With a satchel strapped over his shoulder, and a pen and a pad of paper in his hand, Gulliver had approached the clansmen laboring on the surface.
The first clansman he saw was an orc mason, Tegump, who was working under the wasteland sun. As was the laborers’ habit, Tegump had started work in the early hours of the morning, taking advantage of the cooler temperature before the sun rose to full strength. This meant he was almost finished for the day, and that he was both tired and irritated. Which isn’t that unusual, for an orc.
So, feeling hot and tired and grumpy because he was working overtime for the fifth day in a row, Tegump wasn’t ecstatic to be hailed by a strange, pale man wearing clothes that belonged in a duke’s ballroom.
“My good orc,” said Gulliver, flashing a smile. “A’Santa Cym.”
His use of the orcish greeting, which few people knew and even fewer would ever use, disarmed the laborer a little.
“Hmph. You aren’t from around here, are you?”
“What? Did my clean face, free from dust and ravages of the sun, give it away? Or was it because my skin has the suppleness of a forest fairy bathing in ambrosia?”
“It was your poncy clothes.”
“All the fashion in Tutenborg, let me tell you. You look thirsty, my good orc. Your skin is like the desert around us; cracked, mistreated by the sun.”
“Ain’t my time for rations yet,” grunted Tegump.
Gulliver covered his mouth in an exaggerated gesture. “What? They ration water around here? The elixir of Xynnar, plentiful in places, treasured in others yet free to all who wander under Xynnar’s watchful sky? What’s next? Charge a copper coin to take a breath?”
“Cut the fancy words, scribe.”
Gulliver gave him a kind smile. “Wait a second.”
He took a book from his satchel. It was thick and bound with some kind of animal hide, and the pages made a pronounced rustling when he turned them. He next produced a peacock feather quill, and began writing in the book, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his lips as he wrote.
Finally, he presented the book to Tegump. “Feast your peepers on this.” Then he considered something. “Unless you need me to read it for you?”
Tegump snatched the book. “I wasn’t born in this arse end of nowhere. I got’s an education.”
The orc read the book, using his index finger to guide his eyes over each word. He read aloud. “The fine specimen of orc, suddenly felt amazingly refreshed, as if he had just sipped the clearest water from the finest spring in the land.”
He looked at the scribe quizzically. “I don’t underst…”
And then, a smile crept across his face. His skin, cracked from working in the sun, became soft and supple. His eyes sparkled with life.
“I feel like…”
“Like you just had the best drink in your miserable life,” said Gulliver, nodding. “Better?”
“Thank you, scribe.”
Gulliver waved his hand. “Pah, it was nothing. Though if repayment is on your mind, directions to a tavern and some easy-to-please wenches wouldn’t go amiss. Extremely easy to please, mind you; I had a long journey here, and I’m not at my best.”
“None a’ that round here,” said Tegump.
“Are you sure?”
“You won’t find what you want in these folks. An’ I ain’t got time to waste gabbing here with you.”
Gulliver took back his book and scribbled another line in it. “Are you sure about that, esteemed orc mason? Read, if you please.”
The orc read what Gulliver had written. “The orc wore a shirt of the finest silk, with frilly sleeves that were sure to be the envy of all those around him. He looked grand and proud, like an orc plucked from the gutters and turned into a lord.”
With barely a blink of an eye, Tegump’s stained laborer shirt transformed into a ridiculous garment that wouldn’t have look out of place in the king’s court. Silky and puffy and frilly, with colors brighter than the wasteland sun.
A group of fellow laborers, two orcs and a gemloid, walked past. One of them nudged the other, and they laughed at Tegump.
“Hmph,” said Tegump, pinching the fabric of his new shirt. “What in all hells is this?”
Gulliver wiped sweat from his brow. “Not your style? I can furnish you with other, almost as fashionable ones, my good orc. But not now; my essence is quite low.”
“Can I have my old shirt back?” asked Tegump, aware of the laborers mocking him.
Gulliver scratched his goatee beard. “I’m…uh…afraid not. Bestowing you with such refinement, such classy garb, means your old tat is lost in the process. You aren’t as pleased as I had expected. Did I offend?”
“I look like a duke’s bloody jester, all dolled up like this.”
Gulliver looked genuinely saddened. “I was merely trying to give you a kindness, my man.”
“Well, I thank you. I s’pose a kindness misplaced is still a kindness. Are you lost, my lord?” he said. “Don’t get many travelers here, much less a scribe.”
“We’re all lost, are we not? You, working with your proud orc flesh burning under the unrelenting sun. Me, Gulliver the master scribe, burning callouses into my once-dainty feet as I traverse our grand land of Xynnar searching for the stories that bear it life. We’re all but ants, lost upon this vast plane we call life, searching endlessly for…”
“I mean, are you geographically displaced?”
“May I have your name, sweet orc of the wasteland?”
The orc wiped sweat from his brow and spat on the ground. “Tegump.”
“Te-gump. The sounds follow each other like children chasing butterflies, or like dew drops falling from a chestnut tree. Te-gump. If you are happy to help me, Tegump, I am looking for three things; a glass of ale to blast the dust from my throat; a strumpet with soft skin who isn’t shy about showing it; and an introduction to your dungeon core, as I have it on good authority that one dwells here. But first; I should make a mark.”
Gulliver scribbled in his book once again, before snapping it shut.
“What did you write?” asked Tegump.
Gulliver opened it back to the page he had scrawled on, and Tegump read the words aloud.
“Proud Tegump toils on the wasteland, drenched in sweat, every bead of which represents his dedication and sacrifice for his family. Tegump works so that one day, his children may not have to toil so hard. A good, honest orc with a big heart.”
“Every person deserves their stories to be marked for all time,” said Gulliver. “Not just kings and dukes. It is my scribalistic code; not every word written in legend must be about those born into riches. You shouldn’t have to be born as a lord’s son or own a dozen castles to be worthy of being remembered. My own father worked as a miller, and my mother scraped coppers together by catching fish in the stream. Every man, woman, orc deserves to be remembered. Good to meet you, Tegump. Now, could you show me to the dungeon core, please?”
That was how I, Beno the dungeon core, met Gulliver – Gull to his friends – the master scribe.
Tegump the orc, who was one of the few Wrotuns clansman who didn’t fear my dungeon, led him into my lair. They entered my core room, the scribe walking ahead with pronounced strides, running his fingers over the walls. Tegump shuffled in behind him.
“You have a visitor, Core Beno,” Tegump said. “His name’s Gullyon or Gollyog or something stupid. He’s a tricky bugger, make no mistake. A nice fella, though.”
The scribe spun on his heels, index finger raised. “It’s Gulliver,” he said, but Tegump was already gone.
I studied the scribe. He looked like the wayward son of a lord or duke. You know, the third-child kind who will never be duke themselves, and so have all the money of their family to play with but with no responsibilities holding them back.
He stared at me for ten seconds. This doesn’t sound like long, but when two strangers look into each other’ eyes in complete silence, time stretches on.
I saw something in his gaze then. His eyes were completely black like most nacturn people, but all the same I sensed something in them. A kind of piercing depth, the kind that is only earned though seeing many things, both those you enjoy, and those you wish you had never laid eyes on.
“Core Beno,” he said. “I am Gulliver, master scribe, and a decent fella according to esteemed orc laborers. I am one who wields words like a soldier swings a sword. A man who constructs sentences like an architect raising a cathedral. A gentleman who…”
“You’re a scribe, I get it. What do you want, Gulliver?”
“The question is what do you want, core?”
“A beer would be nice. One of the things about being a core; you don’t get to drink yourself legless. I don’t have a mouth, a liver, nor legs to render useless.”
“You would like to get drunk, hmm? Perhaps I can help.”
The scribe wrote something in a book, and passed it to me.
I read it. His handwriting was infuriatingly fancy; lots of curves and big, sweeping lines. Why do people write like this? It just makes things harder to read.
Nevertheless, I deciphered it.
Core Beno suddenly felt as drunk as a skunk who had fallen into a barrel of whiskey and had to drink his way out.
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Is this a short story, or something?”
Gulliver stared at me with growing concern. “You don’t feel drunk?”
“Why would I?”
He tapped his chin. “So cores aren’t susceptible to essence state changes. Hmm,” he muttered.
“Ah,” I said. “Now I understand. You’re not just a scribe, are you? You’re one of those tricky scribe buggers who can wield essence with their words. It won’t work on me, son, you can count on that. I’m a core; my whole existence is bound with imbibing essence and wielding it. Your words are useless against me.”
“Against you? I would never put them in your path. Instead, I propose that my words will work for you.”
“How?”
“I am told that a dungeon thrives on the heroes that it hosts. Cores and heroes go hand in hand like rats and the pox, no?”
“A lovely metaphor. Go on…”
“Allow me to stay here and observe your work, my gentleman gem. Let my eyes witness your magnificent slaughter of do-gooders and loot hunters. I will record your legendary fights for posterity, and use these writings to spread word far and wide. Your reputation now is like a piece of torn tarpaulin billowing in the wind aboard a poor fisherman’s raft. But once my words reach the right eyes, it will be like a galleon’s sail, magnificent and grand and…still billowing in the wind, I grant you…but much improved.”
“You’re telling me that if I let you hang around and watch me work, you’ll spread word about my dungeon?”
“Spread word?” he said, laughing. “Certainly. In the same way you would describe a genius artist of just spreading paint on a canvas. My creative constructions are much more grand. And not just that, my glorious glowing gem. I know a fella, a lovely gnome called Inky Mick, who has a printing press. Whatever gold my tales of your dungeon bring me, I will give you a share of. I assume there are things even a core needs to buy?”
I thought about it. I wouldn’t be the first dungeon core to use the services of a scribe. After all, back in the academy library we had books filled with the accounts of long-destroyed cores, many of which served as lessons in what not to do when building a dungeon. If those cores had been destroyed, then how did we know their stories? Simple - scribes.
And yes, my dungeon reputation was important to me. To get more powerful I needed to level up, and the best way to do that was to kill heroes.
My problem was that this wasteland was so far away from civilization, that I was struggling to attract heroes to my dungeon. I simply couldn’t offer enough loot to make their trip worthwhile, and as such, looting parties were rare.
But if I had a scribe artificially inflating my dungeon’s renown…
Gulliver was right about something else. There are indeed things even a core needs to buy.
“We might be able to agree something. But you don’t look like a warscribe,” I said. “Won’t this be too dangerous for you?”
Gulliver pinched his frilly shirt. “Why, because I have style?”
“Hanging around in a dungeon during a hero raid is a dangerous business.”
“See how pale my skin is, Core Benodict?”
“Don’t ever call me that.”
“Beno, then. My skin isn’t this white through a maid’s powder. I am a nocturn, and as such can blend into the shadows with ease.”
“And you can wield essence, too.”
He shrugged. “Many scribes can do so.”
“Let’s say I was fighting heroes, and ran out of essence and needed a scribe to write a few lines in his fancy little book? You know, to give me an advantage?”
Gulliver gave an expression of greatly-exaggerated disgust. “What? What foul request is this? What do you take me for, some kind of ruffian with no integrity? Some backstreet scribe with no ethics?”
“Ethics?”
“I am an esteemed member of the scribes guild, master core. As such, I am bound by a pact of scribalistic neutrality. When observing a conflict of any kind, I cannot intervene. I am to remain neutral; not for one side nor the other. I simply record the facts…but with my own unique style.”
That was a pity. My own essence manipulation abilities were greater than Gulliver’s, no doubt, but it would have been useful if he could use his skills for me.
Even so, Gulliver could be valuable to me in spreading my dungeon’s reputation. As well as that, I had to admit that it would be nice to have him around. He had an easy manner to him, and I even sensed a kind of friendly sincerity, if I ignored his stupid way of speaking.
It’d be pleasant to have someone around who I could talk to. Someone who wasn’t a dungeon creature, who I hadn’t created and thus wouldn’t have to be subservient to me. That was the problem with the monsters I fashioned for my dungeon; they couldn’t disobey me, to a point, and as such were yes-men.
In other words, I wanted to be able to converse with a free-thinking person. It wouldn’t be so bad to have a friend around here would it? Call me a sentimental old core, but I sometimes thought it would be nice to have a pal.
“What’s in this for you?” I asked. “I can’t fill your purse, and I promise you, you’ll find no hot baths or supple maids down here. Unless you’re fond of kobolds wearing dresses.”
“My esteemed core, I have been a scribe in the royal courts where I learned that kings and queens whisper, worry, belch, and fart just like the rest of us. I was a warscribe during the Tettenioan campaign, where I watched General Julio play with his men like they were a child’s wooden figurines. I chronicled the grand elves while they built their treetop palaces in the ever-auburn forest. But for all my experiences, I have never had the honor of watching a dungeon core work.”
“You’re telling me you’re in this for the experience?” I asked.
“For a scribe, experiences are like gems in a king’s crown. Coins in a beggar’s hat. Beautiful maids in a gentleman’s club window…”
“What about your satchel?” I said.
“This thing? The finest West Bambou leather, taken from the hide of free-roaming cows who are treated like royalty, as this adds to the refinement of their skin. Or, a very close copy, at any rate. I don’t participate in the slaughter of non-aggressive beings, where I can help it.”
“Let’s see what’s inside.”
“Like that, is it?”
“My dungeon, my rules. Do you think I’ll let just anyone hang around? It doesn’t matter how useful you might be, if I can’t trust you.”
“If it suits you, fine, I’ll lay my life bare before your very eyes.”
Gulliver careful removed everything from his gentleman’s bag, placing each item on the floor. Soon, I saw two carefully folded shirts, a f
ishbone comb, several differently sized quills, five jars of squid ink, and six books bearing Gulliver’s name on the covers. There was nothing dangerous, nothing suspicious.
“You travel light.”
“I have been on the road since I was still weaned on my mother’s teat,” said Gulliver. “And I know enough about Xynnar and the people who walk its pastures that I leave anything valuable in a secure place that I can return to.”
“Okay,” I said. “A final point, then. You’re a scribe who can use essence with his words. I take it you can write and seal a mana-contract?”
“Can a bear climb a tree?”
“I don’t know, can it?”
“Of course it can, and of course I can write an unbreakable contract. What would you have it read?”
“That while you are in my dungeon or on the wasteland surface, you can’t act in a way as to cause harm – intentional or otherwise – to me, my creatures, my dungeon, or the clans living above. As well as that, you cannot spread writings of anything I would class as secret, or anything I wouldn’t want others to know. In fact, I want to read everything you scribble. Finally, you cannot publish anything about my dungeon building strategy or my battle tactics until ten years after the fact, unless I approve it.”
Gulliver sighed in mock disdain. “The imbalance, the injustice! Oh, such a suspicious mind you have. Intentional or not, I ask you? You might as well ask me to catch the moon in a fishing net. If I was to trip on a rock in your rather untidy dungeon, and as such found myself falling into a wall which in turn caused stones to dislodge and perhaps resulted in a cave-in, what am I to do? The mana contract would impose penalties on me through a sheer slap on the arse from mischance.”
“Fine. Make it so you can’t intentionally harm me, then.”
“A fine precaution, in that case! But I promise you; you’ll love me before the sun goes to sleep. Satisfied now, my gentleman gem? Or should I strip to my skin and prove I don’t have a crossbow wedged betwixt my arse cheeks?”
“You’re not telling me everything,” I said.
Truth was, I didn’t know if he was telling me everything, or if he wasn’t. But a trick I’d learned is that if you say to someone you’re not telling me everything, secrets may come spilling out.
Dungeon Core Academy: Books 1-7 (A LitRPG Series) Page 35
