NecroBoys Party:

Matt the Minor Liche

Status : Undead and hopeful.

Greg the Skeleton Warrior

Status: Happy to be leaving the underground.

Doug the Skeleton Warrior

Status: Itching to stab something.

11x Skeleton Warriors.

Status: Undead and happy to be here.

11x Skeleton Archers.

Status: Undead and unhappy (dropped the extra corpses Greg insisted on bringing several hours ago)

For normal mortals, the steps leading from the dungeon’s version of hell toward the surface would have been a daunting task that would have tested their minds and bodies’ physical and mental resilience. Their food and water supplies would dwindle, while hours would feel like days in the monotony as they climbed higher and higher. Some would even question the validity of the impartial System, of their own fate, to find themselves resigned to a destiny akin to a slow, agonizing death, cursed to climb a staircase that seemed to go on forever!

“How was this an E-ranked Dungeon!” they would cry.

“How are we expected to overcome this!” they would moan.

But worst of all, the monotony of the climb, the sameness of the walls with no adorning features or patterns, and no torches, just a dim light pulsing above, forever out of reach, would have ensnared their minds. Because in the face of a journey so pointless and aimless in nature, the mortal mind seeks to escape until panic and agony drive them to hasty decisions.

It would only take an hour for some to say, “We should go back!” or “This is some kind of illusion or trap!” or “We’ll never make it!” and onward and so forth until the party is bitterly divided between those who wish to seek an alternative route versus those who can’t fathom that the time they’ve already spent could be wasted. Madness would have slain most bands of adventures, as opposing factions and parties would form and inevitably kill each other as accusations of desertion fly in the face of one simple word: Monotony.

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The NecroParty made it to the top of the stairs in six hours in comfortable silence. No rapid onset of madness because the undead mind is strangely adapted for monotony. Even the sentient members of the party fell into silence once their minds realized that no new stimuli would be had. Just the silent pit-pat of their feet against the cobblestones.

So unremarkable was their journey that when they reached the top of the stairs, only Greg’s voice breaks the spell of silence.

“Wow,” is all he can utter at the sight of the dungeon core. Its shining, multi-color brilliance results in a pink hue that envelops the otherwise dark cavernous room. It floats in the middle of it all, spinning softly as it hums a tune of earth and power. Only a single black door, plain and made of material similar to stone but decidedly foreign, marks the proper entrance to this most holy of chambers where the weird power emanates, radiating its influence to the world around and below.

Indeed even Matt can’t form words that match Greg’s understatement. The chamber seems bigger than it actually is, humming with runes and glyphs that shine with the pulse of the dungeon core’s light. To Matt, he is staring at the heartbeat of an enormous beast of incomprehensible size and weight but also, at the same time, something ridiculously small and unassuming.

Something in Matt turns with greed. Call it the wizard he was before or the new greater ambition common to all Liches. But sheer desire propels him forward, almost unconsciously, toward the final prize. It is Greg and Doug that stop him this time.

“No Boss,” Doug insists with an iron grip around his master’s shoulders.

“Remember what happened last time?” Greg says sarcastically, though a hint of nervous worry dulls the light of his eyes as his back is to the dungeon core and the black door that protects it.

Matt looks between his two… friends? Yes, friends, and shrugs, admitting defeat. The moment has passed, so common sense takes over. Matt takes several steps back and, with a mental command, orders one skeleton warrior to grab the Core.

The skeleton in question is a simple pack mule in charge of the extra supplies Greg insisted on taking with them on their journey. Various items like pots, pans, rope, scavenged pieces of cloth, three Kapa shells, and broken spears are bound to him or stick out of him as he waddles toward the spinning orb.

For a moment, as the NecroParty watches, they wonder if they have anything to fear. There is nothing in this chamber with them, and to both Greg and Matt’s memory, the thing that attacked them was behind that door. They can always run down the steps and climb the other wall back to civilization if the creature comes ambling in. Matt is even starting to consider naming the skeleton he sent to retrieve the orb.

Something normal, he thinks, like John, or Bill, or -

A black sinuous band of muscle shoots out and cracks the skull of the skeleton warrior just before he puts his hands on the Core. A long scythe-like blade is at the tip of the muscular cord of muscle and protrudes from what remains of the skellies skull. As the NecroParty stands in shock, the blade twists downward before opening up like a stack of cards, revealing three claws attached to the end of the tentacle instead of just one, and without warning, the arm shoots backward like taut rope and crashes into the door. Or what everyone thought was a door.

Skeletal Warrior has suffered Critical Piercing Damage

Skeletal Warrior has returned to the Void.

The room filled with laughter, mad and deranged. The sound penetrates the stoic nature of the skeleton warriors, the archers, and, yes, even the Liche. Fear is felt, and a desire to run is overwhelming.

Because the door starts to move.