The city of New Augustine teemed with colorful life, much in the way that one might find a sugary treat set aside for a picnic lunch teemed with ants when left out for too long. 

For every gleaming knight escorting a blushing maiden through the grid-like city, there were at least ten feathered monkeys. They were lively and colorful little creatures but they also chattered and screeched from before sun up to well after sun down. 

In additon, the gleaming of the knight and the blushing of the maiden are both likely caused by the heavily humid air and the blistering sun overhead. If a lady faints in New Augustine, it was more likely than not caused by their insistence on wearing the high fashion of the Old Country in spite of the reality of the South Sea colonies. 

Devan knew better, but then Devan had been in this country far longer than many of the asshole nobles who claimed ownership of it. 

The South Sea Expansion had been ongoing since the death of the last emperor, and the current emperor was said to be rather long in the tooth of late. 

Not that Devan was one to take tea with the emperor. Devan couldn’t even manage a brief chat with a postmaster, no matter how much work he put in or money he made and in spite of the fact that his work was crucial in keeping the colonies running.

Granted, Devan could admit that it was crucial in much the same way that a plunger was. It wasn’t always the most glamourous calling, and his services were often called upon with a touch of panic in his employer’s eyesthat may or may not be accompanied by swiftly rising water.

When the refuse of the wilderness, beast magical and mundain, monsters and magics of all kinds, encroached on roads or rural estates, men and women like Devan were solemnly sworn to put an end to it. 

If you replaced ‘solemnly’ with ‘begrudgingly’ in that sentence, you might be halfway towards how Devan actually felt about his job, not that he would admit it to anyone. As often as he found himself shouted and cursed at in the streets, kicked out of the taverns, and covered in guts and gore as part of the daily grind, he still had his sense of professional pride.

After all, he was an adventurer.

Perhaps lulled into a bit of a daydream by the everpresent cacophony of men and women celebrating and/or mouring in and/or about the Guildhall (and the fucking monkeys, of course), Devan was brought to swift attention by a swifter kick in the shin on the part of Angus.

Angus reminded Devan of a brick shithouse he had seen once in Friedrichsburg, before some clever bastard realized that they had essentially constructed the world’s shittiest oven. A solid five feet and eighteen inches of hard packed muscle covered with scarred leathery skin that could rebuff a moderately priced blade, Angus glared at him with his beady, watery eyes set above a nose broken so many times that it had forgotten its original shape.

Angus had been an adventurer longer than Devan had been alive, and therefore knew how the song and dance worked far better than most. Par for the course of having survived long enough to be called an ‘old’ adventurer, he was far more clever and adaptable than many of the greenhorns that poured into the colonies from the Old Country.

He also kicked really hard.

Luckily, Devan had received many a sudden kick in his day, so rather than cry out from the unexpected pain and make a further fool of himself, he snapped to attention.

The Guildmaster fanning herself from behind her desk did not look impressed in the slightest. Rather, she looked at him in much the same way an eagle might look at a particularly pesky crow, except that Devan knew quite well that he could not possibly fly out of her reach. 

Her office was filled with odds and ends that gave one the impression that the Guildmaster could list her direct ancestors well into the double digits. While there was some typical finery in the form of beautiful paintings and dark silk curtains, there was nevertheless a distinctly martial nature to the assemblage, and to the Guildmaster herself. There were several suits of armor on display and the pelts and heads of various beasts on the walls, as well as the weapons that killed them. Although she herself was unarmored at the moment, Devan could identify a number of razor sharp blades well hidden upon her person, and her otherwise flawless skin bore enough scars to tell you that she had seen her share of danger.

She was not someone to take lightly.

“‘The sharpest of the lot,’ you say?” she questioned Angus. 

Angus was sweating, but then he almost always was. “I assure you, Guildmaster, my crew has razor focus when their lives are on the line.” 

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

Luckily, Devan had more practice at controlling his expression than most and it was not he that drew the Guildmaster’s evil eye. This time.

Fatima realized her mistake as soon as she had made it, but could not retract a scoff already given. 

More than once, Devan had seen Old Worlders mistake her for some kind of exotic dancer or escort before she seperated grasping fingers from her person, and then from their person. She had learned the lessons failed by so many other ladies in the new world and dressed for the weather. She also tended to have little tolerance for those that could not adjust. 

The scoff in question came about not because of any falsehood on the part of Angus. On the contrary, had his claim been a boldfaced lie the odds were good that she would not have reacted at all. In truth their crew was quite accomplished at facing down the horrors that the New World had to offer and running away in just the nick of time when those horrors proved to be more than they could handle.

Instead, the scoff was summoned forth due to the rather selective nature of the truth in Angus’ claim.

You see, Angus did not generally consider someone to truely be crew unless they had survived at least three situations that he did not expect them to survive. Among their current party of six, such acclaim only belonged to Devan, Fatima, and Angus himself.

Devan hadn’t even bothered to remember the names of the greenhorns this time around. Except for Hans, that is. This was, if Devan recalled correctly but probably didn’t, the seventh Hans that had joined their party in the last three years.

Some of them had even lived long enough to quit.

In spite of this, the Guildmaster reserved her baleful gaze for the perceived troublemakers (and actual troublemakers, in the sense that Devan and Fatima survived long enough to cause her trouble). 

One of the greenhorns coughed. 

Apparently satisfied with having killed them a sufficient quantity of times in her head, the Guildmaster focused once more on Angus.

“This is only the third Dungeon to be found in the South Sea colonies so far. Should it prove to be as profitable as its predecessors, New Augustine could become the greatest of the heartland colonies to date.”

Devan was beginning to regret his lapse of attention more sincerely. 

Dungeons were one of the rarest and most valuable of the world’s magical creatures, particularly given their propensity for producing treasures and enchantments unimaginable to the mundane folk of the world. More learned men than he claimed that Dungeons, much like spirits, elementals, gods, and stars, were naturally occuring magical beings that formed symbiotic relationships with their environments. More learned men than he also had just about as much of an idea as he did about how exactly they came into being. 

The Dungeons of the Old World were old hat at this point, with their moods, tactics, and preferences carefully measured and charted by the kingdoms that controlled them, and had just about reached the greatest capacity they could without stepping on each other’s toes.

As deadly as the traps and monsters they accumulated could be, Dungeons were a resource so valuable that it was entirely possible that more honest folk had died in fights over claims to Dungeons than within the Dungeons themselves. To conquer a Dungeon and receive its boon was the feather in any experienced adventurer’s cap.

Naturally, Devan had never had the privilege to delve into one himself. 

The Guildmaster continued, “Since the estate it borders was established some time ago, the assumption was that this Dungeon has only just reached the surface and is rather juvenile as a result.” She enunciated in such a way that the end of her sentence practically sliced into one’s ear. The paper fan fluttered a touch faster as she let them digest her words.

Naturally, Angus had reached his advanced age for their profession in part due an acute attention to detail. 

“Was?” was all he said.

The fan stopped. “It would seem,” she spoke with an air of distaste that had previously been reserved for the likes of Devan, “that this particular Dungeon does not fit the mold set by the Verdant Garden and the Crystal Cove.”

Those were the Dungeons of the coastal colonies of Friedrichsburg and New Kaltheim respectively. Much to the surprise of the triumphant conquerors of Devan’s father’s day, the Dungeons found in the near vicinity of the Emperor’s new cities had been both incredibly rich and incredibly undefended. It was as if these Dungeons weren’t quite sure how Dungeons worked, to the good fortune of many, including Devan’s old man himself. 

The bastard had managed to retire from the adventuring game when he was younger than Devan was now, and having done a tenth of the work for it. 

To the surprise of no one, Devan had been unlikely to achieve such wealth even if he lived to be as old as Angus. 

Had been. Being one of the first to delve into a newborn Dungeon could definitely change his prospects, but that just meant that there had to be a catch.

“We’re not the first team you’ve sent.” Angus observed mildly. 

The Guildmaster began to fan herself again. Apparently the heat was sufficient enough to stall her minor dramatics. “As it happens, you were not my first choice for an exploratory delving. However, those sent before you have failed to return as of yet. Frankly,” there was a glance as quick as it was unsubtle in Devan’s direction, “there are still parties I would prefer to send over you. Alas, von Hohenheim has the right pedigree to be acreddited for the first successful delving, and you are a veteran enough party that he might just successfully do so.”

Devan wasn’t sure if it was Hans or the other male greenhorn that had the pedigree that the guildmaster desired. Their gear was of similar make and quality, and they both had attitudes that Devan associated with old money. Namely, shitty ones. 

Normally, Devan was all too happy to see noble jackasses get themselves killed by behaving by noble jackasses in the presence of creatures that did not care how blue their blood was or how much caviar they had eaten recently. Now, though, it seemed that he was at least partially responsible for making sure one noble in question didn’t manage to kill himself.

What a joy.