by Wolfe Locke
Dungeon of the Old Gods
A Dark Dungeon Realm LitRPG
By Wolfe Locke
A Novel of Pandemonium
This book is dedicated to the few who’ve followed me since the beginning when I first launched Genesis Game almost a year and a half ago. Thanks for everything.
@2021Wolfe Locke
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Prologue: The Quest
* * *
A heavy cloud of anxiety had permanently descended over the establishment as soldiers, men of war, and world weary adventurers sat at their tables and quietly drank ale. The uncertainty within the kingdom had been weighing heavily on all of them as the early winds of the coming winter chilled the evening.
The door to the tavern opened with a crash, and all eyes centered on the newcomer. A Witch-Hunter, and the rumored killing hand of the Regent. All noise in the tavern ceased immediately. The presence of the black armored figure was an ill omen on top of already ill tidings and darker rumors.
The Witch-Hunter could hardly keep the ghost of a sneer off his face and didn’t bother to school his expression. To one such as him, there was no reason to treat those of lesser stations in life with anything resembling dignity or respect. He held a scroll in his hand with a wax seal that was the mark of the royal family and the Regent.
Once he was certain that all paid closer attention, the Witch-Hunter crossed the threshold and entered. Each heavy step of his armored boots causing the aged wooden floors to groan from strain. He stopped just in front of the quest board and turned around.
“Eyes on me.” The Witch Hunter shouted with a voice of absolute authority. “I, Johannes Eckert, on behalf of the Lord Regent issue a Call to Adventure. The Regent’s nephew and guards have gone missing while hounding in the woods north of Quincy. While I know your lot to be worthless, the Regent believes all boots on the ground are better than a few. As such, he has granted the following as an award. 1500 gold pieces and a title of nobility to anyone who finds the Regent’s heir safe and returns him. If the Regent’s heir has perished, 750 gold pieces for the return of the body.
Even in the presence of the Witch-Hunter, the greed of all those in attendance could not be restrained. 1500 gold pieces was the fortune of a lifetime, and any man who laid claim to such a prize could live a life of leisure forever more.
The Witch Hunter broke the seal on the scroll. A wave of energy spread out from the broken seal.
Kingdom of Arcanium
Call to Adventure
---------------------
Prince Marcus Lumiere has gone missing deep within the Northern Quincy woods. Of his guards and entourage no signs have been found, nor signs of a struggle.
The Regent Granz Lumiere has pledged 1500 gold pieces and the title of Lord to anyone who finds the Prince and returns him safely.
If the Prince has perished, the Regent has pledged 750 gold pieces for the return of the body.
When the Call to Adventure was recited, Johannes motioned for the bartender to bring him a hammer and nail which were readily supplied. None wanted to draw the ire of the powerful and volatile man.
Johannes walked out of the tavern, and as soon as the patrons were sure he was gone and not to return, all order broke loose as the patrons clamored and struggled to get closer and see the Call to Adventure themselves and confirm it was an active quest.
They all shared the same dark thought. The prince has to be dead and this is all an elaborate charade. For those who made their living on the point of a sword, none truly cared or gave it much thought. It wouldn’t be the first time somebody had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Most of them assumed they would be competing to find the body.
Chapter 1: The Bleeding Hog Tavern
* * *
As John Younger rounded a bend in the road, the faint light of a far-off inn was like a beacon of hope that lit up the darkness. He had just about been ready to count his losses, and spend the night licking his wounds under the sheltered canopy of a nearby tree and hope for the best. Assuming I could light a fire and not go into shock from exposure.
With renewed vigor at the sight of a possible hot meal and a warm bed, John spurred his bruised body forward, pushing his pain and fatigue to the back of his mind with little effort. His throat was parched and ready for a tankard of ale to wash away the harshness of the road. Hot food, hot drink, a warm bed and maybe some company.
He had just set out from the heart of the kingdom of Arcadia on the Regent’s quest for the lost prince when he had been set upon by a group of goblins. A fool’s errand, but all needed to show proof that they’d at least attempted it. It had been his first quest since returning from his last venture as a sell sword to take out a group of former men-at-arms who had turned rogue and gone the way of the highwaymen. I should have just stayed in the city an extra day and spent my hard earned coin on the joys and pleasures only the capital could offer.
John pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Goblins were a cowardly bunch, though fierce and dogged when they were sure they could win. Being that they were small, Goblins preferred to operate in numbers, and they were known to be relentless and erratic fighters when there was gold or riches on the line. Though for goblins, the taste of man flesh was sometimes reason enough.
In his case, the promise of man flesh must have been enough for them to see that John was traveling alone. Once they saw the fat pouch on his person rattling with gold and silver shillings, the goblins found all the motivation they needed. For the right price, even a goblin could buy whatever they desired.
In John, they had seen an easy mark and had set an ambush for him as he was walking through a particularly dense part of the forest. A spot where the path had become overgrown with grass, weeds, and brittle vines that easily concealed the goblins.
The only thing that had saved his life was the reflexes he had honed throughout his years of traveling and a lifetime of experience fighting with an ax. Though recently he'd made a breakthrough and had started using two of them.
John was a tall man with dark hair that ended just before his shoulders. He had the muscular, lithe build of a fighter while lacking the usual preference for swords. He cut an imposing figure, and any sane man would have hesitated before challenging him. The fact that he chose to travel alone, even in parts of the kingdom that were less savory than others, proved that he was confident in his abilities, though maybe not so much in his judgment.
Still, regardless of how proficient a fighter John was, there was always strength in numbers, and the goblins brought plenty. They came after John like an angry swarm. His frenzied way of fighting, of lashing out with quick rapid cuts and blows was all that he could do to keep them at bay. His superior reach had meant that they couldn’t get very close with their crude daggers and cudgels, but their sheer number made it hard for him to score a critical hit.
The goblins knew what they were doing. As a group, they’d survived far longer than most of their kin. After a time of using their speed and numbers to dart in and out of his guard. John started bleeding all over. All the minor wounds he’d sustained were enough to wear him down as he grew fatigued.
John’s movements were a flurry of attacks with the axes, attacks bearing the speed of desperation. He knew his time was growing short before the goblins would find a window to overwhelm him. The goblins were fast, John was faster and had the advantage of experience, the advantage would not last once he exhausted himself though.
He turned his
focus away from defending and deflecting, and refocused, going on the attack in a storm of blows. He was able to whittle down their numbers until only three remained. The remaining goblins recognized they had chosen the wrong target. Having the odds slip from their favor, the surviving goblins opted to flee so that they could live and find easier prey another day. John didn’t try to pursue them. That’s going to be somebody else’s problem. I can’t.
John forced himself to stay standing after the adrenaline started to wear off. He waited as long as he could, trying to make sure that they would not come back before he had collapsed in a heap, succumbing to his wounds and exhaustion. Sometime later, when he came to, the little bit of light he had from the moon was gone, and John gathered what little strength he had left to set off and try to find shelter for the rest of the night and a place to heal.
He had been walking for what felt like hours, but might have been far less, before the light over what John hoped was an inn or at least a place to rest came into view.
As John drew closer, he saw that the building was very shabby looking. The light that had drawn his attention emanated from a single rusted lantern hanging near the front door. Illuminated by that cone of light was a sign that proclaimed, “Bleeding Hog Tavern.”
Charming. John thought as he limped up to the door. In his present condition, he couldn’t afford to be picky. With a deep breath, he pushed his way through the wooden door and into the brightly lit tavern. The warmth from inside immediately washed over him.
It would have been too much to say that all conversation ceased as soon as he entered. Still, there was definitely a lull in the noise. More than a few curious sets of eyes turned his way, and more than a few of those glinted with a harshness John recognized as belonging to some of the traveling soldiers whom he was sure were heading towards one or another of the fronts. It was far less common these days to cross paths with another adventurer. Even in the Quincy woods where the prince had gone missing.
John was used to getting those kinds of looks. He had hoped that this far into the kingdom, any establishment he came across would house more reputable folk than the sort he had become accustomed to. But as he gazed around the dining area, John knew he’d have to keep hoping at the next stop. More curious looks turned in his direction.
There were many men and a few women present that had the air of someone wanting to be left alone. There were some who stared back at him as if sizing him up, wicked grins spread across their faces as they noticed John’s injuries. Always looking for the an easy mark, he mused. While still others ignored him entirely and sat back at the far reaches of the dining hall, shadowed in what darkness they could find.
As he made his way to the bar, John made it a point to brush aside his traveling cloak to reveal the gleaming sharp edges of the hand axes holstered at his side and the many notches on the handles that marked his kills. John hoped that it would be enough of a deterrent and that anyone thinking to try coming after him would think twice. His injuries coupled with his bedraggled appearance; John wasn’t sure if it worked.
As he approached the bar, he was greeted by a rather large man with a greyish complexion and the tips of tusks extending out of his mouth.
A half-orc. If the creature’s appearance hadn't given it away, the smell would have.
More and more of their kind had been popping up as the orc clans pillaged their way through villages throughout the kingdom. There had been many a child born from those conquests. The product of a marauding orc, drunk on blood, violence, and whatever peasant girl who had been unfortunate enough to get in their way.
Half-orcs were a defensive bunch, simultaneously trying to distance themselves from their barbaric sires and quick to embrace their primal sides in a fight. Even more so when the assumptions about their race invariably drew scorn and often outright hostility. John knew how to navigate half-orcs. So long as you respected them, they respected you.
John greeted the barkeep with a nod as he took a seat on one of the empty stools.
“What’ll it be? You’ve got the coin? You’ve got the look of a bard about you. Promises and fancy words aren’t accepted here as legal tender,” said the half-orc in a deep bass voice.
“Aye. I’ve got the coin, no bard here, I’m mercenary actually, though I do a little adventuring on the side. Just took up the Regent’s Quest. Give me a mug of ale and whatever hot food is left over from dinner, and a second mug to wash that down."
“That’ll be two silver, three bronze.” the barman said, unconvinced.
That was near twice the rate of most taverns, but John was hurt and tired. In a pinch was not the best of times to try to negotiate a fairer deal. He fished the coins from his pouch and slid them across the bar.
A few minutes later, John was presented with a mug of ale and a plate consisting of a couple of slices of grey looking meat, some potatoes, and some carrots. It was actually more than he had been hoping for. I just have to hope the meat is venison.
“The cost also covers one of the spare rooms upstairs.” the half-orc said. “You really look like you could use it. I won’t have you dying on my floor or out in the road in front of my tavern, it’s bad for business.”
After finishing his meal, John gave his thanks and made his way up to the spare room, taking the half-orc up on the offer. He normally kept one of his axes under his pillow within easy reach, but John had the feeling that tonight he should sleep with it on his chest and at the ready. The patrons that had been sizing him up when he entered the tavern were nowhere to be seen. Better safe than sorry.
Chapter 2: Into the Unknown
* * *
Upstairs the room consisted of a plain wooden table, a lantern, and a wooden bed frame with a straw mattress. John had stayed in better accommodations, but he wasn’t going to complain. He’d also had far worse in his travels. At the moment, he was just thankful he’d at least found a dry, mostly warm place to sleep. Sleeping on the hard ground would have meant a terrible night of sleep and a very sore morning thanks to being covered in cuts and minor wounds sustained at the hands of the goblin horde . The bed didn't even look like it had a bug problem. Count my blessings on that one.
John took a moment to arrange what few belongings he had on his person in such a way that he could make a hasty exit if needed. He settled down in bed with his hand on his ax; and fell almost instantly asleep. His respite didn’t last long.
He was awoken in the middle of the night by the sounds of movement and footsteps creaking across the floorboards. John instantly tried to bring his ax to bear, but his arms didn’t respond, almost as if he was under the effect of some manner of spell or potion. The weapon slid uselessly from his grasp and crashed to the floor with a loud thud. The room was dimly lit, but there was enough moonlight for John to see three figures standing there in his room. Their faces were shrouded by long black cloaks.
Panic started to rise up in John. He knew he shouldn’t be feeling the way he did. Yes, he had taken heavy damage from his encounter with the goblins, but it was nothing a little rest and food couldn’t handle. No, this is something different. It’s like a fog in my mind and a weight on my chest. There could be only one explanation. His food or drink had been tampered with, maybe both. John had thought that the unspoken rules of hospitality would prevent such a thing from happening, but he should have been more careful. Not everyone feared the wrath of the Hearth God.
Although hurt and likely drugged, John was still a fighter and reached deep within himself. He lashed out at his would-be attackers and heard the satisfying sound of his fist connecting with skin. The one John hit cried out, but that was as far as John got. The remaining two were able to wrestle him down while the third, now recovered, came at him, returning the blow that left John stunned.
The attacker’s hood had come down when John hit him. The face staring back at John was deranged. The man’s face was plastered with a menacing grin and sunken bloodshot eyes. His head was completely bald, though every spot of sk
in on his face and skull was covered with intricate white tattoos that John could not decipher. No, those aren’t tattoos. John realized. Those are scars. Who are these people? Is he an acolyte?
Lines of scar tissue covered the man’s exposed skin and John could see it continued downward as far as he could see until obstructed by the rest of the man’s cloak. John had no doubt that the scars continued down and covered the rest of his body. After all, cultists were an insane bunch. Who could understand their motives or reasoning for doing anything?
John had seen his fair share of strangeness and oddities since he had started traveling, but none of them surpassed the unsettling appearance and nature of the various cultists his travels had exposed him to. It never mattered which god or deity they worshipped. They all invariably had the same insane practices and the same self-mutilating tendencies.
As the cultist rushed toward him, John was expecting a punch or a stab, but instead, he was met with a rag over his face and an acrid smell. Reflexively he breathed in, and then John was falling, drifting, until there was nothing but darkness. The last thing he remembered before passing out was hearing, "Yeah, that's him alright."
**************************
John Younger woke for the second time that night. Though this time, it was with a splitting headache. To his dismay, he had indeed been forced to spend his night sleeping on the floor. He could feel the hard stone beneath his body.
