying before as if the interruption was normal. “Why are you killing me right now then?”
“Oh, you and… well I guess your wife now bought the last of the Dionesion wine that the wine man had on sale. You know how much I look forward to that wine. It's the perfect blend of fruitiness and tartness, it’s smell fills the mind with images of Dionysus themself, it’s-”, he continues this rant about that polygamous prick’s wine as bijou boy looks away from Blond. His expression is that of a man that realized a good fourth of his life was built off of nothing and now he just stares at the terrible ceiling seemingly waiting for his own demise.
It seems the crushing walls and checkerboard floor have become clean of blood and the crimson ichor that spews from the mangled stubs of the pygmy is quickly drunk by floor. The whole dungeon begins to drip with a clear substance as more blood is poured.