Chapter: 5

  The dive ended with Grem instinctively wrapping his arms around his middle. He sputtered and he coughed, shuddering at such a grisly death.

  “What was it this time,” drawled Darbus, who had obviously returned. “A wurm?”

  “Mimic,” muttered Grem.

  “Nasty way to go,” said Darbus, “But an easily avoidable death. Was this adventurer new?”

  “You could say that.”

  Grem stumbled out of his chair and walked over to the table to log the encounter, glad he had not yet eaten, lest he be wearing his lunch now.

  “You must be tired now,” Darbus called out. “Would you like to stop for the day?”

  Grem shook his head fervently.

  “No, I don’t think so. . . I feel rather fine,” Grem said as his stomach rumbled ferociously. “Though, I think I should probably eat lunch.”

  Darbus smiled slightly at the eager youth.

  “That’s more like it. The commissary will be closing soon,” the superior stated. “They’ve got a lovely stew today. Follow me, I’ll have another bowl myself.”

  Grem followed Darbus up out of the hidden office and did his best to memorize the path to the Dungeon-Corp commissary. It was an impressive affair, like most of the rest of the building. The high ceiling was a dome painted to match the starry night sky and the windows on either side looked down upon the city of Remria. The benches were covered with a lush padded velvet and the thick marble tables clearly found themselves polished every day. The room was mostly empty considering the time of day. Well past lunch time, but thankfully there was still stew left.

  Darbus led the way to the food queue. The two took their trays and made their way to the end where a grumpy-looking thin man spooned heapfuls of a rich, meaty stew into bowls and passed them to the archivists.

  “Thanks Domin,” said Darbus cheerily.

  “Uh thanks,” Grem stammered.

  “Shine off,” said the cook.

  “Have a nice day,” Darbus’ politeness melted into sarcasm.

  He led Grem to a table by the window. The streets below were full of pedestrians making their way to work, home from work, or simply to the shops.

  “Domin’s a right dragon’s cock, but stars land can he cook,” Darbus exclaimed through a mouthful of stew.

  Grem wasn’t a big fan of meat, but his stomach was painfully empty, and the vivid aroma of the stew called to his primal instincts. It was a creamy broth with chunks of beef, tubers, and some green vegetables mixed with various spices. Darbus was right, the concoction was delicious. The two archivists found a table by the window overlooking Remria’s nearby streets. The setting sun cast a beautiful tone over the city. Time definitely flew by during this job, to Grem it felt like he started only a few hours ago. Some of those visions seemed to have sucked up more time than he realized.

  Darbus regarded him carefully. “You feeling okay mana-wise?”

  “I feel fine,” Grem shrugged.

  Darbus gestured to the bowls. “Great isn’t it?”

  Grem nodded while noisily slurping the stew.

  ***

  After a very delicious lunch, the two made their way back to Grem’s humble office.

  “You sure you’re good to continue? Never seen a new Archivist manage more than three in a day. . .” Darbus fretted

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  “I’m fine,” Grem reassured his senior. “Really. At least one more. I want to start off strong.”

  “If you insist,” said Darbus. “But I’ll be back to check on you later. I’ll be cross if I come back to find you passed out or dead.”

  Darbus shuffled up the stairs as Grem turned once more to the pile of memory stones. After much deliberation, Grem returned from the pile with another purple memory stone. He could see gray and black flecks when it was held up to the light.

  “Let’s see what secrets you hold,” Grem said to the stone as he approached the chair.

  ***

  Name(s): Penelope Lightshield

  Class:N/A

  Tier: F

  Dungeon Name: Blighted Lands

  Location: Secarra, Capital of Nodpiel

  Dungeon Tier: Mature

  Time of Death: Time of Death: Second Waning Moon of the Chilling. One Chilling Past

  Disappointed moods, hearts, and tastebuds sat around the quiet fire. Penelope chewed her bland ration. Weran sighed between every bite. Hugo stared at his hardtack, willing it to become a turkey leg. Upon his failure, Hugo looked to his companions. "I say we're right fucked," The large man stated with tired eyes.

  Penelope clutched her white staff with small hands, "No. Failure is not an option." Her voice did not waver, but her clothes told a different story. Gashes ran down her blood soaked robes. Although this was only the second floor, the group had taken losses.

  "Unless we find a lucky exit, we have to find the stairwell or the boss," Weran droned what they all knew into the fire. "Not like we have a real Lightshield protecting us," the man lazily spited the elf. Silence echoed as the fire danced shadows along the stone walls.

  Penelope gritted her teeth, "Daniel, Jocelyn, and Vil's deaths are the fault of Jocelyn. She did not listen when I said I was low on mana. I can't infinitely defend everyone." She spat, focusing on not screaming every word.

  "Yup, right fucked." Hugo nodded sagely. He stood up in the cramped square room. The broad man began to check his gear, "All we can do is try to unfuck ourselves." The bald, smooth faced warrior added wisely. He gripped the wooden haft of an iron headed mace. Hugo’s chain mail was in desperate need of repair and his leggings looked as if he bathed in blood and mud.

  "You heard him Pen. We unfuck things." Weran winked, patted his legs, and stood up. His clothes were the cleanest, but by no means clean. With his white shirt and black breeches, he looked more handsome pirate than adventurer.

  The elf scoffed at the humans as she pushed her long disheveled hair out of her face. "Extinguish" The flame went out at the sound of her mana-laced word. Penelope did a cursory glance at the room. It could've been for storage if it weren't a random building in a dungeon. Typically the rooms or buildings in city zones were for scenery rather than loot or equipment. The lack of windows made the magical fire viable. Without smoke, the only worry was the light, but the small haven fixed that issue. Hugo muttered curses as he looked for the door in the dark. With a slight creak of wood, he peeled out the crack he made. Wind sang through the small opening. Hugo looked back at the other two and shrugged, which seemed to mean “all clear”. As quietly as Hugo’s equipment allowed, the group snuck onto the main road of a dilapidated city.

  Bleak buildings dominated the landscape. The street they walked was covered in detritus. The three adventurers glanced around, worried that any shadow may harbor assailants. For ten minutes or so they progressed down the road with no issues. Then they came upon an intersection, but the street itself was hard to see with all the undead packed on the road. The adventurers were hidden in a nearby alley looking at their path forward with furrowed brows.

  “There’s too many for us three to fight,” Penelope whispered.

  “Yeah…” Hugo added helpfully.

  “The alleyways are all dead ends, it’s obvious the dungeon wants everyone going down the main road.” Weran said what they already knew. The man looked to Penelope, "You're the hero, do something heroic."

  The elf grimaced and inwardly cursed her family name. She walked forward brusquely with a knitted brow. I am a Lightshield. I can do this. Penelope silently chanted, closing in on the crowd. The young woman clutched her whitewood staff before raising it high into the air. A loud thud resounded as the staff struck the cobblestone. One head turned with a groan, like a macabre wave the undead pack looked as one. Attracted to the noise they shuffled forward. The movement of the crowd created a gap in the mass of bodies.

  “Go, hold the opening!” The bold elf shouted to Weran and Hugo. Quickly they ran through the gap as the undead focused on Penelope and her constant noise. Undead bodies quickly blocked her vision as she waited for the men to back her up. Gnashing teeth struck at her, a solid thwack sent the zombie reeling. A ragged claw reached for her neck, but found no purchase as a golden translucent barrier appeared. In an instant the barrier disappeared. For a vital few seconds this dance continued, strike, instant block, and repeat. Lightshield’s are known for their innate defensive power, but an F rank adventurer only has so much mana.

  “WERAN, HUGO!” She yelled between breaths, but the only noise was the zombies attacking her from all sides. They left me… but I can live through this, I am a Lightshield. As Pen finished this thought, a shield didn’t appear where she willed it, her meagre mana pool already dry. With the opening a dirty claw drew a red line along her collar. The shock stalled her further as more blows landed. A guttural scream pierced the moans as two men continued to run through the dungeon.