Right! Onward and away from this tedious, over-drawn, obscene haunted mansion storyline-homage that should have just fucking stayed in the writer’s journal as a rough draft! That whole thing lasted an entire ten-thousand-fucking-words! Like—who the fuck is going to read all this cliched, abysmal journey through well-trod paths that were already satirised enough by everyone and their proverbial mother? Whew. Fucking hell!
Like—excuse me as I rant further! But—I could have done a bit where I translate the characters’ dialogue to Mandarin and back to English and did that twice, which would, along with ravaging the fourth wall, would actually provide some unique, fresh entertainment to my over-exhausted reader, as the words of our heroes get jumbled around and lose all sense of context.
In fact, here it is:
“We need to reach the idol, fast,” said Flinar.
“What about Helnen?” Mr. Tall asked.
“She’s betrayed us,” Flinar growled. “We’re by ourselves now.”
“Oh, that bitch,” Mr. Tall said with clenched teeth. “If I ever get my hands on her…”
“There’s no time!” Flinar reminded. “Follow me!”
Huh! It seems that automatic translators have greatly improved in maintaining contextual cohesion! Well… so much for my little joke… But, hey! At least I got to sneak in some expository dialogue! Good thing we got that out of the way!
Right—uh! Onward! Watch as our brave heroes rush through ancient corridors of satisfactory dungeon design, following the blue marked corridors as exposited afore, and not the red marked ones, which apparently lead to a peril, undisclosed to preserve suspense and build anticipation! Let’s see if they’ll encounter the ambiguous hazard despite the clear warnings of their dispatcher!
Upon reaching a fork in the road, our heroes looked around and observed the path branch out to blue marked corridors as well as red marked ones. Within the corner of their eye, they saw a familiar figure: Helnen! She, having procrastinated upon planning her delightfully devilish scheme of arson and escape; had wandered blindly through the corridors without noticing their marks of warning. Our remaining, protocol-aware heroes, amidst their haste to reach the idol, decided to stop and confront Helnen the mischievous menace.
As they got closer, our heroes saw that the young-adult warlock was suspended in the air. Finding this a tad odd, they walked further towards the black mage to ascertain the nature of her predicament.
Helnen, as the muffled sounds of approaching footsteps reached her clogged ears, wished to turn backwards to face her oncoming visitors. All for naught! As the space she was suspended in did not allow easy movement!
“What the fuck happened here?” asked the sharp-eyed Mr. Tall.
“Look,” said the even sharper-eyed demi-elf Flinar. “She’s been engulfed… it’s a gelatinous cube.”
The Gelatinous Cube. This oozing creature of complete transparency, demonstrates keen, mindless, gelatinous urge to travel unhindered through corridors of particularly well-cleaned dungeons or other such establishments, scouring the area with predictable patterns of voyage. The gelatinous cube, owing to its transparent nature, often presents a perilous problem to dungeon-delving sightseers, as upon stepping through to its malleable flesh, they are instantly engulfed into its matter. The cube proves especially proficient in breaking down flesh and cellulose matter, slowly and painfully digesting its captive, though its digestive fluid has no effect on inorganic matter or bones. Such being the case, a particularly well-fed gelatinous cube could be spotted even against its transparent composition, as its victim’s bones and other belongings remained suspended in its space. This specimen was particularly undernourished, however, as its loving master Ratan al-Farouq was otherwise engaged in rather pressing matters. So much so that, the good master neglected to feed this omnivorous scavenger for weeks on end, even though he loves his pet (which he calls ‘my good girl’ despite it being an asexually reproducing unicellular organism) very dearly.
Helnen, being the dimwit that she is, had stepped eagerly through this creature’s flesh without any notice. How very cathartic!
As I invite my reader to relish in this instance of well-deserved schadenfreude (that’s another kind of fancy for ‘You get what you fucking deserve!’), I would also wish to suggest a moment of self-reflection as we watch the young woman’s case of intense distress. Asking ourselves, quite cordially, whether or not the stirring joy we feel upon the warlock’s tragic, Shakespearean endpoint, is itself a reflection of our disregard of anti-heroic characters and their quite genuine plight: the unignorable effects of community and environmental pressures on the development of young, impressionable women and men, and whether or not it itself could be blamed for the developmental outcome of such an anti-heroic character. Once more, inviting ourselves to view the world through the eyes of young people influenced by the malevolent sways of their role-models, I would wish genuinely for this moment to prompt a stunning revelation upon our own souls.
But alas…
After a brief array of looks of vengeful satisfaction offered to her by our heroes, the joyful Mr. Tall and Flinar, along with our Zez, elected to simply leave her there, ensuring that it would be the final scene of her devilish act. Helnen, abandoned by her ex-companions, would experience a slow, brutal demise as every cell of her body was broken down to feed the massive blob of gel. That was her clumsy end.
Skill issue.
Trailing once more the conveniently marked corridors, with tense suspense and rushing hearts, our heroes of let’s-just-get-all-this-over-with-and-fucking-leave, reached at last the vestibule guarding the MacGuffin.
The ancient vault standing undisturbed for who-knows-how-long, built once by the who-fucking-cares, pulsated with unmistakable I’ve-already-seen-this-scene-so-many-times energy. As the heroes neared this old-world, Abrahamic portal sealed with an aura of choking silence, the air turned heavy as prophecy. The vault’s door stood unyielding and vast as Leviathan, wrought in darkened metal weathered by ages unknown to mortal history (at least to its current millennium). Strange glyphs were carved in fierce, old-testamental angularity to cover its surface, their lines searing to the eye and hinting at covenants struck in realms beyond time. The ground trembled faintly, as if even the stone itself cowered in reverence.
However, that was actually due to a lost-to-time technique employed by the vault’s stonemasons, which I would take great pleasure in detailing the—
“There it is…” reflected Mr. Tall.
“Yes…” answered Flinar.
The one and two quarters men stood silently in reverence before the very presence of this grand Raiders of the Lost Ark vibe. Gazing with bated breath upon this sacred gate, each of them awaited the other to make the first move. For they all, except Zez, knew too well the imminent betrayal lying on the other side.
Well, actually… although Mr. Tall did know he was about to be betrayed and so was preparing himself to fight Flinar, the demi-elf himself had forgotten the password (perhaps from the fear he felt almost getting arse-fucked). The remorseless rogue awaited Mr. Tall to utter the password, before he killed him and took the idol himself. Flinar looked on with anticipation upon the face of his once-comrade, Mr. Jeffrey Tall.
“You…” said Mr. Tall. “You’re going to kill me when that door opens… aren’t you?”
Flinar answered with an even deeper, more menacing tone. “You’re perceptive for an old man.”
“I AM NOT FU—”
“People!” called Zez in rising exasperation. “What’s that all about? No one’s killing anyone! Come to your senses, please! Let’s just—”
“Oh, my foolish Zez,” Flinar spoke from his diaphragm. “Oh, how foolish you were…” he mused.
And then, turning as if he was about to make a grand reveal, the rogue of cunning trickery... smiled… With that added dark-age graphic novel menace, his sharp features exuded a powerful gravitas and from his sparking eyes could be inferred the terrible joy he felt in this moment of treachery.
Zez, misreading the room as always, asked with candid befuddlement, “Wha—”
“For, you see,” Flinar continued, his voice taken on a playfully wicked tremor. “You were all of you fooled. Huh… You thought I would ever embark on this mission with my true identity? Fools, all of you…”
“Mate…” Mr. Tall said, confused, “I didn’t really know who you were from the start, I mean—”
“Silence!”
Flinar’s shout echoed in the great stone chamber.
Taken aback, Mr. Tall said, “O—okay…”
“I have awaited this moment for so long that I will not tolerate any more of your unimpressed attitude,” said Flinar, who sounded a little more annoyed than usual, showing, perhaps for the first time, true, uncalculated emotion.
Fine, Flinar. Have your piece.
“All through our journey I waited and waited, as I went along with your incompetence and confusion, awaiting that moment where I would reveal to you your own stupidity… with full satisfaction of having deceived you… you ever pathetic, ever fools…”
Mr. Tall and Zez shared a glance among themselves.
“Now, the time has come…” said Flinar as he raised his hand, removing the mask that concealed him since the start… and lo and behold! It was Elmar all along!
For those of you who are confused, Elmar is Flinar’s identical twin brother.
Flinar—or Elmar rather… stood by to gaze upon the utterly confused Mr. Tall and Zez. Spreading his arms, in expectation rather than challenge, Fli—Elmar invited the shower of gasps he so desperately waited for.
It was Mr. Tall who broke the uneasy silence. “Mate…”
“You fool!” Flinar growled. “You didn’t notice I walked and talked like my brother—I mean… myself! Did you, now?”
“No—yeah, I… I didn’t, but like… you guys already look so—”
“Fool! I even used his—my own perfume! Ah, look how the inferior senses of mankind fail them once more! Fools!”
“You wear perfume?”
“Wha—you…” Flinar—no… Elmar clenched his teeth in anger. “Enough of this… prepare to meet your—” he gasped.
As blood trickled from the shiny steel sword skewering the demi-elf’s lung, a rush of air discharged from his gaping mouth. The life and air gushing out from his collapsed lungs, the blood soaked rogue fell into silence and below Mr. Tall’s eye level, revealing…
Vessa!
The weary shield-maiden, laden with mortal wounds, crouched atop the dying demi-elf, breathing heavily. Raising her glowing green eyes from the soon-to-be corpse, to meet Mr. Tall’s terrified gaze, she, between strained breathing, prepared herself to say a one-liner.
“Fucking piece of shit…”
Ah. A no-nonsense kinda gal through and through.
“Vessa!” exclaimed the uneasy Mr. Tall. “You—you uh… are alive!”
“Yeah…” Vessa rumbled with weary anger. “No thanks to you… fuckhead.”
“I—I’m—I’m so happy to see…” Mr. Tall stammered as the imposing, steel-clad figure moved closer. Mr. Tall, spreading his arms for a hug, was instead grabbed firmly by his collar.
“Fuck you,” Vessa said, before head-butting the minstrel.
“OW!” Mr. Tall yelped in anger. “You fucking—you broke my nose!”
“You’re right,” Vessa agreed. “Why stop there?”
The woman-at-arms crouched Mr. Tall’s arm under her armpit, violently twisting her body to break his fragile bones.
Cries of intense agony filled the chamber, followed by pitiful sobbing and muttering.
You get what you fucking deserve.
Vessa, raising her head to look around the chamber, lowered it once more to meet the eyes of Zez. “You…”
I don’t know what Zez thought or felt in that moment, but I don’t imagine it was anything good.
“How do we open the gate?” asked Vessa.
Zez, without saying a word, turned towards the gate, prying his lips to solemnly utter the password: “Agave.”
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Nothing happened.
Realising quickly that this was due to his voice being subdued by Mr. Tall’s loud crying and shouts of pain, decided to repeat the password, this time not so solemnly.
“Agave.”
Once more, Zez. Give it all you got this time!
Zez, inhaling a great lump of air, opened his mouth to let out a great big cry: “AGAVE!”
Vessa missed a single heartbeat when the booming voice echoed between the stone walls.
As the vault door’s mechanism began to click, another echo, this time like rolls of thunder, filled the chamber. What followed was a faint sigh, ancient as creation itself, exhaling from the widening crack of the door.
The vault groaned open, exuding a dark, sacrificial scent, as though the ages have kept it sealed in dread. A rush of air stirred, pregnant with the whispers of the countless dead. Glyphs illuminated in crimson radiance, casting a light that seemed shaped by the hands of seraphim and fallen kin alike, stark against the shadowed recesses within. Faint, deep rumbles stirred like slumbering leviathans beneath their feet, as though the very bones of this world recalled this ancient seal.
Stepping inside, Zez and Vessa (who picked up and dragged along Mr. Tall from his collar like the pussycat he was), entered a space yawning and cavernous. The ceiling seeming to stretch into divine obscurity, hung in shadows vast as the firmament above the waters of the deep. Massive pillars lined the room, carved with faces both wrathful and weeping, each etched line worn by the tides of unseen aeons, like they were wrought by hands that have long passed from mortal memory. The air itself was thick with a heat of judgement, as though it clung to them with the suffocating wrath of an old god.
What was also carved into the walls, was a warning, that warned thusly:
“Harken, ye who tread this hallowed earth
Let no hand lift in anger nor stain with blood the dust,
For these stones remember the rage of ages,
And wrath lies coiled beneath their silence.
Upon this ground, made holy by the forsaken,
The cry of blood draws forth the watchers of the deep.
Their eyes are shadows, their names lost to time,
But their judgement endures like fire on the altar.
To shed blood here is to rouse the voice of the first curses,
The whispers of death, older than dust,
Which lie as embers, waiting for the breath of sin.
So, walk soft, bear peace, and hold thy blade at rest,
For those who bleed upon this soil
Shall find no refuge, no respite from their fates;
Their pleas shall vanish into the hollow ground,
And they shall be numbered among the forgotten.”
Sadly, though, this lengthy piece of foreboding advice was etched upon the walls in a forgotten alphabet and seemed to our heroes more as part of the scenery and less like something they should probably fucking heed. Which, might I add, provides exciting dramatic irony for my reader. Let’s read on!
In the heart of the chamber stood the fabled idol as old as contemporary memory itself. Colossal and silent, glimmering a dark, consecrated lustre, as though hewn from the midnight of creation itself. The idol loomed, an image of foreboding majesty, radiating an aura older than the metaphorical mountains, its eyes set with jewels that burn like the eyes of the Watchers, fierce and unyielding as the first dawn. Shadows writhed around it as if drawn to its dread sanctity, curling like the breath of Sheol at its base. The very air seemed to warp, saturated with the spirit of this dark sanctum and heavy with curses unsung. A faint hum filled the space, like a heartbeat—not of flesh, but of stone, resonating with a holiness as ancient as the sword of Eden, yet as wrathful, as the plagues of Egypt.
Its hand extended in a frozen gesture, almost summoning or binding, carved with an ancient fury, silent but demanding of worship or sacrifice.
“There, it is…” breathed out Vessa.
“Cool!” affirmed Mr. Tall, his voice forked with so much pain. “Let’s—let’s fucking get it and go!”
“Not so fast,” Vessa said under her awe-stricken breath.
“Why?” Mr. Tall asked in despair. “You’ve already fucking—”
“Get up,” Vessa commanded as he pulled up and pushed back Mr. Tall. He, doing his broken best to find his balance, flute dangling by its neck-cord, his crossbow slinging by his belt, stood a few paces before Vessa.
“What now?” he asked.
“Play,” Vessa said.
Mr. Tall, after a moment’s uncertainty, grabbed his flute and placed his lips with exact embouchure—
“No,” Vessa sneered.
“What?” Mr. Tall asked, arms extended.
“Hmph…” A thin smile streaked across Vessa’s gorgeously cruel face. “Do you know Demeter Had a Little Piglet?”
Mr. Tall, did in fact know the popular nursery rhyme song, Demeter Had a Little Piglet. He even had practiced adapting the piece into his jazzy style and used it for sight-reading exercises with frequent modulations. As a studier of high-fantasy jazz music, he showed a tendency to keep turning it into a complex improvisational piece by adding syncopated rhythms, unusual chords and fast tempo changes, which, naturally, made mistakes more likely as the structure deviated from the simple melody.
“Play it,” Vessa commanded. “And… a single mistake you make… will be your very last…”
Oh…
Mr. Tall, placing his hands and lips upon his flute, with broken arm and nose, began playing Demeter Had a Little Piglet. Sounding out the chords with his veteran warhorse of an instrument, he played the piece that would make or break his entire career. Such exhilarating, anxious rush he felt! However, that alone would not push him to any mistake, as the incentive against it was simply too great. Now was his moment to shine as a musician. For once in his life, he played for something truly meaningful. All throughout his fraudulent career, this charlatan had pulled others into believing he was saving their lives with his music… and now, for the first time, his music would truly save a life. His own.
Within minutes playing the entirety of the piece, Mr. Jeffrey Tall, the Devil’s Wind, felt the entirety of his soul converge into a single thread, flowing out from his flute. He… did… not… make… a single mistake.
But, realising the cruelty of the game Vessa had begun, Mr. Tall found no relief.
“Again,” demanded Vessa.
Taking a single breath, Mr. Tall started from the top.
“Faster!”
Breathing roughly through his broken nose, straining every single crumb of energy left in his broken arm, Mr. Tall painfully burst out his lungs.
“Faster! Play harder!” Vessa shouted in fury.
With blood-shot, crimson eyes, his chest rising deeply, a single tear creeped down Mr. Tall’s cheek.
“Faster! Keep at it!”
Mr. Tall, kept at it.
“Good cat!”
The musician, realising the inevitable end of his vigour, fast running out of breath, with tortuous pain, learned that this would be his death.
Vessa grinned wider, ears raised, with green eyes of vicious brutality.
While he kept playing, Mr. Tall, who had decided to try his hand in changing fate itself, prepared himself. At the climax of his performance, he suddenly dropped his right arm to his waist, grasping the hilt of his crossbow, praying for—
A plain hilt wrapped in leather cords was sticking out from the musician’s pierced skull.
With Vessa’s wicked game concluded, so too did the musical career of the Butcher of Bluefallon.
The minstrel’s lifeless body wavered, suspended for a breath, before his knees buckled as if the strings holding him aloft had been severed. His limbs folded and crumpled, his head lolling with a final, pitiful sway, a marionette discarded mid-performance. He toppled to the ground in a tangled sprawl, as lifeless as a puppet abandoned by its master. His lively, animated performance, along with his illustrious life, had collapsed upon the sacred ground in a heap of total limpness.
I would take great pleasure in describing the rest of the late Mr. Jeffrey Tall’s untimely death… but as rigor mortis would probably take another two hours to set in, we have no choice but to be satisfied with this current visualisation.
And also… we have rather more pressing concerns…
As the virtuoso’s pierced eye wept blood, the crimson ooze trickled down upon the consecrated ground. The vault’s inner chamber came alive as the covenant of the ageless sages… was broken. Deep, earthen rumbling groaned as the chamber’s walls trembled… The metalwork and mechanical gears snapped with painful sounds, as the stone walls smothered and crushed them. The chamber convulsed. The walls buckled and twisted, clawing inward with a violent hunger, each stone writhing toward the other as if driven by an ancient, furious need. They bent beams and cracked stone, drawing in tighter, each thunderous crush pulsing through the shrinking air like a heartbeat gone mad. Everything trembled and warped, sucked into a ravenous, collapsing void.
The very ribcage of Tathor Vexis was shattering… with Vessa and Zez in his lungs.
“Grab the idol!” Vessa shouted.
Zez, looking around, and deciding that arguing wasn’t the best choice, quickly leapt and grabbed the idol of Tathor Vexis. Cradling the heavy stone with his tiny arms, he shouted, “Run!”
And, boy, did they run.
Amidst falling rubble and around collapsing pillars, the mortally wounded Vessa and the short legged Zez sprinted with all they had.
The vault’s granite gate was closing, ready to desert them in forgotten history, or crush them like a stone guillotine.
Vessa reached the gate first. Seeing Zez’s small, scrambling steps not far behind, she did what no one else would have dared.
She wedged her shield and bare hand between the narrowing slabs, her body trembling under the crushing force. Every sinew strained, every muscle burning as she held the gate back, inch by inch, with her bones creaking like timbers. Still, the stone pressed forward, undeterred, slowly squeezing her in its unrelenting grip. Yet the warrior of fate stood firm, a pillar of cyclopean strength and Jesuit will, buying just enough time.
Zez slid forward, clutching the idol tightly, a small, fleeting figure darting beneath Vessa’s towering frame. The ground quaked, stone groaned, and then—blessed silence, punctuated only by their laboured breaths and the fading rumble from within. They had made it.
They had fucking made it.
Following a long pause emphasied with Zez’s heavy breathing and Vessa’s restrained cries, the Forlorn Two finally stood up.
“Fo—follow me…” Vessa said, teeth clenched, eyes reflecting agony.
Nodding in agreement, Zez followed Vessa forward and upward, out and away from this forsaken hole.
Vessa, who had chanced upon the dungeon’s exit prior, led her companion through halls of stone to narrow caverns and finally, to a makeshift wooden door. Between its boards, rays of sunlight shone through.
Opening the door and stepping outside, away from the dust and musk of the Tomb of Elder Horror, they once more met their eyes with the world… the real world…
Ahead, behind hills lined with fiery autumn trees, a streak of red light rose. The sun…
The two heroes, who surmounted any and all odds, laid their backs against a green hill, watching the sun rise on the green sky.
Vessa, taking deep, painful breaths, knew then that this would be her final sunrise.
Zez, still cradling the idol, thought with weary eyes long and hard, of what he should say… Then he sighed. “I’d never seen a green sky before…”
Vessa, grinning from pain and breathing out shards, looked ponderously upon Zez. “How?” she asked in disbelief.
Zez, nodding peacefully, said: “The sky is blue where I come from.”
Vessa, with a mute “Huh…”, tried to imagine what a blue sky would look like. Soaking in this moment of... finality… she decided against silence.
“Where did you come from, anyway?” asked Vessa.
Zez, who had shown great desire in the past to answer any and all questions with crushing, relentless monologuing, did not say anything…
Vessa, facing the rising sun once more, spoke under her breath: “At least I die staring into the sky… like I…” she sighed, “…promised him…”
Zez turned quietly to Vessa. “Who?” he asked with genuine curiosity.
“My father…” answered Vessa. “He was an adventurer in his own right but… he wanted his little girl to lead a life above… above all this…”
Zez sighed. “Whoever he was…” he said, “…you made him proud.”
Vessa huffed, bemused. Turning her head towards Zez and placing her green eyes on the idol of Tathor Vexis, she sighed. “All this… for that…”
Zez bent her head down and looked at the idol.
Vessa, with a face of wryness, asked: “What are you going to do with it, anyway?”
Zez, who kept staring into the idol’s gem-laden eyes, realised…
What would he do with it, anyway?
Zez lifted his cheeks, stretching his short legs. Bending down to place the idol next to Vessa, he said, “You have it.”
Vessa, chuckling in disbelief, watched as the tiny man strolled down the hills, through the trees and beyond the horizon. As the finality of her vigour reached her, she felt such intense joy and relief. Now, in this very final moment… she knew… truly knew… the meaning of the word ‘peace.’
…
And that was Chapter 3.5: Being A Haphazard Continuation for The Value of Devaluing.
I want to thank our sponsors the Seashore Sorcerers and LifeTree for making this notorious epic possible. Tune in next time to read the rest of our Zez’s misadventures, as we trace him in his journeys throughout the world (and possibly the multiverse! Who knows?) chapter by chapter, as he plunders, flees, swindles, outwits, and generally blunders his way through more realms than even I can keep track of!! Tell your friends, your family, your colleagues, your neighbours, your teachers or students, your bus drivers and that one guy who keeps proselytising loudly to your ear at six in the morning on the tube… I have been your loyal narrator, and this has been Zez By Misadventure. Stay safe down there!
Cast & Crew
Sound Design: Mr. Jeffrey Tall
Art Direction: Helnen
Costume Design: The Department of Robing and Ceremonial Outfits, The Department of Armouring and Gearing
Catering: The Real Minotaurs
Security: Caius Sablehart
Special Effects: The Arcane Fabric of the Universe
Lighting: The Sun, Helnen
Dialogue Coach: Mr. Jeffrey Tall
Animal Wrangling: The Werecrow Matriarch
Historical Consultant: Ratan al-Farouq, The Chronicon Cabal
Script Supervisor: Master Horace
Casting: The Department of Spelunking and Adventuring
Location Scout: Gideon Grimvalor
Stunt Coordinator: Flinar/Elmar
Fight Choreography: Vessa
Prop Design: The Department of Furnishing and Accessorising, The Long Gone Citizens of the Tomb of Elder Horror, Lord Frauncis Dashweld
Soundtrack: Mr. Jeffrey Tall
Post-Production: The Chronicon Cabal
Underwater Sound Design: The Merfolk Mariners
Location Filming: The Tomb of Elder Horror
Script Writing: The Gods of Storytelling
Narration: The Narrator
Some animals were harmed during the production of Zez By Misadventure.
Special thanks to Horpos.