by Marc Robert
He was torn …
… truly, truly torn …
Which left only the third option.
Osman ran the tip of his finger over the word {Lecher} and the accompanying pictogram popped up:
A tall, gaunt, thin man with bright, saucer-like eyes wearing a black hooded cloak not unlike the cloak that Osman was already equipped with. The picture of the man had arrows indicating those eyes, his hands, and crotch.
The arrow pointing to his eyes read: “Mesmeric Peepers (AKA ‘Gollum Eyes’)”
The one indicating his hands: “Tentacle-Like Fingers”
And the arrow aimed at his crotch: “The Real Iron Rod Of Power”
Osman almost laughed out loud at that last bit, at how lewd it was. Although, some dark part of him liked the idea of playing a tentacled “lecher type” who ruled his dungeon kingdom with a perverse sense of pleasure and made slick, glistening, octopoid love like an unstoppable siege engine. The monster girls and fair maidens would flock to him then, in droves, with that kind of sex reputation. And he, in turn, would promptly enthrall them all with his bright and shining Gollum Eyes, to examine every fair inch of their nude bodies, before invading their every hole with his squiddy fingers.
’Twouldn’t be a bad life, Osman thought, as far as lives — or after-lives — go.
However, he probably really shouldn’t play as a {Lecher}, even though IT WAS JUST A GAME! and could be tons of fun to approach it that way.
Hmm … hmm …
He thought again about the jolly {Glutton}.
THAT could be tons of fun, too!
Although, it most likely wouldn’t end well for him, nor for his dungeon kingdom. It would absolutely gut Osman to see all his work collapse around him after spending however long building it all up.
No …
… no, no …
He couldn’t handle that! That would surely kill him. (If he wasn’t dead already, that is … )
So he looked again at the “Matt Damon” option.
{Brawler}
Maybe he should just go with that?
It WAS a pretty cool choice, after all — not as risqué as {Lecher} nor as sweetly doomed as {Glutton} — but good enough to get the job done.
Osman nodded to himself, the decision made. He reached out and tapped {Brawler} with the tip of his finger and, in that instant, his whole world began to warp and change …
He roared, not quite in agony — more like a primal scream — his relatively average-sized body literally Hulking out! His spine extended an inch or two, making him taller, stouter, more formidable while — at the same time — his biceps, pecs, and quads all rippled and expanded under his (thankfully loose-fitting) clothes, these sets of muscles all suddenly engorged, two to three times bigger than they had been before. Even the shape of his jawline was altered, to grant him that coveted Matt Damon smile.
Osman stared down at himself, mouth agape. Careful what you wish for, indeed! he thought.
Then he looked up from his new body and stared across the cavernous room at that mystery figure and the scantily-clad woman curled on the floor at the figure’s feet.
“WHO are you?!” the dungeon lord roared, “And WHAT are you doing in my labyrinth?!”
¡ Scrambled !
“ANSWER ME!!!” the dungeon lord growled, sounding very much like a deranged version of Batman: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN HERE?!”
The hooded figure raised its hands up to its chest and opened its palms, as if in peace or surrender, and said: “We came here to help you, buddy. This little cum-slut,” the figure pointed at the woman on the floor, “she wanted to abduct you and take you back to her lord and master or somethin’. I just saved your ass!”
Oh shit!
It suddenly dawned on Osman who the woman actually was.
How had he not realized it before?!
Even though her current mask was forged of iron, and that death’s head one had been made of bone, her body type was the same — feral, athletic, with huge breasts and smooth, ashen skin. It was Rania Ahmen’sur!
Osman was overjoyed! He had thought that he might never see her again after everything that had happened.
“Help me …” the dark elf called weakly from where she lay.
The hooded figure looked down at her and looked like it was about to stomp her face with the heel of its hobnail boot for calling out like that, but then it glanced back at Osman to see what the dungeon lord might do if that occurred.
Osman re-equipped his iron rod and shook his head: No!
“Fair enough, fair enough …” the figure acquiesced, opening its palms again in that ‘hey, peace man; alls good’ gesture.
“I asked: WHO ARE YOU?!” the dungeon lord roared.
Plex barked loudly then, underscoring his master’s question.
Osman had almost forgotten that the little corgi was even there and glanced down at him. Then he shielded his mouth with his hand and whispered in a totally calm and normal voice to the dog: “I wouldn’t have eaten your soul earlier, you know.”
“I … I know that,” Plex mumbled sheepishly, “but … but it was PRETTY SCARY for a second there!”
“I know. I was scared too, boy.”
“Well, at least you got the {Soul Suck} spell.”
“I’m not so sure if that’s a good thing … or a bad one.”
“It’s good,” the corgi said, “Trust me: it’s a good thing, if you want to survive.”
“And what about this hooded asshat here?”
Plex tilted his head: “I don’t know. This particular scenario has never, ever occurred before.”
“Never?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe that’s a positive sign?”
“Maybe,” the dog replied. “Good choice with {Brawler}, by the way. I really love the Bourne films, and that one where he gets trapped on Mars.”
Osman did a double take: “You like to watch movies?!”
“Sure. It gets lonely in null-space.”
“Hey!” the hooded figure called out, “Hey, I’m STILL here!!! And I’m gonna eviscerate this little skank-ho, if you don’t give me what I want.”
Osman grinned to himself and looked back at the hooded figure. His little stratagem had worked! By ignoring the asshat for a moment, he got the asshat to divulge a bit more about what he, she, or it was actually doing down here.
“And what is it — exactly — that you want?” the dungeon lord asked.
“YOUR CORE!” the figure shrieked unexpectedly and equipped an oak staff that looked eerily similar to the staff that Osman had been offered when he ate the second red cap: a finely polished length of wood that was half-a-head taller than its user, its tip a gnarled tangle of petrified roots.
Oh shit! Osman thought. This raider really IS some kind of other dungeon lord!!!
And so he was not surprised that the hooded figure wanted his mana core. Soul-gems that became dungeon cores were super-rare, which meant that his core would fetch a high price on the open market, sold off to some Elder mage or shaman, or a particularly ambitious royal prince with a penchant for world domination. Or some evil princess with a penchant for the same. Maybe the mystery figure even had such an illustrious buyer already lined up?
Osman should have realized it by now. Of course raiders were gonna come looking for his core! It was a legendary piece of loot, after all … and what, he had just tucked it away back inside the pocket of his trousers like it was just some shiny pebble or lodestone that he had found in the road. He should have hidden it away somewhere safe — or, at least, somewhere NOT on his person — when he had had the chance to!
He stared down at his bare feet, annoyed with himself.
He needed to wise up!
If he made it through this encounter, he vowed to begin constructing the most formidable dungeon imaginable, not only to protect his core but to protect all those under his aegis as well. Which, okay, was admittedly only the little corgi dog at the moment. But he inten
ded to change that too, just as soon as he got the chance.
However, THAT wasn’t the most pressing problem on Osman’s mind right now. It was a tall order, and would take a humongous amount of doing, but that wasn’t what was currently worrying the dungeon lord the most …
… what was worrying him the most was what exactly would happen to his trapped soul if his core was forcibly taken out of this place!
Osman knew that he was most likely permanently rooted here now, in this ancient fallen temple. Everything that he had ever read about dungeon cores in the “Lore Of Legends” manuals suggested that when a dungeon was born or reborn, that it was automatically bonded with whatever location that it awakened in. One of the older manuals even warned that if a dungeon core tried to leave its rooted place — either corporeally or even in spirit — that it would result in UNGODLY AGONY for the core, followed by a swift, implosive death!
Although, if all that were true, then how had this hooded figure managed to come here? By what means had he or she slipped free of his or her own Sphere Of Influence?
Osman furrowed his brow.
Perhaps the figure WASN’T a dungeon lord after all, but just some errant wizard seeking to make a quick buck? Or perhaps there were various ways to … circumvent the rules???
That second possibility was actually encouraging to think about. However, Osman did not want to test the lore, not today!
The hooded figure laughed: a big, fat belly-laugh. And Osman recognized that laugh! He knew that he knew it! But still, he could not quite suss out from where …
The dungeon lord quickly tried to scry the mystery figure’s Soul Stats. However, upon doing so, he immediately felt a wave of static wash over his brain, as if his Soul Scrying ability had been blocked or deflected in some way. A jumble of letters and numbers manifested in the air before him, roughly the same shape and size as a Soul Stat menu, but the contents were just lines upon lines of runic gibberish, scrambled as the figure’s voice was scrambled.
Devious fucker!
The hooded figure began to chant, holding up its staff, the petrified roots of the staff’s tip beginning to glow all purple and red.
“Grrrrrrr!” Plex growled low in his throat, “This is no good, chief!” he said, “Let me at ’em!! Let me at ’em: NOW!!!”
Osman hadn’t thought about that option, but now that the corgi had suggested it, it seemed rather obvious that he should deploy his minion to combat the raider. “Sic him, boy!” he commanded and Plex bounded across the stone floor of the cavernous room all barking and snarling. The little dog skittered to a stop right at the feet of the figure and began biting at the figure’s ankle and the hem of its cloak — whatever the corgi could sink his tiny, white teeth into — continuing to snarl and grrr.
{-2 HP} …
… and then {-3 HP} appeared above the hooded figure’s head, minor damage sustained from the dog’s bites.
Osman watched in awe, pretty impressed by the little guy’s utter ferocity. Some small part of the dungeon lord even hoped that the corgi would go “full dragon” on the intruder’s ass, although he knew from having seen the dog’s Soul Stats (and his odd little dragon act several times now) that anything the corgi might do on that score at this point would only work to confound the mystery figure, and maybe elicit a laugh, rather than actually inflict any fatal damage combat-wise …
But one could always hope!
And it was then that Osman made another vow to himself: that if they got out of this alive, he would work with Plex to cultivate the dog’s mana core and optimize his dragon-self as soon as possible!!!
“Get off me!” the hooded figure shouted down at the corgi, trying to knock the dog away with the butt of its staff.
Plex yelped, and yelped again, {-1 MP} and then another {-1 MP} appearing above the dog’s perky ears as the figure struck him repeatedly on the head. However, the corgi refused to let go and kept on biting the raider. In fact, he chomped down even harder the more he was hit, growling and snarling — and starting to roar a little, deep in his throat — spittle flying from his lips in every possible direction.
Osman realized that the dog’s actions had disrupted the hooded figure’s casting, buying the dungeon lord a few precious seconds to actually formulate some sort of plan. But, before he could do that, a purplish-red light filled the whole entire room, blinding him for a moment.
He heard Plex squeal …
And then he heard the thump of something small hitting the wall directly behind him!
When he could see again, Osman turned and saw that it was indeed the corgi who had been flung across the room by the raider’s spell. The dog was curled up in a little heap on the floor, totally unconscious, fur blackened and smoking all along the left side of his body.
{-7 MP} floated in the air above Plex’s head in that fat, blood-red font, pulsating there for several seconds before bursting apart, splattering little bits and pieces of letters and numbers everywhere.
When the game notification burst, Osman felt a stabbing pain cut through his heart and he quickly checked his own Soul Stats to see what had happened. Sure enough: he was missing 9 Mana Points from the 39 that he had just gained from siphoning the fire-demon’s soul.
So that’s how that worked!
Plex really was just an extension of him, fueled purely by his own mana. So if the corgi got hurt — or killed — it was Osman who lost the points.
But then that meant that the mystery figure had also just lost the 50 MP that had been fueling the fire-demon! And — if that truly was the case — then maybe he, she, or it was in a much more weakened state than Osman might have guessed, which of course meant that maybe he COULD defeat this raider after all.
The dungeon lord stared across the room and saw that the figure was holding the oak staff aloft again, the tangle of petrified roots that was its tip beginning to simmer and glow purple and red.
Must be chanting silently this time, Osman thought, that’s pretty smart!
However, now wasn’t the time to appreciate his opponent; now was the time to counterattack! He raised his iron rod and held it before him like a wand, his first impulse being to cast {The Blessing Of Protection}. But, of course, those spell-words turned to ash in his mouth. He wasn’t a paladin anymore! Which meant he had no real counter spells.
Although he did have {Imbue} …
… whatever THAT did!
Osman began reciting the unfamiliar words of the {Imbue} spell, hoping for the best. His tongue tripped and stuttered over several of the awkward vowel combinations, so many syllables so weird in his mouth …
But when the words finally passed from his lips, they felt right and good, and he felt a powerful energy spooling up inside him. Within a few seconds, a bolt of pure blue mana flowed through him, emanating from his solar plexus and snaking down his arm, arcing out from the bulbous head of his wand just in time to meet the purplish-red bolt that flew toward him from the gnarled tip of the hooded figure’s staff.
When the two spells collided, they exploded mid-air, knocking both casters off their feet!
{-5 MP} appeared in that fat, blood-red font a few inches in front of Osman’s face before blowing apart, splattering the dungeon lord with the gory remnants of the game notification. The tiny, digitized fragments of letters and numbers rained down upon him like so much meat-confetti as he lay on his back, stunned by the concussive blast of the two spells having negated one another.
There was something comforting about just being able to lay there, totally oblivious on the cold stone floor, not a care in the world.
{-8 HP} appeared above Osman in that puffy yellow font and he watched as it gusted away, feeling … oddly content.
That was fair …
… losing 8 Health Points was MORE than fair! He had just been blown back onto the ground pretty freakin’ hard, after all!
He thought of Kendall in her tiny pink soccer shorts, her legs spread wide open …
And then he thought of t
he dungeon sprite in her little thong made from a single green leaf and a frayed bit of old twine, her pert breasts curving upwards and her nipples pebbling …
He imagined bedding them both …
… and the dark elf too! A jumble of legs, arms, and nude bodies in a king-sized bed …
Slowly, groggily, the dungeon lord began to wonder if he had some sort of concussion and if that was the reason why he wasn’t more concerned about his HP loss, or even getting back up to defend himself. He was enjoying the filthy little orgy in his mind right now and really didn’t give a fuck …