Chapter 9: The Dungeon Town With No Name
RIght After Seofon defeated the Poachers in the Cursed Lands-
The reasons why a settlement would form out in the middle of nowhere can generally be narrowed down to possibilities.
Possibility number one, location.
This could mean either a position of power in a region or trade hub, though the most common reason is water. Civilization flocks to the stuff. Rivers, streams, lakes, hell I’ve even passed through a tiny little despot whose crown feature was a muddy puddle in the middle of their courtyard.
Okay, to be fair it was a desert on a Fallen World in the midst of an all-consuming apocalypse, but still my point stands.
Possibility number two is resources. Forests are an example, though out here forests are the last place a lumberjack would want to wander around, we are right next to the… what do they call it now? “The Cursed Lands”, I suppose its accurate enough. Kern can be a piece of work.
The only reason why a settlement would spring up on the fringe of the Cursed Lands would be for resources of a rarer breed.
A Dungeon.
Yup, a living thinking hole in the ground in need of an attitude adjustment.
No I’m not making this up! It’s too stupid to be a lie.
After we settled our disagreement Kern had tried to bring me up to speed on what had happened while I was imprisoned in the Dark but bless his brambled little heart he is clueless.
He couldn’t even tell me how long-ago Libertas fell, he just gave me a lopsided shrug and a very helpful “Many moons ago” in that monotone rasp of his. All well, Kern is a spirit with no proper sense of time or being, there is only so much I could expect to gleam from him.
However, our exchange wasn’t a totally fruitless endeavor.
Kern saw who took Erin.
After I fell in battle and was sucked into the Dark by Regulator Ethergen’s spell Erin went berserk. She actually managed to kill one of the Regulators! However she was eventually defeated and was taken captive by the same chuckle-fuck that locked me away in the Dark.
Ethergen.
A cold rage crept into my heart when Kern told me who had taken her.
Ethergen is a sorcerer, and a damn powerful one, but that alone wasn’t the reason why I felt the way I did. Ethergen had quite the reputation and was the center of hundreds of unsettling rumors.
The guy has one of the sickest Alignments I had ever had the displeasure of seeing. Pure Chaotic Evil. His aura was so tainted it put ink stains to shame, and this was coming from a mortal no less! Spirits I could understand but this man looked born evil. I always found it unsettling.
The only other Alignment that I could compare his to was my own, though mine was more a dried blood red than black.
The only reason why Ethergen would have bothered taking Erin prisoner is if he somehow knew she was my Familiar. Mercy wasn’t in his vocabulary. He would only keep her to torture her, to experiment on her.
And he had been doing so since… God knows how long.
I needed to find her, I have to find Erin at any cost.
If I just so happen to bump into Ethergen along the way, or rather my fist bump very violently against his twiggy little nose, then that’ll be an added bonus.
First problem in my plans, money, or lack thereof. My fortunes of bygone years was either used to evacuate Libertas’ citizens all those years ago or ransacked by lucky pilferers.
Well, all except for one, but presently I had no way to get to it, nor do I really want to dip into those savings, there are a lot of memories attached to that place.
Call me a sentimental fool but cut me some slack, I’m old and memories are all I have.
When I voiced my concerns to Kern, he managed to surprise me. Most spirits are slow (very, very slow) to change but Kern actually had learned to take some basic worldly matters into consideration.
He knew where a dungeon was, and the small settlement that had grown near the dungeon’s main entrance. If you were strong enough a dungeon was a never-ending goldmine of treasure and artifacts.
In short, Kern had just given me an express ticket off this rock.
After I recovered for a few days I gathered the most salvageable of the Poacher’s gear and made my way east, towards the dungeon.
A week’s travel upstream had taken me to the edge of Kern’s influence where a tiny little settlement lay just a few hundred yards away from the forest. I took care not to be spotted by any of the guards and pretty much waltzed into town dressed in whatever I could scrap together from the Poacher’s space suits.
I knew I looked like a hot mess. I was still skin and bones with a wild head of hair, both on my noggin and my face. The terribly baggy patchwork space suit that hung off my skeletal frame didn’t contribute anything positive to my appearance but at least I wasn’t naked. Small victories.
First place I would seek out was a tavern. Food drew everybody regardless of race or disposition and drinks put people in a good mood. If I were to pull a hustle it would be easier here, but I decided against it. I looked far from normal (and poor to boot) and the only thing I wanted was information. The more info I had the faster and more efficient I can be, and time was of the essence.
The… town for lack of a better word, was a muddy street with a smattering of shoddy shacks surrounded by a spiked barrier. The tallest structure was also the most well built. It was a two-story inn looking affair with empty windows above and a rowdy roar echoing from the first floor. Seems I found where all the action’s at.
However, the moment I slipped into the grubby little tavern I ran into my second obstacle.
I can’t understand a word anyone was saying.
The Common tongue I know was similar to this I suppose, but words and sentence structure had changed, making me wonder once again just how long I was gone.
I settled for sinking into a corner and listening intently for anything familiar to me. Not everyone here was speaking in this New Common and I hoped to be able to find these people and speak to them in their own tongue.
As I drank in the scene around me, I fought the stifling pressure of claustrophobia.
Before the Dark I wasn’t never one for crowds but there in that corner it finally hit me, I was back. I was surrounded by people, normal people, not illusions, people that I could talk to and… well stuff. I’ve been alone for so long I felt like an alien lost in a strange world.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
I suppose that wasn’t too far from the truth.
Loneliness is the greatest killer among Ageless Mortals like me and the depressing feeling of isolation in a crowded place bitch-slapped me outside the back of my head. It was a physical pain, it was real, as corporeal as a fang or claw to the heart.
I am not used to so much emotion. Sure I’m a sarcastic ass but that’s more of a coping mechanism rather than a personality. A heart is not necessary to be an asshole after all.
The closest emotion I would guess to be something like joy was when I cried like a child when I escaped the Dark, beyond that it was an act.
The giggling face of a naked and scarred Cat-girl fending off the water I shook from my hair bounced into my mind.
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t all an act.
I hope she made it out with the others. I told Kern not to attack anyone in possession of my House Sigil but an angry Spirit of the Forest isn’t the only danger that stalks Enith’s Wilds.
That old man though looked strong enough though, level 70-something, so they should be fine.
A deep barking voice pulled me from my musings.
A green skinned orc in a leather apron and an empty mug in his hands was staring in my direction and trying to talk to me. I spared a cursory glace over his being with [True Sight].
Level 25-ish. Not bad, but not great for his age. He looks about 90 years old or so.
I catch the tail end of a twirling scar on his exposed tricep. A tribal tattoo? Perhaps this one knows his kind’s native tongue. It’s a long shot though, not too many Orcs outside of their native worlds know Orcish, and there is a chance the language had evolved beyond recognition like Common had. Fuck it, lets see what happens.
I’m rusty as hell though, haven’t spoken it proper since that meeting with the Great Tribes on Ferini.
“Jag är ledsen, jag talar inte det språket.” ( I'm sorry, I do not speak that language.)
The Orc’s thick eyebrows rose in surprise. Success, did I say it right?
He came from behind the counter and stood in front of me with his arms crossed and a puzzled tilt to his head.
“du låter som min farfar. Var kommer du ifrån?” (you speak like my grandfather. Where are you from?) He asked.
“Någonstans långt borta.” (Somewhere far away.) I answer. The bartender snorted and ran a thumb against one of the tusks protruding from his lower lip.
“Jag söker efter arbete, och jag hörde att det finns en närliggande fängelsehåla. kanske kan du peka mig i rätta riktningen?” (I am looking for work and I heard there is a dungeon nearby. perhaps you can point me in the right direction?) I asked.
The orc bartender looks me up and down. My desiccated, skeletal body and filthy synthetic rags don’t exactly inspire confidence. But I’m not looking to impress him, I just need a foot in a door- any door- to get started. I’d even settle for a pity handout, I was never exactly known for my pride or honor.
“Fängelsehålan kan vara för mycket för dig, men jag vet en grabb som söker efter hjälp på hans lantgård.” (The dungeon may be too much for you, but I do know a guy looking for help at his farm.) He said carefully.
“Det låter perfekt.” (That sounds perfect.) I reply with a weak grin. I figure it’s better to play the part of the desperate hobo for now.
The orc’s expression hardened into a serious frown.
“Jag ska varna dig ändå, Morikal ska inte ge några flygblad till snyltare. Du måste arbeta för din uppehälle..” (I'll warn you though, Morikal isn't going to be giving any handouts to freeloaders. You are going to have to work for your keep.) He explained.
“det ska inte vara ett problem.” (That won’t be a problem) I tell him. “Tacka dig för din vänlighet.” (Thank you for your kindness.)
Turns out the guy the bartender, who goes by Verde, recommended is a coal-skinned Orc. Morikal is an older orc about level 30 or so, a pretty high level for a farmer, though I suppose you would have to be to be to survive out here. He was also from the tribal worlds so he spoke Orcish fluently, though he did pick on me for speaking like one of their decrepit elders.
Sorry I talk like a senile old fart when I’m older than all of your elders combined you snaggle-toothed whippersnappers.
Morikal is a pot-bellied man with a human wife. Their kids are out of the house with one of them living in the village as a baker.
Halflings are not exactly common and many civilizations throughout the Castaway Isle actively discriminates against mixed couples. It makes sense that people like Morikal and his family would come out to a place like the Cursed Lands. No one is out here to hate you.
I know the feeling, I can relate.
Perhaps that was why Morikal and I get along so well? Grated his “room and board” was throwing me in the barn to share the feed with the other animals.
Guess we also share a sense of humor. Rotten kid.
For the first few weeks Morikal wanted me running around the quarter acre of farmland he had staked out. He needed it tilled and prepped for a crop called Chromista, an odd little plant used in potions as a reaction accelerant. It’s considered a [Rare] ingredient and picky on where it likes to grow.
I had experience growing similar plants on a much smaller scale so I at least had an idea on what was required. Morikal had been concerned that I would fuck it up and I did make a few mistakes in the beginning. To be fair though I didn’t touched horticulture since long before Morikal’s great, great ancestors were even a twinkle in their forefather’s eye but I managed to tighten up my techniques.
Morikal said he wanted the plot tilled and ready in two weeks. That would have been a tall order, if I were actually a starving hobo.
I’m actually a stubborn starving hobo without the need to sleep for days on end.
I took two weeks and did the job in less than 24 hours.
I never realized just how insane my Endurance had gotten. Under normal circumstances the Endurance stat allows one to push harder for longer, like being able to run for an extended period of time or swing an axe more.
For me its gotten to the point where I don’t feel the need to eat or sleep for days, weeks, or perhaps even longer. I had never had the need to push my body that far but being thrown in the Dark changed my stance on that quick.
There is a cost though. Here, let me show you.
[Extreme Starvation]
[All Stats Reduced by 95%] [Positive Experience Reduced by 95%] [Hallucinations] [Organ Failure: Liver (100%), Digestive System (97%), Lungs (95%), Heart (89%), Brain (83%)] [Extreme Muscle Degradation (94%)] [Immune System Failure (100%)]
See? Hot mess. The only thing keeping me alive were my ridiculous stats and my Main Class’s passive traits.
Morikal was struck dumb and gibbering when he came out to check my progress. I just smiled and waved.
Old guys rule.
He asked me how and I told him give a man a couple weeks and a barn to sleep in and he’ll turn into an animal, so plowing comes naturally.
That evening I got the guest room.
Morikal had agreed to pay me 2 silvers a month when I first showed up, that same day he slapped 4 silvers in my hand and with a sly grin on his tusked face asked me if I hand anything else up my armless sleeve.
I grinned back and asked him if he had a forge handy.
A few days later Morikal came back from the settlement with a willowy Planes Gnome in tow. The 3-foot humanoid had curly shoulder length blonde hair and wore a leather apron with tools stuffed in the pockets.
Morikal introduced the gnome as Leki, he was the town’s apothecary and unofficial housing officer. The gnome didn’t speak a lick of Orcish so our conversation was mediated by Morikal.
Leki asked me if I really was a metal-bender (Orcish slang for blacksmith). I told him I was, once upon a time. He was skeptical, after all I was a cripple with only one hand, but all I told him I needed was a hammer and an anvil. The rest I can make myself.
Turns out when the settlers first came here they did have a blacksmith but he was killed before they had even founded the town. Four years later all they had was his anvil.
I bought it from Leki at the heavily discounted price of 3 silver, I bought a cheap little hammer from Morikal for 5 Copper, leaving me with only 5 Copper to my name.
I spent the next few days seeking out rocks large enough to stack into a ramshackle mockery of a coal forge. I spent a day collecting materials for mortar and slag. Mud from a nearby creek close to the dungeon mostly to keep the stones together, though I did mix in pitch and other materials to keep my makeshift mortar together. Add water and presto, primitive mortar.
A had to wait for the forge’s stones to set into the mortar I slathered between them, then I set to work.
Doing this with only one hand though was an incredible pain. I could have used [Ethereal Talons] but I was still suffering from the [Extreme Starvation] debuff. My body was rejecting what little food I managed to choke down.
Honestly I was concerned I was going to die for a while there until the [Extreme Starvation] changed to [Severe Starvation] and my organs began to heal ever so slightly.
As soon as my Stats were released from 95% Reduced to 85% Reduced I locked down my power behind a [Soul Seal].
[Soul Seal] is a rare ability, mostly because it’s from the Soul Branch of Magic and its purpose is to make the user weaker, though after experimenting in the Dark I found another use. Who was stupid enough to intentionally make themselves weaker?
Me, that’s who. The weaker I appear the less attention I would bring upon myself and the easier I could move from place to place.
I was still weakened by my time in the Dark, the last thing I need are the Avalonions crashing back into my life and making it harder to rescue Erin.
She is why I am doing this, why I would go to such lengths as to bring myself to organ failure. I failed Erin all those years ago. I may have saved her life but ultimately it led her to a life worse than death at the clutches of Ethergen.
I plan to rectify that problem, one step at a time.
I set the first tool Morikal asked me to set back into shape on the anvil and I tested my grip on the hammer.
One step at a time I am getting closer to her.
One swing at a time.
I’m coming Erin. Hold on, I’m coming to bring you home.
One swing at a time.