As he stepped back through the transition, the first sight that greeted Tarn was a massive insect carapace, a huge corpse that was laid across a vast chamber of rails and tunnels. What remained of the Progenitor General was cast onto the stone floor, its broad girth still dominating the space Here the creature were drier, more desiccated than its counterpart outside. As if the dungeon had drained their fallen foe of every last drop of fluid.
The rest of the party’s footsteps began to echo off the walls as they stepped in deeper, taking care to walk around the Progenitor’s body. Or rather, the upper half. Though a few months had passed, the memory of the Axe’s huge metal door slamming down and cleaving their adversary in two was still a fresh and satisfying one for Tarn.
The floor itself was made of cobbled stone, each piece roughly similar with the appearance of having been carved decades earlier.
The appearance only, Tarn reminded himself. All of this was the Axe, the malleable dungeon taking whatever form it wished following its own inscrutable desires. Which used to be a lot more aggressive looking.
“It’s still a hub,” he said, looking around. “But it feels … different.”
The lighting had changed for one. It was torch-lit as before, but now there were far more lining the walls, sputtering in their sconces and powered by some unknown and ever-present fuel. The prevalent shadows of the Axe’s previous central hub were gone, and even the network of tunnels that led outward seemed less ominous. A web of metallic rails still ran too and fro, but these too had changed. The metal was polished to a fine shine, the wooden slats evenly spaced and orderly.
And it was far quieter. When they were last here, the chamber shrieked with the sound of ‘trains’, the strange metallic constructions that ran along the rails. The Axe had been using them to attack its fellow dungeon the Sword, hurling them one after another against its brother.
Yet now the rails seemed silent. Was the war over?
A thundering vibration shook the chamber, sending trembles through Tarn’s skeleton. Whirling around, he saw a faint cloud of dust rolling from where the Axe’s door had slammed back down. He looked down at Lash, who shrugged and smiled.
“Door closed now, Boss.” The gremlin grinned. “Only open again if Axe Dungeon wants us to. We have to go forward.”
“Then let’s do that,” Isca said, a firm strength coming to her voice. She looked over at Tarn, still the hint of a question in her eyes. He returned her a smile and a wink, wanting her to be sure she knew all was forgiven.
She had faltered, but it had come from a good place. A desire to protect the people she cared for, and protect herself from the guilt of losing another team. That, he understood all too well. Besides, he’d made his share of mistakes.
A familiar map materialized on the wall at the far end of the chamber, along with a single door a few feet to its right. A route to their destination, and all the choices the Axe loved to force upon them. Rooms filled with death, monsters, and the unknown menaces that lay beyond the dungeon itself.
Tarn grinned as he stepped forward, feeling truly alive for the first time in months. No more waiting, and all the worrying the free time allowed his mind to create. Once again, it was finally time to go to work.
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“It is considerably quieter within the dungeon.” Urthin commented. He walked to Tarn’s left, observing the vast chamber, still a connection of tunnels and platforms. It was a relief to hear him speak, even for a short observation. The Axe wasn’t the only thing that was quieter.
“Yeah. I don’t hear any … trains?” Tarn took a moment to recall what Lash had named the strange metallic transports that had run through the hub relentlessly on their last visit.
“You said the Axe and Sword were fighting.” Bog’s deep voice echoed though the darkened train passages. “Maybe their war is over?”
“Or maybe the Axe won?” Tarn felt a bit of unease at the thought. The Sword had been an ally to them in the past, and it had actively resisted the Progenitors. In many ways, it was the Sword itself that made all of this possible by reaching out to him in the beginning.
In contrast to the Sword’s altruism, the Axe had appeared singly focused on conflict itself. To Tarn, it had seemed the dungeon they currently walked within may have not cared who was providing it with the blood it craved, so long as the combat kept flowing.
“Let’s hope that’s not the case,” he replied to himself. “I don’t like thinking about the Realm without the Sword there. Last time we were here once we crossed the center of the hub, I was given a map. Let’s see what happens …. Now.”
As if the Axe had heard him, his internal interface sprang to life once again. Just as before, he could see a multipath diagram laid out before him, starting with single room on the “A” tier and two doors branching out to the “B”.
But the paths were certainly shorter. During their last time through the Axe, they had fought and explored their way through almost a dozen levels. The map before him had only three tiers. How could they earn enough blood in such a short time?
Maybe it doesn’t want blood this time.
“Only one way to find out,” Tarn said to the cavernous chamber. They had to start on the “A” tier, and the doorway was right before him. As his hands reached forward and touched the handle, the interface inside his mind sprang to life.
//NEW ABILITY AWARDED Captain’s Mark (Unique)
The Pulse-shifted Captain may designate one enemy to be ‘Marked’. All attacks from allies of the Captain will do an additional 20 AP of damage to the target. The target may skip their entire next pulse to remove the mark.
Requires: Line of sight.
Limitations: Once per battle
We do what we have to do.
The effect was disorienting enough that it took Tarn a moment to read the abilities description. While it was definitely useful, he had expected more. When the had reentered the Sword after a period away, they had fully leveled up. Now, he was ‘awarded’ an ability, and that was it.
We do what we have to do. The lore text echoed his words to Bog, just before the had used the Progenitor’s helmet to erase the Orc’s memory of their culture. It had indeed been what they had to do, but why remind him of it?
Looking at his teammates’ somewhat bewildered expressions, it was easy to see they had also been granted some new boon by the Axe.
“These dungeons are never the same,” Isca muttered with frustration, giving voice to Tarn’s thoughts, albeit with a slightly darker tone. “A new ability this time, levelling up last time. Never an explanation.”
“Mine’s a good one though!” Bog cheered, her grin pushing her tusks over her cheeks. “’Rage of the Forgotten’ – just the name is excellent.”
The Forgotten. Another reference to the fate of the orcs. The dungeons always knew how to push Tarn’s buttons, pouring salt into a wound he was still trying to close. He swept his doubts away, not giving them chance to root. The answers were here, and the Axe Dungeon’s motivations would become clear in time. They always did.
He grabbed the handle a second time, happy to only feel the cold contact of the metal on his flesh and nothing more. On the other side were hopes, dangers, mysteries, and opportunities. Isca may have been frustrated, but he couldn’t lie to himself.
Despite all that was at stake, and all they didn’t know about how to achieve their task, he loved this moment. The possibilities behind an unopened door were the greatest treasure of all.
“Let’s do what we came here to do.”