Legendary Dungeon Seed

by Marc Robert

  “What. Do. You. WANT?!” Osman spat out each of the four words while gesturing menacingly with his blade so as to dissuade the fire-demon from doing anything stupid.

  “Osssssssmaaaaaaannnnn … Spaaaaaaaaaaaaaar …” the creature intoned, eerily drawing out the young man’s name, like Death himself beckoning from the far shore of The River Of The Dead. (Osman wondered at the back of his mind if this was his own morbid association, or if the game had fed it to him. Probably it was the game, although the more he played Other Earth the less he was able to tell the two apart, to be honest.)

  Either way he gulped, more than a little afraid. He tried to recall what his mentor, Sir Karras, had advised him to do in such situations, when dealing with risen infernals: never break eye contact, stand fast … don’t lose your shit! That last one always used to make Osman crack up laughing during his training sessions down in The Pentacle Dungeon at The White Keep — back when he first started playing The Paladin’s Path module — but he could completely see the sober wisdom of it now.

  He cleared his throat and tried to focus. “Demon!” he shouted, attempting to invoke an incantation called {The Authority Of The Order}: “Return now, unto The Infernal Lands, where you dost belong!”

  The fire-demon glared up at the sky as if expecting a bolt of lightning to cut through the gloom and strike it down where it stood, or a kraaa-kooooom! of thunder that would split open the earth at its feet, to swallow it whole but …

  … nothing …

  Nothing happened!

  It peered back down at the paladin and cocked its ugly head.

  Oh no! Osman thought.

  {SPELL FAILED!!!} popped up in a fat, blood-red font a few feet in front of his face. The words flashed there three times, then shattered into a thousand pixelated fragments, dissolving into thin air. He was a Level 10 paladin now, so there had been a 50% chance that that incantation would work. It had been worth a shot …

  Smelling the stench of failed magic on the air, the creature’s lips parted and it smiled … a small, sly smile at first. Osman could see the smile through the teeth-slats of its death’s head mask. But then that sly smile broke into a fanged little grin that stretched across the lower half of the Thing’s face.

  Osman’s eyes widened …

  He braced himself for a whole new level of attack!

  But …

  … but none came …

  Instead, the fire-demon reached up and unbuckled its mask, letting it clatter to the ground.

  Osman stared in amazement at the Thing’s true face … “No waaaaaaay!!!” he whispered. It was not an It after all, nor even a demon … but a gorgeous, young dark elf maiden not much older than himself.

  Soul Stats

  It was not just any dark elf maiden standing there before Osman Spar, but the very same sorceress-assassin whom he had encountered in The Esk’lyn Wood just a few hours ago, just before he had gone off to kill that goblin shaman.

  Which was strange!

  Admittedly, her body looked … different now, but it was her.

  It was MOST DEFINITELY her.

  She had that same fanged little grin and fierce eyes. Her pupils were like those of a house cat … or a dragon: two vertical black slits in amber-colored irises. As for the hardened magma of the “flesh” that armored her from head to toe (except her face, of course, now that she had taken off her death’s head mask), it was as if the dark elf had skinned a fire-demon alive and was wearing its still-living skin right down to the burning embers of its hair.

  “Are you … ? Is that … ?! Is that … demon armor?!” Osman asked.

  “Yesssssssss …” the dark elf said, her sonorous voice evoking the opening hook of the young man’s favorite song, the first sip of a good German beer, and the feeling of a sloppy wet BJ all at once.

  Oh nooooo …

  The mesmerizing black slits of her eyes locked onto Osman’s own eyes and she held him transfixed in her gaze, as she had done when they had met in The Wood, slowly nodding her head up and down. He knew that she was casting some kind of charm spell on him, something that would link their minds in an empathic way, but yet — even in knowing it — he could not resist. She … sheeeee … well, she just … she seemed so, sooooo sad: so totally grief-stricken and alone in this world.

  Osman knew EXACTLY how she felt.

  He was lonely too.

  Kendall had friend-zoned him about a year ago and — to be honest — it was super-frustrating! Sure, she told him tons of personal stuff about herself, and what she liked, and what she wanted, and asked him loads of questions about “guy things” and what guys did (and how they did it). But that actually made it even worse. Far worse …

  Not that Osman didn’t want to talk with Kendall about those things — he did, he did: oh god, he did! — but ugh!!! It was driving him crazy seeing her week in and week out when they met up to play Other Earth sitting there with her legs spread wide open on the shabby old couch in her dad’s basement, wearing only a pair of tiny pink soccer shorts and a tight sports bra that accentuated her breasts.

  Kendall always dressed like that when Osman was around. It was as if she had no idea what kind of effect her body even had on him!

  And, probably, she didn’t.

  Not really, anyway …

  Although Osman knew that she was super-self-conscious about her cleavage, at least around other guys. So she did at least have some awareness about that part of her body’s effect on people. Which is why he always tried as hard as he could to keep his eyes trained on her lips whenever she started talking up a storm about Chad Stenson or Tyler Shaw or Dylan Beukes from school and what they had said, or had done, or might do together.

  However, just listening to her talk about other guys threatened to set off some kind of berserker-rage in Osman, to say nothing of the thought of her actually hanging out and “doing things” with those guys. THAT got his ire up something fierce!

  So yeah, he could definitely understand the depths of the dark elf’s woe. She had been friend-zoned too, cast aside by her lord and master for other — “better” — thralls. Or so she said. Her lord and master was an immensely powerful and experienced dungeon core, nested somewhere deep in the bowels of The Stel’arc Mountains, who barely had time for the likes of her. It was a tragic story and one that tugged at Osman’s heartstrings like nothing had ever tugged at them before.

  “I’m so sorry …” he felt compelled to say.

  “All is forgiven, Osman Spar,” the dark elf replied soothingly: “Now lower your rune-sword.”

  Osman stared dumbly at the glowing blade in his hand as if he had completely forgotten that he even had it. But then he whispered a spell-word and the runes ceased to glow. The dark elf grinned as the young man sheathed the weapon and smiled up at her like some kind of love-sick puppy.

  Lava still oozed from the wound he had given her, though the sight of it made Osman feel incredibly ashamed now. How could he have done something so horrible to someone as breathtaking and as benevolent as she?!

  “What … what can I do to … to make it right?” he asked. He was certain he was going to melt under her gaze if he didn’t do something — anything — anything at all! — to obtain her forgiveness. His aggression toward her had been heinous, more than heinous: barbarous, brutal. He felt a black hole of regret beginning to gnaw at his soul for having perpetrated it.

  “There is one thing … ” the dark elf mused: “You are a Paladin Of The Order Of The Morning Star. With your power, you could … HEAL ME.”

  “Paladin-Apprentice,” Osman felt compelled to correct her, for who knows how many times Sir Karras had drilled into him: “Don’t get ahead of yourself, my boy. Patience … patience is the key.”

  But it was this little mistake on her part — this tiny error with regard to his rank — that disrupted the intensity of the foul enchantment that the dark elf was weaving upon him. This verbal chink in her spell allowed Osman to seize back a small part of his mind and realize tha
t, in fact, he was being foully enchanted!

  What irony that the thing he hated the most — his miserably low rank — might inadvertently help him get out of this whole mess alive.

  ” … Apprentice … ” the dark elf corrected herself: “Yet still, there is ample magic in you. A great wealth of maaanaaaaaaa …” The way she moaned that last word, all lustful and craving — just like how zombies used to say “braaaaainsssss … ” in those old horror movies — only confirmed for Osman that something truly sinister was afoot.

  What was it that Sir Karras had always warned him against: “Don’t trust an infernal, for It mixes truth with lies. Don’t tell It anything personal of yourself. And, above all, don’t — DO NOT — ever, EVER let It get a hold of your true name!”

  That’s it!

  The dark elf had his name.

  She had had it from the very beginning.

  That had to be it!

  “Spaaaaaaaaaaaaaar … ” the young man heard the low hiss of her voice swirling around inside his head.

  Yes, that WAS it: the root of the enchantment itself!

  But what could he do?

  How could he combat her vile spell?!

  Even now, Osman could feel his tiny oasis of clarity slipping away, replaced by sweaty little thoughts of this gorgeous dark elf stripping off her damaged demon armor and revealing her massive, volcanic breasts to him. They were coated in what looked to be a thin layer of cooled black magma, her nipples painfully erect under this organic magma-lingerie.

  The image of lava spurting from twin volcanoes flashed in Osman’s mind then and a dopey little grin overtook his otherwise concentrated expression.

  This charm-spell fantasy continued to play out in his addled brain, making him believe that the dark elf was now kneeling at his feet, staring longingly up into his eyes. She reached up to undo the belt around his waist with her warm hands: “Heal me … ” she whispered, her voice all playful and teasing.

  Osman was, without a doubt, wholly back under her foul enchantment again, totally entranced by these lusty thoughts that she was conjuring in his mind. He began unbuttoning the stiff collar of his robes like a puppet on strings, barely aware of what he was doing.

  The dark elf watched his fingers fumble over the buttons, oh so delighted to see the paladin beginning to undress himself. Soon … soon she could feed …

  However, as Osman loosened his collar, the silver chain and pendant that he wore flashed into view. It was quite a simple item: a tiny five-pointed star forged and blessed in the divine fires of The White Keep.

  The dark elf hissed when she caught sight of the pendant, the slits of her pupils dilating impossibly wide, as if she herself just realized what she had actually been doing all this time!!! As if she had been under some sort of foul spell too, driven wholly by her insatiable mana addiction. She blushed and looked away, embarrassed, her charm negated.

  Everything was suddenly clear in Osman’s head.

  He knew EXACTLY what was going on!

  The dark elf had been using her fell sorcery upon him, pretending to be empathetic to his plight with Kendall … and more: much, MUCH more. If it hadn’t been for his silver pendant, she would have continued to try and convince him just how much the two of them actually had in common. Then she would have gone on to blurt out something like: “You’re making me so, sooooo wet — so absolutely sopping wet!!!” She’d have pointed out how strong he was, and how much she wanted to stroke his big, looooong … rune-sword. Then she would have started to take off all her clothes, panties first … er, well, in this case: demon armor first!

  That was her M.O.

  She was just trying to get inside Osman’s mind, deep inside: to seduce him, so that she could devour his mana with the minimum amount of resistance, like she had done before, when they had met in The Wood.

  But he wouldn’t let that happen again. No matter how much he was starting to want her. No matter how hard she tried (or how rock-hard she succeeded in making him). If he gave into her charms, he could kiss all the progress that he had just made in the game goodbye.

  So instead, he focused inward — opening his mind’s eye — and brought up his Soul Stats:

  Name: Osman Spar

  Race: Human

  Mana: 15 / 100 (MP)

  Health: 42 / 100 (HP)

  Class: Paladin

  Level: 10

  Rank: Apprentice

  Alignment: Lawful

  Primary Skill: Swordsmanship

  (1) Short Sword

  (2) Rune-Sword

  (3)

  Secondary Skill: Divine Incantations

  (1) The Blessing Of Protection (cost to use: 10 MP)

  (2) The Authority Of The Order (cost to use: 20 MP)

  (3)

  Innate Abilities:

  (1) Nimble

  (2) Crafty

  Items:

  Paladin’s Robes (white); Pantaloons (white); Boots (black; 1 pair)

  Satchel (bear-skin)

  Belt & Scabbard (leather)

  Rune-Sword (“Light-Bringer”)

  Silver Chain & Pendant (“Ward Of The Five-Pointed Star”)

  Spell-Scroll (“Exorcismus Gnostica”; cost to use: all the caster’s MP except 1 point)

  Rations (3); Waterskin (1); Tinderbox (1)

  Severed Goblin Head (1)

  Mana Core (1)

  As Osman viewed his stats, the dark elf stood paused before him.

  She was gorgeous; there was no doubt about that. The demon armor obscured her beauty of course, but he had just seen her nearly naked in The Wood, so he knew how gorgeous she really was and enjoyed knowing it, despite all that had happened between them.

  What had she called herself?

  … Rania.

  Rania Ahmen’sur.

  Dark elves were one of the infernal races like goblins, kobolds, mimics, dragons, and dungeon cores or any of the other so-called “monsters” that inhabited Other Earth. They were to be hunted, banished, exorcised … NOT co-mingled with. Or so his mentor, Sir Karras, told him — like a thousand-thousand times!!!

  Completing the quest that Sir Karras had sent him on felt like a distant memory now, even though Osman had just finished it less than an hour ago. That’s why his MP and HP were so damn low. (And also why he had that stinking goblin’s head still in his inventory!) Everything in Other Earth had a soul-cost, and that quest in particular had ground Osman down, both body and soul.

  For instance, in order to cast a spell, the young man was required to expend his mana; essentially, give a piece of his soul in exchange for the ability to perform the magic. Being a relatively low-level paladin, Osman only had two incantations to his name: {The Blessing Of Protection}, which cost 10 Mana Points to cast and {The Authority Of The Order}, which cost 20. Completing the quest had required him to cast both, multiple times.

  Plus, Osman had just attempted to use {The Authority Of The Order} on the fire-demon as well (when he thought it was just a fire-demon!), to banish it back to The Infernal Lands. And — even though the spell had failed — it had still cost him the 20 MP.

  Those were the rules! In Other Earth you truly fought with your soul … and for it.

  But that’s exactly what Osman loved so much about the game. And, apparently, millions of other players around the world loved that element too, whether consciously or unconsciously. It was an aspect of real-world-life that seemed to have gotten lost somehow by the time humanity had reached the early 21st century, drowned out by all the white noise. But here, in this quasi-medieval fantasy world, souls were front and center.

  And, to Osman, that felt right.

  Sometimes, he even felt more at home in Other Earth than he did in his own skin back on actual Earth. And, judging by the billions upon billions of dollars in profit that Simulah Corp. raked in off of its full-dive VR-MMORPGs, Osman was not alone in feeling that, not at all, not by a long shot.

  So when his drunkard of a mentor had dispatched him to hunt down and sla
y a goblin shaman who had been poaching children’s souls on the outskirts of the great city of Esk, he was eager to accept. The good people of Esk tithed to The White Keep in exchange for divine protection against such creatures, so The Order was obliged to send an emissary “To suss out this goblin scum and vanquish him forthwith.” Those were Sir Karras’ words. “A perfect little mission for a Novice,” his mentor proclaimed, no doubt in his cups, “to put some hair on yer balls and get you some fecking experience.”

  And he had been right …

  It had worked just like he said it would. Well, more or less like he said it would … Osman had slain that goblin shaman, gaining several levels while doing it, and even achieving the rank of Apprentice in the end. But the nature of the quest — all the obscene things that he had to do with the various monster girls whom he had encountered in The Wood in order to best his infernal quarry — he could not blot those lewd acts from his mind.