by James Hunter
Roark cringed as PwnrBwner’s carelessly swung torch nearly touched the gossamer supports of the bridge and started the fire early. Their plan would be useless if he burned the Jungles down with all of them inside before they even drew Isara’s attention.
“Well, what do we have here?” PwnrBwner asked theatrically. He stepped out onto the funneled web. “This looks flammable AF.”
A roar like the sudden approach of a tornado swelled to fill the jungle, and as one, the horde of Nocturnuses flooded toward their Overweaver’s web, desperate to stop the threat. Weapons appeared in numerous hands, beautiful silvery arrows flew, resonant throat-singing filled the air, and spells shot toward PwnrBwner. Every eye in Nocturnus territory was focused on him.
“Now,” Roark said.
Under the cover of the attack, he, Kaz, Zyra, and Ick grabbed the emptied blued steel flasks PwnrBwner had refilled with his new Ranger Wilderness Survival skill. The Icy Hot Draught had been replaced with a tarry black liquid, which they liberally splashed across the jungle floor, the bases of the trees, and the anchor points for the bridges. The sharp scent of the liquid filled the air and made Roark’s sinuses prickle and burn. Breathing through his mouth didn’t help much. It felt like his tongue was coated with pine tar.
As they worked, they drew closer and closer to the base of the enormous funneled web separating them from the Underworld Cairns. Roark made it to the Overweb first, a step ahead of Ick. Roark drew back his flask to drench the flammable webbing, but a shadow passed overhead, and the din of battle stopped without warning.
“Welcome home, Ichabod,” a musical feminine voice crooned.
Beside Roark, the Witchdoctor dropped his flask, mandibles hanging open in shock. Roark craned his neck to follow Ick’s gaze upward.
In the funnel overhead perched a massive half-woman, half-spider. Her chitinous humanoid body glinted in the dim light, a massive red hourglass painting her from chest to hips. Eight long, graceful arachnoid legs gripped the web as she climbed silently closer.
[Isara the Spinner]
“My Lady.” Ick fell to one knee and bowed his head, acting on some deep-seated instinct.
Isara’s mandibles clicked, and her emerald eyes sparkled with malicious glee.
“Honorable and courteous to the end,” she purred fondly, before turning to Roark. “Ick’s is a scent I will never forget. You, on the other strand... I can smell that your scent does not match your face. But neither do you reek of humanity.” She shook her head and tsked. “The weight is all wrong, as well—you must weigh sixty stone. And that one there”—she gestured toward Kaz—“is nearly double that. You are mobs, even as I am. Remove your disguises or I will have my Conquistadors kill your hero friend where he stands.”
As she spoke, one of her long, thin legs gestured toward a group of Nocturnuses marching down the web, PwnrBwner stretched between them like a hog, trussed and ready for slaughter.
“Get your sticky fucking spider-hands off me,” the Ranger-Cleric snapped, struggling fruitlessly against his many captors.
“Griefer,” Zyra muttered from behind.
Roark glanced over his shoulder to find that a swarm of Nocturnuses had surrounded them. Kaz and Zyra were backed up against him, their weapons drawn, in spite of being massively outnumbered. If it came to a fight, it would only be a matter of time before they were all sent for respawn.
“Take them off,” Roark commanded his friends, removing his own quicksilver mask as he spoke. The four spidery limbs shrank and retreated into his back, replaced by leathery wings. The mandibles closed and melted into his cheeks and jawbones once more, and his horns pushed through his skull. He turned his glare back to Isara. “I am Roark the Griefer, Dungeon Lord of the Cruel Citadel and leader of the Troll Nation.”
“Ah.” Her mandibles clicked with approval, and she ghosted closer on silent razor-tipped legs. “So this is the great Roark the Griefer the heroes and Dungeon Lords cannot stop talking about. You and your Troll Marketplace have made quite the vibration in the web of natural order.”
“You’re welcome to join us,” Roark said promptly, clasping his hands calmly behind his back. A ruler with the situation well in hand. “All you have to do is sign the compact agreeing to follow our laws, and the benefits of the Troll Nation are yours.”
“No, Dungeon Lord,” Isara said, crossing human arms over her chest. “I do not bow my head to any creature. I am supreme and sovereign here, and when I want more, I will take it. Such is the Way of the Conquest.”
A grating, scratching sound flowed through the gathered Nocturnuses. It took Roark a moment to realize that they were applauding their Overweaver’s words.
Isara spun out a line of barely there thread, letting herself down from the web until she hung face-to-face with Roark. She canted her head slightly, studying him with her many eyes.
“The offer remains, Overweaver,” Roark said, nodding. “But I warn you now, if you stand against us, we won’t hesitate to attack as if you were no more than a hero who blundered into our territory.”
“Perhaps I should extend the same warning to you, Dungeon Lord,” she purred. Isara caressed Roark’s cheek with a chitinous hand. The cold, prickling sensation of her flesh against his sent goosebumps tingling down the back of Roark’s neck, but he stifled the shudder and stood as if he hadn’t even noticed her touch. “After all, you are the ones found in my territory, sneaking through my kingdom like rogues into a treasury. Quite a risk. So my question becomes, what reward could be so great to face my wrath? Just what is it you seek?”
A curl of inky smoke rose to Isara’s right, and Zyra appeared with her Cursed Longknives at the Nocturnus’s throat.
“Your head, if you touch him again,” the Reaver growled.
“Zyra,” Roark warned.
“Listen to your Dungeon Lord, little insect,” Isara said. “A discussion between your betters is no place for you.”
Deep in the shadows of her hood, Roark caught a glint of tooth bared in a snarl, but Zyra removed the knives and backed down. She crouched and disappeared in a curl of smoke. A moment later, Roark felt her behind his back. Hopefully she wouldn’t plant one of those longknives in his kidney.
Isara chuckled, dark and insectile. “A loyal defender, that one. Does she remind you of a certain Witchdoctor, Ichabod?”
“Only one blinded by his youth and infatuation, my lady,” Ick said, head still bowed. “Though I believe she sees clearer with her two eyes than he did with eight.”
A scowl passed over Isara’s features at Ick’s words, before quickly being smoothed back into a serene expression of control.
“Enough of the games, Isara,” Roark said, infusing his voice with all the authority he could muster. “We’re only interested in passing through your kingdom because it lies between us and the Underworld Cairns. Our business is with Aczol the Eternal.”
“Aczol?” She set a chitinous hand on the curve of her hip. “What do you want with that dried-up old lizard?”
Roark stretched a cool smile across his face, hoping it was convincing.
“I’m afraid that’s between him and myself,” he said, drawing his Slender Rapier. “Just know that we mean no trouble for you or yours, Overweaver Isara. If you will forgive our intrusion and return our hero, we’ll be on our way.”
She considered this for a moment, one thin, segmented leg reaching out to tap her chin.
“Very well,” she conceded finally. “I’ll allow you safe passage, Dungeon Lord. But I must have tribute for the intrusion. If you leave the hero and the traitor Ichabod behind as a payment, then the rest of your party may pass unmolested by my kin.”
“You seem to be under the mistaken assumption that this is a negotiation,” Roark said. “It isn’t. I’m telling you that we will pass through here, each of my friends with me. The only choice you have in the matter is whether to let us go in peace or perish in agony.”
“Bold words from a Troll both outnumbered and surrounded.” Her eme
rald eyes glittered with amusement. “Not to mention the significant level gap between us. I think you are all talk, Dungeon Lord.”
“I imagine that is what both Azibek the Cruel and Bad_Karma thought before I killed them. Thing is, I didn’t get this far by bluffing,” Roark said, pulling out another torch. Thanks to the unfathomable magick of Hearthworld, it had remained lit even while confined to his Inventory. “If you can smell that we’re not Nocturnuses, then you can surely smell the pitch we’ve drenched your jungle with.”
Fangs bared, the Overweaver moved back up her strand and perched on the funnel of the web once more.
“You would not dare!” she hissed. “Trolls are as flammable as we are!”
“You’re badly mistaken there, I’m afraid. We are not immune to flame, but we’re certainly not affected by it to the degree you and your kin are. What little trouble fire gives us, a little insect has solved,” Roark said, glancing over his shoulder at Zyra. Her hood cocked a fraction of an inch, questioning. The draught had been for the Dragon, but a desperate situation like this called for desperate measures. He turned to the web. “PwnrBwner, Pitch!”
Reacting as beautifully as if they’d planned the attack, PwnrBwner threw out one hand and triggered his new Wilderness Survival skill, spraying Isara down with black pitch. She screeched in fury. Before she could give the order to kill, Roark chucked the torch at her.
Flames exploded in a whumph, setting the Overweaver and her seat of power alight. The Nocturnuses restraining PwnrBwner shrieked, running to her aid, but the fire was spreading too quickly. The conflagration took to the web as if stoked by an enormous invisible bellows, and soon the pitch-soaked trees and earth were burning as well.
“Move your asses!” PwnrBwner yelled, dropping to the dirt beside Roark. He grabbed one of Ick’s arms and dragged him to his feet. “Let’s go, losers!”
Zyra and Kaz ran after the Ranger-Cleric and Witchdoctor, heading for the entrance to the Underworld Cairn.
Roark, however, stopped midstride.
Burning like tinder, the Overweaver roared toward his party. Each arachnoid limb wielded a Nine-Ringed Broadsword—all raised and ready to strike down Roark’s teammates, even as they broke for the escape route. He knew immediately what she was thinking. It would have been the same thought on his mind, even through the pain. Isara wouldn’t die without taking as many of them with her as possible.
“What is Roark doing?” Kaz asked, bewildered. He’d stopped just yards from the safety of the entrance to the Underworld Cairns.
“Keep going, Kaz, I’ll catch up!” Roark shouted.
His feet moved before he made up his mind, abruptly changing course as he sprinted toward Isara, arms and legs pumping like mad. In moments, he was inside her guard, Kaiken Dagger and Slender Rapier in hand, meeting her multitude of swords strike for strike. The few that got through cut slices from his filigreed Health vial, but the roaring furnace of her skin hardly touched him. Beside it, a thin bar of icy blue-green was steadily falling. The representation of the Icy Hot Draught protection. Thanks to it, instead of burning alive, he felt the heat like the kiss of a distant sun. Warm, almost pleasant.
“Dungeon Lord,” Ick cried, “we are through! Break free and join us!”
PwnrBwner’s voice joined his, “Come on, jerkwad, don’t forget why we’re here. Forget that bitch and let’s go!”
But their shouts barely registered in Roark’s mind. His focus had zeroed in on Isara’s dropping Health. Less than a quarter remained—mercilessly ravaged by the licking tongues of flame—and sudden clarity bloomed in his mind. She was a mighty foe, perhaps not as mighty as Aczol, but the core he could harvest from her would be priceless. It was foolish to act when escape was possible. But then, he hadn’t made it this far by playing it safe. Sometimes a little gamble was a necessary endeavor.
Acting on gut instinct, he threw himself into a series of Off-hand Combos and powerful dalla spalla attacks, forcing the burning Overweaver steadily back and away from his friends. She shrieked and tried to chop him down like a tree, but he weathered the blows, eyes locked unwaveringly on her Health.
She was far more powerful than him, true, but the fire had already done the bulk of the heavy lifting.
Gritting his teeth, he angled right, into more licking flames, firmly placing himself between her and his fleeing teammates. Her legion of spidery eyes flared wide as she realized just what he was doing.
“No!” she shrieked, throwing her weight against him. “Ichabod belongs to me! I will not be denied.” Moving with preternatural grace, she feinted right. Roark took the bait, trying to match her speed, but fell directly into her ploy. He caught a ringed broadsword to the right shoulder for his trouble. The razor-sharp blade sliced through armor and flesh with pitiful ease, lodging in the bone and sapping away a sizeable chunk of his Health while simultaneously sending a wave of pain through his body and robbing him of the ability to properly hold his sword.
With a roar he danced away, stowing his rapier and swapping his offhand dagger for his Initiate’s Spell Book. And not a moment too soon—
Isara opened her mandibles and spewed a hail of acid-green webbing toward his face. With a thought he cast a simple level 2 deflection spell, conjuring a barrier of flickering mystic light that rebuffed the incoming attack.
She used the momentary lull in battle to press her assault, fighting to get to Ick and the others before they could make it into the relative safety of the Cairn—the end of her realm and the beginning of another. Roark quick cast a level 3 Sucking Mud spell, desperately trying to slow her skittering charge, but she glided across the yawning mud pit as though it didn’t exist. In hindsight, trying to restrict a Nocturnus with a movement-restricting cantrip probably wasn’t the wisest ploy. But he had other, more physical means at his disposal.
He narrowly dodged a pair of arcing broadsword slashes, staying just out of reach of the gleaming blades, and cast a level 6 Wall of Earthen Spears spell. It was a newer invention, one built around a prior spell he’d used to great effect during his first run-in with Lowen while in Hearthworld.
[Conjured (6) earthen spears to form a sharpened palisade wall, eight feet high. Spears last for 45 seconds!]
The ground rumbled and shook as wrist-thick shafts of stone erupted upward, their sharpened points glinting in the wash of firelight. Although the spell was primarily a defensive one, meant to stop enemies cold for a time or isolate a single player from the rest of their group for easier griefing, here it played an offensive roll. Isara—perched on her spindly legs—was monstrously tall and she was moving at Roark like an enraged bull desperate to gore an offending toreador. She screeched, desperately trying to stop her momentum, but the moment was gone, and she was far too late for that.
She careened into the stakes with a sickening crunch, ropy yellow gore drooping down as the flames continued to chew their way through her chitinous exterior. Unfortunately, Roark’s Fire and Ice Resistance was nearly gone, with only seconds left before he would be vulnerable to the cursed heat and fire. He needed to finish this fast.
Thankfully his wounds had recovered, so he stowed the book, withdrew his rapier once more, and set upon her, hacking and slashing with no skill or grace. He didn’t need it anyway, not with her pinned in place by the earthen spears. Within a matter of moments, he had cut her down to the barest sliver of red. It flashed out a critical warning, then disappeared. With an ear-piercing scream, she spasmed, legs curling inward as she transformed into a smoldering corpse.
At the same time, the last of Roark’s Fire and Ice Resistance bar disappeared. Every nerve in his body screeched with agony at once as flames crawled across his flesh. His hair melted to his scalp and his skin sizzled and cracked, but he pushed forward, digging into the gory heap of Isara’s charred body, spitted upon his spikes. In the corner of his eye, the Health in his filigreed vial plummeted.
He ignored it and the fiery agony to continue desperately sifting through Isara’s remains. The b
it he was looking for had to be there somewhere. It had to be.
There!
A glistening, venomous green stone. With a grin, he grabbed it and turned toward the entrance to the Underworld Cairn.
Roark’s Health vial flashed, and he stumbled to his knees. He tried crawling, but his arms wouldn’t support him. He couldn’t even breathe deeply enough to curse. It felt as if his lungs had been melted together. Bloody hells. After all that effort, he was still going to die. Black started to invade at the corners of his vision, his lungs laboring for any scrap of air they could get. He reached out a shaky hand, sinking his black talons into the ground, fighting to pull himself forward even an inch.
It was no good.
He blinked and took another hitching breath, sure it would be his last before respawn. But then something sharp and cruel chomped down into his shoulder—not hard enough to do any damage, but sharply enough to rouse him.
A pair of scaly lips were wrapped around his shoulder.
Mac!
Bloody, glorious, faithful Mac!
The Adolescent Elemental Turtle Dragon waddled through the flames with ease, protected by his thick scales, elemental resistances, and, of course, his nearly impenetrable shell. Roark couldn’t tell whether it was the lack of oxygen finally getting to him or some sort of visual magick, but Mac’s tail seemed to flicker through the flames like a castle standard in a stiff wind, the electric blue scales glinting with brilliant red and orange light. Carefully, the canny beast dragged him through the flames and into a rocky tunnel that deposited them both into the Underworld Cairns.
Royal Failure
“WHEN I PUT YOU IN CHARGE of the offensive against the Cruel Citadel, I expected results,” Lowen said, his voice cold in spite of the firestorm raging in his mind. He turned the rune stone over and over in his hand, worrying it furiously. “You’ve had days to bring me von Graf’s bloody corpse and the World Stone, and yet...” He spread his arms wide to indicate everything Viago had accomplished. “Nothing.”
