Look to the sky in the night, my love;
Look and see, the majesty above;
There you will see, my love ingrained;
The craters that mark its white, angelic surface;
Though it is imperfect, it is ours;
Ours for this night;
The instrument of our unity;
A symbol of my return that will come;
So look to the sky in the night, my love;
Look and see, the majesty above
~ A handwritten poem by a Forgotten Soul, buried beneath the weight of the many carcasses of her comrades that lie atop her, on the 9th Floor of the Tomb of Stone Dungeon, The Battlefield
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
???, Dearest Old Friend
Goblin, Male, Author
Location: Deep in the forests of Triestwald, inside his tiny cabin
He repeatedly tears the sheet of paper, the words not coming out right on the page.
Stuck on a single passage of dialogue and growing tired of it, he stands up from his bed and opens the backyard door, inviting a breath of cold autumn air to viciously enter his warm, tiny cabin, the two temperatures clashing with one another, neither side winning.
He walks idly to the mossy stone he sat upon whenever he was lost in his thoughts. It was the perfect seat most of the time, but, curiously, it’s a bit too cold for a seat.
—But that doesn’t stop him, as he sits down on the frigid stone, the warmth from his backside immediately escaping from his body as the sharp cold diffuses the temperature evenly, leaving him with a neither-cold-nor-warm seat.
It will have to do.
He looks out into the quiet forest. All the animals have gone, either burrowed deep below the earth or hiding, their fur having changed to accommodate for the now white landscape and camouflaging themselves.
Immersing himself in the solitude, he breathes a deep sigh and closes his eyes, his thoughts vacating from his mind as he lets himself bask in the sheer cold of the winter.
It’s a freeing thing to be out in nature. It calms one’s mind of what ails them, returning them to a state that so few in his tribe felt. A state that is so serene and so in tune with what they should have all been fighting for, that he was ashamed to even consider himself part of that collection of people.
Something barks in front of him.
His eyes open wide before he instinctually leapt forward, embracing the ghostly visage.
“Angel!” he manages to say through his confusion, his posture slipping as he falls to his knees on the slippery snow.
She licks away the tears on his cheek.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Frederick “Fred” Thume
Human (Fae-blooded), Male, Cook
Location: In the Village’s Lord’s manor, inside their bedroom
Frederick holds a cleaver to the man’s throat as he speaks.
“Do as I say, lowlife.”
The man nodded rapidly, immediately letting himself be dragged along backward and towards the wardrobe. Frederick opens the wardrobe door and throws the man inside headfirst, paying no heed to his muffled outcries, the Lord’s mouth gagged by his own undergarment.
The Lord turns around with tears welling in his eyes and a reddened forehead, his expression one of pure shock and horror as he holds his hands out in front of him.
Is he holding them out to protect himself? Push Fred away should he get closer?
Frederick doesn’t really know.
But it doesn’t really matter, for the man can’t do much — if not anything — against him.
The emotion behind the useless gesture, however, was simply delectable to Frederick’s senses, his blood boiling underneath his skin and yearning to simply burst out of his own skin and strangle the man by the throat and leave him gasping for air, torturing his poor, miserable existence. It would just take the simplest of spells to do and it would be—
—Frederick bites off the ugly and reared head of his ancestor’s blood, his fae blood trying — and failing — to mould him into a beast of barbaric desires and horrific detail.
Living with the blood of the fae inside him hasn’t been the easiest ordeal he’d been given throughout his life, he will admit, but the benefits it provided were certainly well worth tolerating the festering and grating parasite his fae lineage was.
Frederick goes to pull the bedside table of the Lord’s bed to act as a makeshift seat.
It doesn’t budge.
He tries again.
He fails again, only then noticing that the darned thing had been nailed to the ground.
“That’s embarrassing, Fred,” an annoying voice spoke up from within Frederick’s mind, “Perhaps you should let a real man pick it up for you?”
“Oh, shut up you,” Frederick replied, ignoring the Lord’s confused look, “Go back to your hidey-hole.”
“Come onnnn,” the fae said, a lingering sense of enticement in its voice, “I won’t hurt him. I promise. It’ll just take a sec.”
“I’m not letting you do anything to him.”
“Oh!” The voice made a faux mental gesture of hurt, before continuing, “How you woe me so, Frederick!” It immediately dropped the obvious facade, its voice now tinged with vile venom. “Last chance, Fred.”
“For the last time; no.”
“Your choice.”
Frederick immediately tensed up on purpose, preparing himself and bracing for the barrage of torment that would soon slave away at his will.
That was all upended as the minutes passed, however, for when he’d usually be lying down on the ground and frothing at the mouth by now, he was pleasantly surprised to see that none of it had occurred. He still didn’t let himself slack, though, in fear that the fae bastard would just rear its ugly head once more and begin its onslaught the moment he wasn’t vigilant.
But after a concerning moment of pure silence between them, he decided to test the waters a bit.
He slightly de-tensed himself, ready and able to go back to his mental shell of will the moment he even feels the slightest bit of pain.
—But there was none to be felt.
He looks about, puzzledly wondering why nothing has happened.
He lowers his guard fully.
Nothing happens.
What the fuck?
He takes a single step before quickly tensing up again once more.
Nothing happens yet again.
This makes things easier for him, at least, Frederick getting closer to the Lord who hadn’t moved the slightest bit from the wardrobe, the man’s eyes wide like plates and looking all too confused.
“Thanks for waiting.” Frederick gives him a genuine smile and holds out a hand, aiming it at the Lord. “Willful Compulsion.”
(Frederick) has casted: [Blood of the Fae: Willful Compulsion] on (Lord Nuc’jha)
THE SPELL CASTED BY (Frederick) on (Lord Nuc’jha) FAILED!
Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Fuck. Should’ve guessed they’d do that.
“Alright, you win,” Frederick throws his hands up in defeat, “Have at ‘em.”
The fae returned, a malicious smile forming in Frederick’s mind. “I’d be most delighted to, Fred.”
Frederick lets his body be taken over, taking a backseat in the recesses of his mind and ignoring the poor man’s cries for help as he’s lifted off the ground with no issue and strangled. Frederick’s muscles grows taut and shifts under his skin, as the Lord’s face turned red, then a deeper shade of red, then turning into a worrying shade of purple before being dropped to the floor, the Lord choking and heaving for air through his nose, before being strangled once more.
The cycle repeated for six more times before the fae returned his body’s control to him, the Lord lying nearly still on the ground but still breathing.
“Had enough fun?” Frederick asked the fae, his muscles returning to their normal, limp, and weak state.
“Oh, I’ve never had so much fun!” it said, its tone dripping with sarcasm before it continued, “As much fun as one can gain from strangulation,” it replied truthfully, “Which you would know of very, very, intimately.” The voice mentally winked at Frederick, forcing an image to appear in his mind of him and his beloved Milly having some... fun.
“Look, she asked to try it out once, okay?” Frederick said defensively.
“And she’s been choking you ever since, eh?” it asked, genuinely curious.
“It wasn’t even half-bad, okay? It’s actually— You know what, shut up, you! I’m not talking about that with you.” Frederick mentally shut him off, finally getting some well-deserved silence.
He strode up to the man on the floor, patting him on his shoulder and feeling a bit sorry.
“Look, I’m sorry about that,” Frederick said to him as he took off the undergarment gag he’d placed into the man’s mouth.
“M-Monster!” the Lord finally sputtered out, his obvious accent a telltale sign that he was one of the Maep’hal folk, a family of invaders from the other continent who licked the dirty feet of the Queen of Triestwald.
— The same invaders who’d put Milly’s father in his grave.
“Ah, you’re one of them!” Frederick didn’t feel as sorry anymore with the reveal of the man’s origins. “I should’ve let them continue with what they were doing...”
An idea popped up in his mind.
“You know,” he said, leaning over the man’s body and tracing a single finger from the man’s stomach to the red marks around his neck, “I’ve never actually choked someone before.”
“W-What do you mean? You choked me just then?!” the man said, crawling backward and away from Frederick before colliding the wall of his bedroom.
“Oh no, that was my... friend, for lack of a better term.” Frederick walked towards him, the voice inside his mind laughing maniacally as he approached.
The man’s eyes were practically bulging out of his eyes at this point. “Please, I’ll do anything! Just leave me alone!”
“You’re already going to be doing my bidding, friend...” He reached out with his hands outstretched, going for the man’s neck. “Willful Compulsion.”
(Frederick) has casted: [Blood of the Fae: Willful Compulsion] on (Lord Nuc’jha)
THE SPELL CASTED BY (Frederick) on (Lord Nuc’jha) SUCCEEDED!
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Pepper “Pip” Vales
Gnome, Female, Unclassed
Location: Standing on the branches of a rather tall Lux tree, on a trek through the forests of Triestwald
Pip breathes heavily as she looks out and above the dense canopy — standing on the tallest tree she could manage to climb and holding on to its branches for dear life — as she searches for the entrance to Earthen-Home.
It’s been her last saving grace ever since she fled the Capital City of Triestwald all those weeks ago.
Her neighbours back in the city whispered of another war coming about, an uprising from one of the Slave Harbours being taken over by its own oppressed.
And even after so many years had passed ever since the last war took place, the number of able-bodied men in Triestwald wasn’t looking to be plenty enough for Commander-General Patreiya.
They were gonna force everyone into the fight, man, woman, automaton, able, or not.
Well, she’s not having it. She’s not taking part in this Gods-damned war.
In all honesty, she prays for the success of the uprisers. Hopefully, no more innocent lives are taken as a result of this burgeoning war...
Her father already paid that ultimate sacrifice all those years ago.
A payment that didn’t even fulfill its promises of taking care of her family. A promise built on a foundation of lies made to her father before he went to war.
Pip scowls, throwing slur after slur in her mind for that Queen of theirs.
That slut could go rot in Hell, for all she cares.
Still peering out into the distance, Pip notices a faint wisp of smoke rising into the sky that comes from the mountain itself, interrupting her rabid wishes for the downfall of the Queen.
The mountain’s a volcano? I don’t remember that being on the note…
She would reach for the notes in her bag, but she’s still quite in a bit of a precarious situation.
Pip tries not to look down as she thinks back to what the notes she’d been given by the Information Broker she’d met up with had said.
Recall.
Pip has used: [Recall (Notes on Earthen-Home)]
“Climb the highest tree. Look for the 3rd largest mountaintop. In its direction, you will find the People of Stone.”
She immediately compared the seven mountaintops she could see in her peripheral vision.
Third largest, third largest... A-ha!
With a direction in mind, she makes a mental note on its direction on her compass-watch. The one thing Dad gave her that he’d made himself.
It was an intricately-built thing, with cogs and gears that she didn’t really have a clue as to what they did or how they worked but she knew they were all important somehow.
She smiles longingly at the device, reminiscing how her father acted whenever he was tinkering with anything. Her dad was usually a man of few words, but the moment he gets into ‘the zone’, as he called it, he became more animated and invested in teaching her as much as he could.
Grandpops was always like that too, Dad taking after him.
She shakes her head, taking her mind off of the thoughts, before beginning her descent down the tree, holding tightly to the rope she’d wrapped around the tree as she gently and safely lowers herself down the towering Lux Tree, her head still facing forward and not looking down.
Pip never was a fan of heights.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
The Stone Mother, Revered Matriarch
Location: Beneath the Mountain Ranges of Triestwald, in the heart of the Earthen-Home
“Calm down, Sweet-Dirt,” she mentally said, leaning the side of her face against Sweet-Dirt’s head. The young elven woman was held tight in her embrace, her nightmares having roused her from her drunken slumber.
Sweet-Dirt opens her mouth to speak, her body trembling, “He was there again—”
“—I know. I know, my child.” She stroked her Stoneshape-dulled fingers through Sweet-Dirt’s hair. The girl’s strands of blindingly blonde hair were braided beautifully, with all different patterns and layouts, her hair segmented into certain bunches.
To those knowledgeable enough to know the difference between the braids, one could see the story of Sweet-Dirt’s life, all laid out bare.
The Leiali culture is a beautiful thing. She hopes to see more of Sweet-Dirt’s people someday, even if they are just travellers through their home.
Sweet-Dirt pushes herself out of her embrace, removing the Stone Mother’s hands out of her hair. Looking at her face, the Stone Mother could see that her cheeks were flush and damp, made wet from her unceasing tears.
There was a brief pause — hesitation, she noticed — before Sweet-Dirt spoke up once more.
“Can’t you just... magic the memories away, Stone Mother?” she pleaded, her expression having an inkling of hope. “You can do that, right? Make the bad memories go away?”
The Stone Mother could barely stop the lump in her throat from forming, the pain inflicted on her child causing a heavy downfall of emotion upon her, of which she could not describe the deepest of its fathoms.
It was a heavy burden to bear, knowing that you cannot help your children despite your best wishes.
A quiet moment passes between them.
“I cannot, my child...” she finally muttered, Sweet-Dirt’s eyes looking downwards with the reveal of her incapability. She continued, “It only works with those who are my family, and this...” she imagined the Orcish man — the one who had tortured Sweet-Dirt, “Monster... He is not of our family. He will never be part of our family.” She grimaced as she imagined the monster’s punishment should they cross paths, but no amount of punishments would ever be equivalent to the torment he’d inflicted on Sweet-Dirt.
Sweet-Dirt looks up into her eyes. “But that also means you can’t...”
“I’m sorry, Sweet-Dirt.” She hugs Sweet-Dirt tightly, the Elven Assassin letting herself be pulled towards her. “I truly am...”
It rains once more.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Spirit of Angel, The Goodest Girl
Neuforden/Golden Shepherd-Mix Hound, Female, Huntress
Location: At the doorstep of a house in the middle of the woods
They had been walking upstream for quite a while. Angel didn’t know what for, to be honest, but the man of bones seemed the adventurous type so she did not mind so much.
She was the same, to be fair, but who didn’t love a good adventure?
A crazy person, most likely.
As they strode along their way up the river, both her and the man of bones turned towards a familiar aroma, Angel immediately running through the river to get to the other side, the skeleton man lagging behind.
And shortly after following the scent — cooked Whiteflesh Venison with a sweet marinade — she came across this place and sat in front of the door.
“Hello?” The man made of bones finally asked after he’d made it to where she was. He knocked three times on the door. “Is there anybody there?”
After a period of silence, he knocked in a rhythmic pattern.
It still didn’t open.
“Huh...” he said, “Guess we’re not welcome, right, Angel?” The bone-man turned around, seemingly content with letting themselves go without eating.
She barks. Where are you going? We didn’t get to eat!
He turned around to face her. “What are you waiting for, Angel? We must keep going upstream.” Angel began walking around the home, looking for some type of entry. “We cannot go inside without permission, that would be rude! Come back here!”
Angel kept going around, finding an entryway inside; an open window, just wide enough for her to get inside with no issue.
She leapt inside, landing gracefully on a wooden floorboard.
Entering Home – A Child’s Bedroom
The aroma was overpowering once she’d made it inside, her senses overloaded from her ability.
(Angel) has deactivated: [Huntress: Keen Sense (Olfaction)]
As her nose relaxed, she could finally take in the sights of the room properly.
The room was fairly small and relatively empty, with only a few items of note here and there. A bedside candle, a tidy bed, a stack of papers stuffed away underneath a paperweight. Drawings on the wall, only barely visible, clearly having been scrubbed away as best as one could manage. Familiar stains on the floorboards, yet also different and unknown to her memory.
It felt vague, somehow. Almost like it wasn’t meant to actually be somebody’s room, only having qualities that one could imagine as to what a child’s bedroom would have.
It also didn’t help that it was really quiet for some reason despite the opened window and the very active wildlife that roamed about the woods.
On the other side of the room was another door, no doubt leading further inside the home.
Walking across the room and curiously nudging some items around for no other reason other than because she could do so, she then walked to the door on the other side and reached for the doorknob and pulled her weight backwards, the door loudly creaking as it opened.
It revealed very little. Just a basic hallway, with an undefined family portrait hanging on the opposing wall. There was a small kitchen to the left of her, the aroma wafting over in that direction, and to the right was the door they had tried to get inside from earlier.
Before moving stepping out into the hallway, Angel turns around, curious to see whether the man of bones followed her inside.
There was nobody there at the window.
Now that she’s inside and in the thick of it, it was a bit too silent...
(Angel) has boosted: [Huntress: Keen Sense (Audition)] to 200%!
Ability {Keen Sense} can only be maintained for {5} seconds before Entity will take damage!
With the limited time she had, she quickly honed in on everything around her.
And to her befuddlement, the silence only got more deafening.
----------------------------------------
----------------------------------------
Grimm
Location: Right outside of the closed window of the house in the middle of the woods
Grimm knocks on the window. “Hey!” he screamed, his hollow voice sounding out throughout the forest. “Can you open the window for me? The Dungeon won’t let me in!”
!!! DUNGEON CORE WARNING !!!
Home – Child’s Bedroom can only be accessed once given authority by the Dungeon Core or once you have reached Level 100.
Do not test me, Gravekeeper. It is not your time, yet.
“Time? What time?” he asked the blue warning box from earlier ago when he’d first knocked on the glass window, confusion present on his face.
If the Dungeon Core responded, it must’ve done so very quietly, for Grimm did not hear anything even remotely close to a response.
Sulking a bit, Grimm sat on a grassy patch next to the window, sitting with his legs crossed and slouching forward with one hand under his chin, his arm on his leg to support his hand, as he waits impatiently for Angel to come out.
“Arsehole,” he says out loud, idly tearing a single blade of grass and playing around with it in his hands.
He doesn’t like this Dungeon Core one bit.