Fantasy ┌ spellsword ┘ Amaric Temple

[ERode]

Well, that went south real quick. From Leonel practically keeling over from the pollen to Symphony rushing in before any of them were in position to assist her from a range, the entire situation devolved into one that made it clear that the ‘cost’ of handling this particular encounter was getting a bit too high. If she went all out, perhaps this situation could be resolved, but on the other hand, they certainly weren’t aware of any of the capabilities of the mossmen until up to this very moment. Sap-spewing vines to ward off flames, body-transmogrification capabilities to turn into weapons, poisonous pollen that Leonel’s protective magic could do nothing against, and now seedshot that turned into vine-nets?

Ayn stepped further back as the seeds that bounced off her clothes erupted into a burst of entangling vines. Her blazing swords swept through them, white flame practically incinerating the seedlings, but it had given the mossman cluster enough time to move onto the next scheme anyways, with its vines extending into a fan that further scattered the pollen into the room.

Now, what was this situation called?

“Yup, this is unwinnable.”

Maybe they could force a draw if they pushed themselves to the maximum, but they would still be five floors deep in the Dungeon, with no way to easily or safely get back up. “Save your spell,” Ayn said, side-eyeing Heleni. “I didn’t see any eyes on those monsters to begin with. And Leo?”

She sheathed her own swords swiftly, the flames extinguished the moment the blades slotted into their scabbards. A quick stride carried her behind the armored man, and Ayn hooked her fingers around his belt.

“Leonel, we’re pulling Symphony and getting outta here! Ready? Threetwoone!”

After all, it wasn’t like the mossman cluster could leave this place. Retreat, regroup, and rethink. This was no duel, and the mossmen proved themselves to be dishonorable first! Seriously, those brainless creatures were asking for it with that kind of behavior. Next time, she was going to bring a fan!

…

And more likely a lot of oil.

 

[Sir Les Paul]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple (5th floor)
DATE—Early Summer
TIME—1101

​

Just as the benefits of their Unleash spell were fading, the trio of Spellswords on the clear side of the room were granted a brand new foe. Two of them, actually. They first made their presence known with the eerie chitter of their high pitched whines, eerily human in comparison to the mossmen. Out from the bottom most pod crawled two tiny creatures, each smaller than most shepard dogs, both with large bug eyes and a twisted form. At first glance, even in the dim light, they appeared gaunt and diseased. Their forms slightly more human in that it appeared as if there was a rib cage, but no skin. Thin wisps of green foliage came out of their body as if hair, twisted roots like horns, and a malformed face with no nose.

"Watch out! Those are immatu—" Markus warned, knowing precisely what these were and in a slight panic because of it. Immature treants. The arcane cluster must have been further along than he anticipated. Releasing these early meant it had already given up. Succumb to its death and released its children as a final act of preservation. These little bastards were fast and feral, powerful in their own right. Hardly comparable to a proper treant, but still more than he expected this group to handle.

They possessed a myriad of abilities the cluster did not. Their claws and horns were as hard as steel, their bite could drain mana, they could spew poison and spit acidic sap. None of which he had time to warn them of.

They shot out at Ayn and Leonel faster than any natural creature of the wood. Their speed wasn't blinding, no, but it was blurring. Like little wooden cannonballs with no cannon. It was possible Ayn and Leonel might have blocked or parried this initial burst but Markus was finished taking risks.

The eyes of the Paladin glowed a golden hue as he willed into existence a bright, vibrant wall of light given physical form in the clearest of crystal. Sanctuary of Light. A typical Paladin Spell, though it normally required more practice with the light and more affinity than a crusader. Something Leonel could probably learn to do and had likely seen before. It was much more rare for a crusader; their focus was often much more offensive. The wall itself was able to entirely halt both immature treants, creating a loud thud once their skulls rammed into the surface followed by several faint screeches from their claws trailing down the wall of light.

Meanwhile, the vines that Symphony was struggling against were already breaking in small batches. It wasn't quick by any means, but it loosened slightly more with each flex and movement. It meant she was in fact strong enough to break free on her own, it would just take time.

The fault was that the same crystal barrier that had prevented the attack had now immobilized the cable they intended on using. That plan wouldn't work so long as Markus maintained the spell. It put them in quite the predicament.

"That barrier only lasts a minute. I can't harm them; it's my curse. Leaving Symphony to them is probably certain death—their sap is acidic. She is metal," he said, urgency coating his entire speech, and his tone more even than it was gruff. He had shifted from the more relaxed, educational guide he seemed to be to a more assertive stance, and that carried over in his voice. For the moment, at least, the immature treants were continuously assaulting the wall, trying to break through. Symphony was not a concern.

"If you have any tricks left up your sleeve, now is the time to use them. Only their claws and horns are tough. Their core is inside their body just like a heart. If you can damage it, they die," he explained, being fairly certain at least Leonel would have something left in him. Markus was no fan of it, but the alternative would effectively put the entire situation on him. It also didn't actual eliminate the threats, only buy them time. Even for him, that was a blow to his pride. That, and it rubbed salt in the wound that was his curse.

November Witch ERode Haze- Carolyn​

 

[Haze-]

LOCATION— Amaric Temple (5th Floor)
DATE— Early Summer
TIME— 1101

⚜ Leonel Blackmane ⚜​

Level 2 | Guardian-Paladin
Status: Motivated, focused
Spell Slots
Lv. 1 1/3

TAGS ERode Sir Les Paul November Witch Carolyn

His hand went up to try and follow up on Symphony’s orders, bat as many firebolts as he could down the vine cluster’s way. He was interrupted before a spark could even manifest between his fingers.

He side-stepped the bulk of the seedlings coming his way, swatted away the few that’d been caught peltering on his shield. He stood there, head thrown down to watch the mana-sappers burst into vines around him with a light, crooked smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Spitting out a quick scoff between grinding teeth. It was short-lived, less than a second, more of an imperceptible twitch or a tic. The type of smile that wasn’t a smile whatsoever. The type of smile that had him wondering why exactly he hadn’t simply taken more rats and living vines over this hellish detour for the mossmen.

The feeling was a rollercoaster— he was coming down now. That acidic smirk on his face beginning to curve down, feeling his spitefulness start to gain sharpness, red-tinted clarity. All these tricks and hidden feats the vines could pull off were starting to get on his nerves, wane on his patience.

But none of that petty resentment showed through the deadpan expression he wore now. He was more worried about why exactly that one bud was filling up with mana. It was nothing good, another trick, he was aware of that.

“Hm…”— Was Leonel’s only grumbled out response as Ayn approached him from behind, damn near grunting like a caveman. He took in a breath, his mind trailing off for a moment, wondering who’d taught the girl how to count. Alas, he didn’t have the time to be annoyed at Ayn’s rhythm. Right now, he had to focus on pulling. And pull he did.

He threw his spear down at his side, planted it like a bannerless post to use as leverage, hooking the bend of his elbow around it while he tangled the mana threads in his palm, looping them around his wrist, his forearm. It’d be stupid to try and grapple the bundle of strings with his claw, risk them snapping or catching ablaze, so he had to make do with trying something even more idiotic: pulling 300lbs of orichalcum with only one hand.

Dragging, rather. The strain was enough to humble a lion like him. Leonel twisted and pulled with his entire body behind his arm, his face already starting to go red, feeling like his shoulder would give out at any moment; wondering just how much Ayn was really helping by pulling at his belt. Moral support, maybe — “Get the— HRRNGH!— hell away from there…!” — Leonel barked out at the doll in-between pulls and grunts, feeling like he was on the losing end of the tug of war.

Symphony had been appointed leader; the shots were supposed to be called by her— but it was a democracy at the end of the day.

Somewhere in their efforts to haul the doll over to their side, something made his instincts flare. A shrill shriek, like that of an intolerable child’s, whine-crying laps around their mother’s legs, screeching until they lost their voice. It made his skin crawl, had his eyes shooting wide and attentive at the two swamp-green monstrosities blurring, eating up the distance between them in a blink.

Then the rope went taut; two pairs of horns rammed against a wall of solid light. Leonel’s eyes narrowed back into focus, hissing out a composed breath.

He was paid good daric, that Markus.

The situation kept escalating. A thousand different variables bounced around in his head as he cooled down, given a minute of respite to think things through, hearing Markus give out what little information he could share in just one breath, without wasting their precious seconds. Leonel sighed, hung his head and leaned an elbow against the wall of light, not taking in another breath.

He was tunnel-focused, eyes shut, mind racing as he heard the incessant scratching against the barrier like ticking clock-hands portending a nasty omen. And the wounds, the scars from years ago, re-opened and festered.

Felt as if the threads of woven, solid mana he was holding onto were tied to one of his crusaders. And he wouldn't for the life of him let one more soldier fall in battle again. Not in his watch.

Ten seconds had passed. Ten seconds of weighing just how tough he’d tempered his claw to be all these years. Tough enough to handle a bath of orichalcum melting sap? He was about to find out.

“Sister Heleni,” — He pushed off the wall, called out. A mix of urgency and demanding laced in his blunt tone. The stars around the party began to fade. He was focusing on something else, manifesting two glowing orbs of light behind the barrier and positioning them right in front of the treants faces — “Let them gaze upon our Lord’s light.”

“They’re in our way. We’ll cut them down while they’re blinded, then we get Symphony out of there.”

“Stonehart,”— Leonel banged his claw against the barrier, held it there as it basked aglow in ethereal light. He was readying a smite, already angling his claw just above one of the monstrosities, looking to claw it into strips right down the middle, make big enough of a mess to ensure he hit its core — ”You take this barrier down the moment the kid finishes chanting.”

“Unless one of you has a better plan, I want to hear a prayer.”

“I want to hear it now.”

Spoiler: spells casted

Cantrips -
.| Gift of Espel

Lvl 1 -
.| Lionsclaw: Götterdämmerung (Preparing to cast)

 

[EmperorsChosen]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple
DATE—Early Summer
TIME—0931

Cecelia Blake​

Level 1 | Arcane Assassin
Spell Slots
Lvl. 1 3/3

TAGS @Meredith Sir Les Paul Merciless Medic Prizzy Kriyze November Witch

Cecelia's cautious gaze traced Leander as he moved closer, almost like a cat considering whether it would continue to be lax or swat at him for no reason at all. However, she did not. Her head tilted slightly as he began to whisper and she blinked, slowly again. So he wasn't so innocent. Definitely not. No, he was quite impish in actuality it seemed, albeit a curious imp.

Her eyes continued to follow him as he gave them breadth and turned his teasing toward her, though unlike Cole, Cecelia had a developed poker face and was used to stifling her reactions. Her eyes shut slowly as she exhaled calmly. "I am certain I do not know to what you are referring to," She replied nonchalantly, only opening her eyes again when Lumina began to speak.

Looking at the woman's garb, it did give off a certain impression. However, Cecelia wondered what the purpose of a themed apparel was. It was one thing to wear garb that gave one better resistance to what one expected to endure, such as frost magics, but then again the woman was also wearing a skirt making it seem like more of a stylistic choice than practical.

Though Cecelia did take not of what the woman said concerning armor. She glanced down briefly at her own. It wasn't full plate mail, rather designed for a mixture of protection and mobility. Then again, it wasn't as if heavy armor was even completely effective against humans. Bludgeoning weapons were plate's worst enemy.

Cecelia's eyes then turned forward again. They were advising them to leave the dead? It was somewhat surprising to Cecelia. While it made sense to her logically, she expected the team-based spellsword expeditions would be loathe to abandon party members. Though a loss of one was better than a full party, as she pointed out.

'...Perhaps this will not as bloodless as I believed...' She pondered, her eyes turning downward for but a moment.

Cecelia's expression couldn't quite be called downcast because of her mask, but since her face was averse to shifting, every little movement attracted attention. It was ever more surprising when it fully changed, such as Cecelia's face going from stoic and thoughtful to lax and surprised as she stared with slightly widened eyes at whatever the hell Cassius was doing.

 

[The Regal Rper]

Malikron | Amaric Temple, Meeting Point | 9:15 AM

Having been corrected by Ake, Malikron made a mental note to keep the location Ake explained he was from in mind. Could be a good conversation topic after all.

Ake’s explanation of the nature of his magical capabilities certainly caused the elongated pointed ears of the elf to stand slightly in surprise at the mention of having magic that bound one to their ancestors. Certainly wasn't something he expected at all, least of all heard of. Then again it wasn't like he had been aiming to be a wizard back when he had been studying the magical arts, not like he had had the time to pursue such a path anyway.

The demonstration certainly got a whistle of interest from the elf. “Amazing”, when the Giant was finished and had explained why he wouldn't be showing more. It made sense, in the same way he had no intention of changing forms.

“I believe I'll go next then, I am Malikron, once again a pleasure. I came to Ardynport about a year ago and am not originally from these parts, I served a family in the Borosi Empire” his smile dimmed, became nostalgic and wistful, “good people, better than some I knew there” he tacked on. “And here I am after being awarded freedom for my service” not necessarily a lie but he certainly wasn't about to speak the truth. “My magic follows that of a Druid. I can shift into the forms of a few creatures..The one I likely will use most frequently is my rat form. Easy to conceal myself and move through small or hard to reach places- I do believe it will come in fitting use in combat especially. My other two forms are speed and offense based but I won't be showing any of these for it does have its limits on how often I can change. Aside from those I can communicate with fauna, and have a few can trips I know of that work well with my archery.” Nodding towards the bow and sheath of arrows at his back.

Once he was done he allowed the other member of their little group to go next.

Mentions: Sir Les Paul @AzaleaWonderland Shotgunpenguin Megilagor Daddy Dream

Interactions: n/a

 

[ERode]

Ayn felt the effects of Unleash wear off as she released her grip on Leonel’s belt. She had definitely contributed to the tugging; she just limited her own strength because she didn’t want to tear the belt right through his hips. That’d probably be problematic, after all. Her blood cooled as she stepped right up to the boundary of Markus’s Sanctuary of Light, green eyes staring right into the black orbs embedded into the treants’ face. Tough claws and acidic sap. Did that mean their ‘blood’ would also melt steel? She considered asking their guide that, but it didn’t matter all that much to her.

She bent her legs, placed her hands on her swords once more. The blessing of the White Flame had been extinguished by the act of sheathing her blade, but a swordswoman was accustomed to relying only upon cold steel from the start. No sorceries, no trickery, just a singular strike to cleave through the absurdities of the world. What faith did one need, except in the years they’ve placed honing oneself?

“Well,” Ayn didn’t turn to Leonel, but there was still some juvenile levity in her tone. “Here. ‘A prayer.’”

Stupid joke for a moment that was dire enough for Markus himself to start sounding worried, but while bowmen could draw themselves taut, tensing until the moment of release, a martial artist required a certain fluidity in their movements, or their muscles would just slow them down. She felt her life energy flowing through her meridian points, felt the subtle vibrations of the earth through the soles of her shoes, felt the expansion of her lungs and the contraction of her tendons.

And gradually, she could feel it too.

Bubbling within her stomach, the contrasting warmth and chill of anticipation and fear, as the creatures before her clawed at the barrier, gnashed their thorn-teeth, salivated acid. Pressure built within her core, and Ayn?

Ayn just needed to time the unleashing of it.

 

[Carolyn]

HELENI​

Heleni began to sing in a verse that had been beaten into her. It began with familiar words - the appeals to a higher power that any street preacher could muster. But it quickly evolved into an entirely different register. Her throat stained to register a pitch and accent that defied human comprehension. Any academic who attempted to transcribe it would find their pens scribbling jibber-jabber. To record it was to diminish its primordial elegance.

Mages might weave the mana that saturated the dungeon to shape their spells. Her approach was a different phenomenon altogether. She was not so much creating as she was acting as a relay for someone else. In a room full of miracles, another one sprouted from her heart, made its way to her mouth, and leapt away toward any source of light nearby.

Espel was now the sun that hung over the group. They lightly touched the dying fires and blazing barriers to make them glow even more. It was blinding in nature though each of those enveloped in Espel's teachings found the presence comforting.

Heleni didn't look away, couldn't look away. In one day, the bleak training she underwent, each week worse than the last, with nothing but this god, this presence, this hope of a glimmer, was confirmed. It meant something. She was favored. She was chosen to tilt the balance of the fight once more.

 

[Daddy Dream]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple, Meeting point
DATE—Early Summer
TIME— 9:55 AM

Rioka Yorel​

LvL 1 | Spore Druid
Spell Slots
Lvl. 1: 3/3
Pact: 1/1

TAGS Shotgunpenguin | @AzaleaWonderland | The Regal Rper | Megilagor

Having listened to the guide and party members then witnessing Ake demonstrate one of his abilities, Rioka found that eyes now turned to her as they expected her to go next. She gave a gentle smile and addressed everyone with a elegant but simple bow.

"Good morning, my name is Rioka Yorel. I am an wood elf and my class is a druid. I work with Atrataria and specialize in spore majicks." She raised a hand and slowly mushroom spores fluttered from her skin and into the air around them. she then snapped her finger and a small bolt of fire zipped into the air. "I also has a bit of knowledge about fire magic, though it is very limited to this bolt.'

She brought her hand back down and gave a smile once again as she returned to her thoughts. She felt that the group would do well, however, she didn't know what exactly was in store for them moving forward. Her attention turned towards the guide, he looked prepared and seemed to know what he was talking about. She didnt feel as if they were going to be in any grave danger with how he spoke, but danger comes in many forms and she knew better than to fully trust a stranger with her life.

 

[Sir Les Paul]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple (5th floor)
DATE—Early Summer, 07/04
TIME—1102

The words that spilled from the mouth of Heleni might have morphed into an unrecognizable language in an impossible voice to those ears unaffiliated with her God, but to Markus and Leonel, it was a familiar comfort. Not that they knew the words of their God, but that it was not foreign and more factually filled with comfort. Her words commanded the light. While it was the power of Espel, it was her will that enacted it. And, her will made each light in that room explode into a vibrant, blinding force. And, there plenty of sources of light given the six floating orbs of Espel both Paladins had conjured earlier.

Had Ayn not been prepared, she too would have been blinded. Luckily, the trio had the timing down. Leonel and Markus were less susceptible to a blinding effect given their nature as Paladins of Espel and Symphony was still turned away. Heleni was, of course, immune to her own effect.

What followed was exactly what was promised. Markus dropped the Sanctuary of Light.

It was no contest. Ayn was by far the faster of the two. She had elected to pour her fate into her speed. A fair decision given the absurd agility these little bastards demonstrated earlier. The blade monk possessed a variation on her Unleash that allowed her to concentrate all two minutes of her enhancement into barely a few seconds. Mana coursed through her veins in that moment more so than any sorcerer at their level. As if a new humor to the body, it flooded every muscle and every tissue within her. Even the furthest, deepest parts her body from ears to her marrow were briefly bathed in the very essence of mana. In doing so, it brought forth strength otherwise impossible.

Mana, the gift of the planet itself, now saturated her cells. Where once chemical messengers and tiny flickers of electricity commanded her muscles was now a new source of both power and will. The very fibers that made her the warrior she was now contracted with a force that even her trained ki could not quite yet replicate. It would be some time before any of them, save Markus, could compare to such a feat.

The blitz was sudden. As soon as the crystalline wall lost its form, Ayn was already through it. Her timing was perfect down to mere fractions of a second. All of her jokes, in that moment, were lost. There was no humor. Only the discipline of a monk. The immature treant had its eyes covered with its hands, unable to otherwise block the source of the light. It barely had the time to lower those hands half an inch before Ayn had leapt over the creature, somersaulting over it, and with all her might and momentum, thrusting her blade into its very core. As if not enough, all of her momentum shifted, continuing her mid-air rotation, and bringing the creature to the hilt of her blade. By the end of her spin, she had cleaved straight upward and through the torso and head of the creature, nearly splitting it entirely in half.

It was dead. She landed with grace, following the flow of what little momentum she had left after her Calamity Burnout and Shifting Crescent combined. This might have been a problem, leaping into the pollen cloud, but Markus had already began purifying it. A task he could have done at any time, apparently, but only now elected to do so. The pollen hung around, still irritating in the same way any pollen would cause hay fever, but it was no longer the noxious cloud of death that it was prior. A saving grace for almost involved.

All of that power was not without consequence. Disciplined though she was and hardened was her body, it was not accustomed to the sheer strength that she was using. With the exception of this very Spell, she had no means yet of having her muscles accommodate the stress that was put on them. Worse, those abilities of hers that did so often enhance her body were done with ki, not mana. This also led to those muscles not being capable of properly processing that intense of energy in such a short time. Ayn was triumphant, true, but every muscle in her body was a blazing pyre that could not be ignored. Her legs, her thighs specifically, had fibers being torn as if she had done a hundred squats with Leonel on her back. Her arms felt like she had swung that sword ten thousand times over with no respite. Her bones and joints took less damage, perhaps because this was her second use of Unleash, but she could feel it now. The lining of her stomach bleeding. That terrible warmth that filled her when this ability was used.

The smell of iron. Then finally, even she—a monk of great fortitude—could not fully control her body. She violently ejected the blood that had accumulated in her stomach.

Meanwhile, Leonel was also triumphant, just not as quickly as Ayn. He dashed forward with his blade still alight with the white flame from their miracle. That alone was enough to do considerable damage when swiped at the creature, which not only blinded but in a type burning agony from its oversized eyes. Those gnarled orbs of dark sheen had little to no protection from such a light, and being a newborn creature within the dark, it was not grown to handle it. Heleni had made the right call with that. It was possible, perhaps, that should the treant have survived, she may have permanently fried those eyes in their immature state. Or, at least, required it to grow new ones.

Regardless, the immature treant was unlike the mossmen. Much stronger, much more resistant. It would not go down to a simple slash of a flaming sword. Leonel was not a swordsmen, though. No, he was a Paladin. Divine Light was the true weapon of a Paladin. The treant screeched, feeling the slash across its chest from the blade, but only able to make out small blurs in front of it. It tried to retreat, but stumbled. New to this world and new to pain, it had no means of tolerating either. Leonel was able to grasp the treant by the back of its head, the claws of his fist weapon reaching to either side of the swirled horns of the creature, and grip into it, metal biting into wood.

A slash followed by the claw. That was Lionsclaw: Götterdämmerung. More light erupted from his hand, causing the head of the treant to immediately ignite in a divine fire that he, much like Heleni with her initial light, was immune to. The treant could only let out a few deathsqueals as it burned alive in his hand, then fell limp, its limbs unable to scratch or claw at Leonel from behind. A gruesome, but necessary death.

Meanwhile, Symphony had broken free of her bonds with the vines that once held her in place now accounting for little more than additional décor on her metallic form. She was free to now do as she pleased ahead of the group, near the core, which still had not moved its remaining three vines or performed some miraculous attack while she was bound. It perhaps had no defense against a being that its pollen cloud or mossmen could not suffocate.

That did leave the group with a few, but otherwise minimal threats. Calamity Burnout had left Ayn all but a sitting duck for the two remaining mossmen archers. Leonel was nearby with the corpse of the immature treant in hand. Heleni and Markus were still further back, nearer the entrance wall behind where the Paladin had once cast Sanctuary of Light. At the very least, they could breath, so long as they didn't take an arrow to the chest.

November Witch ERode Haze- Carolyn​

 

[Sir Les Paul]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple (1st Floor, Trading Post)
DATE—Early Summer, 07/04
TIME—1022

With introductions and a general, albeit limited, explanation of abilities out of the way, the group was able to descend into the Temple. Lucas was fairly informative, though he warned that their next stop would be in the Trading Post. The Trading Post, as he explained, was the real market for Dungeon Delvers. It was divided into two halves with the Western falf—the one they were entering—having various accommodations including the infirmary, food stalls, Dungeon Guild tent, and special staked off, tented areas for each of the major factions, sans the Ballard Trading Company which lost its right to an enclosed tent for some of its more unsavory practices. The East half—the one they would exit to further descend the Dungeon—had a massive trading network including goods, resources, and services all within the Dungeon, operating off a master trade board that set prices which updated hourly.

According to Lucas, someone that knew the market could trade up and more than double their profits if they knew the system. Most people, however, just traded the values they didn't want until they could cash out from the exporting merchants. There was a line in between where it may be worth trading directly for things one wanted or needed, but again, that was all up to the delver. Some couldn't be asked to do basic arithmetic, some loved the system fiercely. Prices in the market were almost ways significantly better than Ardynport or really anywhere. It skipped most of the middlemen merchants, after all.

Not that it would matter right this second. The group had nothing to trade since they hadn't looted anything and Lucas wasn't taking them to the market anyway. Instead, he had a delivery to the Freemasons. A large supply of healing potions and some other odds and ends. Most importantly, he warned them not to just up and enter the tents of the other factions without some type of edict or contract. That, or unless they had other reasons for seeing a Freemason, which he suggested against. It never ended well.

Long before they reached the Trading Post, the group would pass into the innervating atmosphere of the Dungeon. Stories were told of it, but nothing ever quite did it justice. It was like tobacco in the air; an energizing jolt, yet intoxicating like shot of hard cider. Sweet, smooth, and most importantly, something none of the group had an inherent tolerance for. This is what infinite mana felt like, or at least as close to it as possible. This is what made Cantrips indefinite. This is what brought mages to the Dungeon. True though it was that each of the new Spellswords had a Patron, they could still feel the mana surge through them. It wasn't like their innate abilities from their patrons, either. This mana was world mana, it was gift of the planet onto them, it was the backbone of most magic.

Malik knew it well from him time in the Whitestone Consortium. He hadn't mastered any one magic. He spent so time trying to tutor his beloved friends that he had only learned Firebolt as three much weaker component spells, each of which would leave him drained with too many casts. Now, though, mana flowed through him and it felt like he could launch a thousand flares. Roika was much the same. She only knew one spell; the Firebolt that Malik had never mastered, but it was the only spell she knew that didn't rely on her Patron. The power that flowed through her now felt like a blessing in and of itself. Ake felt that same type of sensation, as if he could sling his axe like a yo-yo or hurt a hundred Firebolts. Even a Goliath such as him would be exhausted without mana, but here mana was in abundance.

The sensation was almost intoxicating. It was everything the rumors promised. Unfortunately, the three were all Patron Magic users, so the benefit they gained was somewhat limited. Still, Lucas afforded them a brief moment to acclimate to the sensation before they moved on.

Large stakes acted like tall fences between the different factions. Made sense; tall fences made good neighbors, after all. Lucas took guided them right on through and to the largest tent in the center. Tent wasn't really a good word for what these structures were, honestly. More like canvas houses. Permanent fixtures setup and pretty secure, similar in construction though less colorful than that of a carnival or festival. Impressively large given that they were inside the temple, but the temple itself was absolutely massive to begin with.

A pleasant-looking brunette met Lucas and called him over. This was the first time most of the group would also get to see a [Bag of Holding]. Something Lucas could produce with ease and pull out a large container of glass vials that housed red health potions and a sealed wooden container on top. The whole thing stood just shy of four feet tall and was some awkward rectangular dimensions of nearly two foot by half that. In any case, it all came out of a little brown satchel that seemed to warp space itself as he produced it. The wood stretched and contorted impossibly, yet still produced intact glass and potions.

A massive boon for a merchant. Anyone with a brain could see Lucas was slightly abusing his role as a supporter to help his business.

While Lucas discussed the contract, the three Spellswords had their own encounters within the tent. It wasn't as if they were alone.

Some ways off, far beyond the brunette helping Lucas, was another man. Black of head and wearing glasses. Malik was urged to give the man attention. Not by any of his own means or knowledge, but because of Kiya-o. That man, that Freemason, whoever he was, was marked for death by the Fae Wolf spirit. The man had made his way over to Lucas and was inspecting the top most container. His name was dropped. A doctor. Doctor Alessandro. Whoever he was, he was complimenting the quality of whatever goods Malik had for him in that top container. Lucas seemed friendly in return. None of that mattered. Malik was hit with a nearly-feral bloodlust against the doctor, only to be reeled by the fact he was insight the Freemason tent and likely wouldn't make it ten steps if he attacked now.

While Malik and Lucas were distracted by their own means, two members of what could only be assumed were the Freemasons approached Ake and Roika. The largest was a near rival for Ake, only an inch or so shorter, which made sense. He was a massive Bugbear. That much didn't make sense. The Freemasons were a collective of effectively locals that had massive influence on Ardynport. Most of them were human, as one would expect, and the few that weren't were either slaves or Demi-Humans. This Bugbear didn't carry himself like any slave, nor did he talk like one.

"Well... aren't you a cute little thing," the Bugbear said, his voice deep and gravelly. It was expected from his kind. What might not have been expected is that he was talking to Ake, not Roika.

His companion was a human male, outfit in what looked like a combination of lighter leather armor with a front plate. The type of thing one might expect for a delver instead of the meatheaded Paladins in full plate. He had a softer look, no immediate scares, brown eyes, and sandy blonde hair. Fairly normal, not unattractive, but nothing outstanding. If he would have came from a long-running family, it might make sense he had such mundane traits.

He approached with the Bugbear, but he stared in disbelief as his companion took his shot at the Goliath. Disbelief, disapproval, disappointment. It all shot across his face when he looked over and of course upward at the Bugbear.

"Kal, leave the fresh meat alone," the man said, his tone full of immediate frustration, "besides, there's an Elf right there. Why pick the Goliath?" he asked incredulously, as if the choice of Ake over Roika was absurd as copper over gold.

"Not my type," Kal responded bluntly, not making it clear on what his type was. Height? Gender? Hair color? Pointy ears? A mystery, at least for now. The human companion looked so fed up already. Defeated, perhaps, or maybe just confused. He could only look over to Ake, then Roika, with apologetic eyes. They could almost hear him internally scream 'sorry for this idiot.'

Shotgunpenguin Daddy Dream The Regal Rper Megilagor

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[November Witch]

Symphony

~{An Unpleasant Surprise}~​

Status: Nervous & Content
Spells: Razor Whip
Location: Amaric Temple - 5th floor
Interaction(s): Sir Les Paul ERode Haze- Carolyn

It was safe to say, Symphony was completely caught off guard by the plant's final act of defiance against her. The seeds and all the vines that pelted her were no issue. It would be the immobility that they caused. The fact she would be a sitting duck for a few moments that worried her. She became even more so when she saw what the plant released. Some sort of creature much faster, and more vocal than the mossmen. She wasn’t sure what they were, but they were certainly a threat. Thankfully, they seemed to ignore her and go for the others behind her. However, hearing what Marckus said behind them made her worry all over again. When she freed her neck, it turned 180 degrees and looked behind her. The immature treants were being held back by a shield for the time being. They didn’t seem focused on her. While Symphony would have liked to give orders, or ask if the group had any ideas, she feared speaking would simply draw their attention towards her.

So, she stayed quiet while the group came up with a plan of their own. As they did so, she slowly managed to pull free using nothing but her strength, watching the plant in case it had yet another trick up its sleeve... Pulling this way and that, pushing, and ripping finally culminated with her freeing herself as the room light up brightly for a moment. But not enough to blind her thankfully. She turned around after, only to see the treants being dispatched, but Ayn seemed to be in a bad way. It was time to finish this. Symphony yanked her right hand, pulling the still flaming razor whip along with it. She caught the end in her left hand. Her right hand grabbed one vine near the base and squeezed it as hard as she could while pulling. She hoped to either squeeze it so hard it snapped or rip it from the core. Either way, with one vine out of the way, she had a better time reaching the center. Her left hand, holding the flaming end of her razor wire reeled back, and she punched as hard as she could. Being this small meant she could reach between the remaining vines, bones, and other things protecting the center of mass. She would plunge this holy fire into the center of the plant’s core.

With that done, she would grab the base of the other two vines and pull yet again. But this time her goal wasn’t to break or destroy the vines. But to pull out the whole plant and slam it onto the ground. Specifically, what was left of one of the burning mossman’s remains…

Her attention would turn to her teammates, and she gave them all a thumbs up. “Good job. It’s good to know you all seem self-sufficient enough not to need me to tell you what to do at every moment in an encounter.” Symphony seemed content with the way the fight was coming to an end. Though she eyed Ayn wearily. She wasn’t an expert on humans or anything, but wasn’t blood supposed to stay in the body?

 

[ERode]

For a moment, Ayn was aflame, the essence of the world pumping through her veins. She could feel every individual fiber in her muscle, could feel every drop of blood in her body, could sense the lightning that raced from her brain to her nerves. That imperceptible delay between ‘sense’, ‘thought’, and ‘action’ had been removed completely, merging into a purity of movement, a mastery beyond mastery. She could reach outwards and grasp upon the peak of martial arts.

It was an enlightenment that disappeared in the blink of an eye.

“Bwurgh-!”

Beside the slain treant, Ayn practically toppled over, her swords clattering upon the ground as her legs gave out before her. She knew the consequences of the Calamity Burnout, and had just managed to crawl onto all fours before she retched out a mouthful of blood and vomit, the mixture steaming as if heated in a pot. Her arms buckled next, the strain upon the joints such that she could no longer support her body weight, and in a movement that seemed almost practiced, the monk swung her body one way and tumbled away from her own blood-puke, only to let out another unrestrained howl of pain as the motion aggravated all the muscle pain she had already gone through. And of course, the pollen got into her nose and eyes next. Even with Markus’s cleansing magic at work, it was enough to irritate her eyes and nose, tears and snot burst out from her facial orifices like a tap at a busy tavern. The coughing was the worst though, each fit of hacking triggering another painful wheeze that only drew in more pollen to cause more coughing, bloody spittle splattering upon vines and roots.

Was it any surprise that Ayn ended up curled in a fetal position, snivelling and sneezing as the pain washed over her? And her only solace, that of a dramatic victory against a treant as a newcomer of an adventurer?

That too didn’t last long, when the second treant collapsed a few feet away from her, and she could see through blurry eyes the form of Leonel, who certainly wasn’t suffering nearly as bad as she was.

Like man!

If it was going to be like that, she should’ve tried to get two in one!

 

[Shotgunpenguin]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple (Exterior/Trading Post)
DATE—Early Summer
TIME—9:57/10:22

Lucas Decovo

Level 3 | Alchemist/Supporter
Status: Excited, Happy to see the Doc'
Ki Points 4/4
Spell Slots
Lvl. 1 2/2
Lvl. 2 1/1

TAGS The Regal Rper Daddy Dream Megilagor Sir Les Paul

Lucas listened as the trio introduced both themselves, as well as described what they brought to the table in terms of strengths and magics. He wasn’t familiar with what Ake called the memories of his ancestors giving him access to their magic. He knew of patrons that gave others access to their magics for a price, but in Ake’s case it seemed as if he was drawing his magic from his ancestors themselves. Compared to that, Malikron and Roika’s explanations were a lot easier to understand, with both being based in druidic magic.

However, when it came time for their final member to introduce themselves, Lucas was left waiting as it seemed the mouse eared demi-human had departed. Whether she was never actually a member of the group he was to guide and just a curious mouse, or whether she had gotten cold feet and decided against descending. In the end, it was his job as a guide to guide those present through the dungeon. If she decided to rejoin the group later or return to wherever she had came from, it was entirely her decision. All he could do now was work with what he had and decide how they would proceed when traveling through the dungeon.

Ake would serve as their vanguard and primary striker, both keeping most of the attention on himself and being responsible for facing most threats head on. Malikron could act as either a scout with his rat form, or as an alternative vanguard if his other forms proved to be as effective as his rodent was. However, if they were as limited as he claimed they were, it might have been a better idea to keep him in their backline alongside Roika, both to offer support and to help defend her should she come in harm's way. Of the druid, he would have to wait and see the extent of her magic before he would determine how much of an eye he had to keep on her.

With that formation, Lucas would be able to slot himself into whatever position the group would need once they descended. Whether they needed more offensive capabilities with him alongside Ake, to serving as backline support for the rest of the party, or acting as a forward scout should they come across something suspicious. They could shift around and finalize this formation as they descended, but for now it would serve as their base. Nodding his head, he spoke to the group.

“Okay, I think I have a good grip on how we’ll proceed.”

“My magic is more suited to support and area control, either by turning the terrain treacherous to our foes or advantageous to ourselves. Should that fail, I also carry a plethora of useful concoctions and compounds with me.” Lucas patted the leather bag at his side, its small size contradictory to the sheer amount of items stored within it. It was a wondrous thing, a durable bag with a magic that was coveted by adventurers and merchants alike. A bag of holding. “Additionally, while I doubt I can match Ake in strength, I am confident enough in my abilities in a fight. As such, Ake will act as out forward vanguard should we encounter trouble. Malikron and Roika will act from the back-lines. I will fill in for whatever category we have need of at the moment.”

It was a slight shame that the demi-human wouldn’t be joining them, but there was nothing to be done about it. They would just have to proceed as they were. “If there’s nothing else, we can descend into the dungeon. We just have to make a quick stop at the Trading Post before we descend below the first floor. It hopefully shouldn’t take too long.” While his business at the above ground market had been concluded, he still had obligations to fulfill once they entered the dungeon itself.

---

As the bright and crisp air slowly gave way as he lead the group into the temple, Lucas made sure to give the group a moment to adjust to the new sensation that they would feel once the abundance of mana entered their systems.

It affected different people in different ways, or at least that’s what he was told when he had first felt the sensation. To some it felt as if a weight had been lifted from their shoulders that they never even realized that they were carrying. Others experienced a sort of high, like a rush of smelling salts that instantly blasted away any mental fatigue they may have had. It was an exhilarating sensation, and he could easily remember when he had first experienced it.

According to a woman at least twice his age, armed to the teeth with more daggers than he would have thought necessary, Lucas had looked as if he had just got lucky with a woman for the very first time. He remembered sputtering and going red in the face at her provocative comparison, but couldn’t muster up the nerve to dispute her words. Even after years of delving, he still felt a rush of anticipation whenever the familiar sensation worked its way through his system.

Once the group had gotten accustomed to the sensation entering the dungeon would have brought them, he guided them further through the temple, eventually reaching the trading post. He was quick to point out certain rules and things to observe as they moved past the calls of vendors shouting for attention, of hushed whispering and occasional shouts of a price being too steep. The dungeon market was just as alive as its topside counterpart, with the only difference between the two being the ways of acquisition. There were some who preferred the upper market for the simple fact that coin could easily be exchanged without thought.

But there were also just as many who preferred the lower markets system of trade, a system that ensured a constant flow of products and commerce. A system devised by those who have delved into the dungeon, for those who delve into the dungeon. Lucas considered himself a fan of both systems, as he could see the benefits of each as both a guide and as a merchant.

Eventually, the group would arrive at the tent belonging to the Freemasons. The Freemasons and himself had a cordial business relationship with each other, with him supplying them with an abundance of his own concoctions and creations in exchange for both ingredients, as well as information. Lucas didn’t recognize the brunette that had called him over, but he still made sure to keep a polite smile on his face as they conversed. Soon, the topic came to the status of the shipment, to which Lucas quickly reached into the bag at his hip and produced the wooden box containing a number of healing potions, alongside some more curious concoctions.

Sure, some would probably consider him using his bag of holding this way as unfair or even deplorable. He was essentially abusing a perk of being a guide that many would pay a small fortune to obtain. A bag of holding was not something to take lightly, with their distribution being heavily regulated and monitored due to the sheer value such an item represented. But it wasn’t as if he became a guide solely to obtain such a bag, rather it was just a perk that came from it. He wasn’t a merchant who became a guide to obtain a bag of holding, rather he was a guide with a bag of holding who just so happened to be a merchant.

“You’ll find everything is in order, even the more…. unique requested items.” The order was mostly what he had expected; Large quantities of his healing potions, some anti venoms and toxins, your every day dungeon essentials. However, amongst the potions contained in the box were a few concoctions that one wouldn’t expect to find. As a merchant, Lucas never questioned the contents of his orders, fulfilling them as requested. As an alchemist however, he couldn’t help but wonder who would even want something like what was requested. Something so out of the ordinary, so clearly confusing, that it made him wonder if just this once he should privately ask who requested it.

In the end he decided against it, mostly because if the answer was someone he knew, he didn’t think he’d be professional enough to resist staring at them in public. Fortunately, he quickly found his attention shifting as a bespectacled man who Lucas knew quite well approached him and the brunette. The polite smile on his face shifted slightly, becoming more genuine as he greeted the good doctor with a quick clasp of his shoulder.

“It's good to see you doc’. You always know quality product when you see it.” Lucas was quick to include the doctor in the duo’s conversation, the topic shifting from the terms of the contract between Lucas and the Freemasons to a more casual tone as he asked the man how his own practice was doing.

 

[Megilagor]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple (Exterior/Trading Post)
DATE—Early Summer 07/04
TIME— 9:57/10:22

Ake Sigurd​

LvL 1 | Totemic Warrior

Spell Slots
Lvl. 1 2/2

TAGS Daddy Dream , Shotgunpenguin , The Regal Rper

"Good to meet you all." Ake said when everyone dealt with their introductions, though his face was still cold and expressionless as if frozen by the northern winds.
Ake followed Lucas inside the dungeon, he wasn't exactly in need of anything from the traders inside the Trading Post though what do you know maybe the others needed something, but Ake will need to get used to the atmosphere of the place due to probable frequent need of visiting the area, especially since only through this area they would be able to go deeper into the dungeon.

The news of the everchanging market wasn't something Ake liked, one could not only loose their life in the dungeon but even their money while down here trying to trade up to something, so he swore not to touch that. Unless absolutely needed, he knew he was;'t business savvy so he would leave it anyway to someone he could trust with that.
Ake being a bit dense when it came to magic didn't really feel the world's mana, he had a hard time sensing his patron's mana already so sensing the most natural form of mana that was everywhere and in everything at all times was impossible to him, even though with such quantity and quality even he felt it albeit faintly. Yet even though this faintness he felt invigorated, as if he could sling his axe like a boomerang or one of those ' yo-yo's ' or whatever they were called, or even hurl a hundred firebolts back to back. Even one Goliath such as him needed mana, so the dungeon proved to be a great proving ground for Ake.

The area within the floor which housed the Trading Post was something else. But enough of getting your head lost in the clouds he had a guide to follow, so Ake followed Lucas up to the Freemason tent, knowing he should not enter but being let in by the fact he was with Lucas he entered, but the bag of holding did surprise Ake. Back where he is from he only heard stories of them, sure they had some pouches of storage, but their capacity, durability, and many others left a lot to improve compared to the bag of holding, especially since the pouch of storage didn't alleviate any of the weight of items stored inside of it.

"If I'm little then you are a bear. And you can see what happens to bears who poke the wrong goliath." Ake replied partially as a jest, partially as a threat, bugbears weren't exactly a welcome sight in his village back north, often inviting or creating trouble to his village. As to prove a point Ake pointed to the bear skin which draped his shoulder and back, so the bugbear would piss off.

"You aren't my type either, I prefer them furless, so now please turn around and go back where you came from. " Ake spoke to bugbear Kal, he wasn't exactly pleased with the bugbear's interest in him, especially since even this dense Ake realized the bugbear was 'swinging his shot' at him. Whatever that actually meant, though he knew he preferred to be away from a perverted bugbear. Only then did he see the bugbear friend's look of sorry, utter annoyance at the bugbear, and defeat. If he could not leash his bugbear friend then Ake would gladly take him down a head or two. Though they were in the Freemason's tent, which meant those two at least have dealing with them if they arent a part of them. So straight-up violence here flew out of the proverbial window.

 

[Haze-]

LOCATION— Amaric Temple (5th Floor)
DATE— Early Summer
TIME— 1102

⚜ Leonel Blackmane ⚜​

Level 2 | Guardian-Paladin
Status: Rabid
Spell Slots
Lv. 1 0/3

TAGS ERode Sir Les Paul November Witch Carolyn

White light flashed, flooding into every corner of the room for one eye-searing snapshot. One swipe wasn’t enough to end it cleanly. The beast’s skin was as tough as tree bark; even tougher on the inside; stumbled and ran like a man stripped of all will to fight. Squealed like a doe scared out of its wits.

So the black lion gave chase.

Leonel stood beyond the flash, holding the charred form of the immature treant by the nape. Limp now, its wiry limbs dangling lifelessly as divine flames from the smite still lingered to gnaw away at its roots. He wrangled clawed fingers along the tangle of burnt vines, evened out a squeeze, clamming them hard into a clenched fist until the thing’s head popped loose from its body. It was a grotesque ordeal. Unlike a paladin, almost. But what else was there to be expected from the depths of the dungeon.

In a way, he still felt himself unworthy to stake such casual claim of the light for his oaths. Still felt like a crusader, still a lion knight. Brutal. Full of anger. Not how he envisioned the grandness of the oathsworn; the righteous and holy paladins. The orphans of the church would turn and run from him if they saw him now, gawked at the lightless, muddied gloam of his ‘saintly’ armor. Markus had said it himself, the dungeon was no place for the theatrics of plated armor.

The brilliance of Espel’s light always looked dim when he wore it as a blade, and doubt was still a blight on his mind. He couldn’t be the ideal archetype of the paladin. Not the peerless holy blade of Espel, cutting down evil with one fell, almost gracious swoop. No, not just yet.

The dungeon was no place for hesitation either— he snapped back into the now when the metallic clang of dual blades caught his ear. He whipped his head around, wide eyed, white flame caught on the sheen of flash-sweat on his brow. It was their monk, strewn on the ground next to a pool of their own blood and vomit, rasping and whimpering like every shuddering breath were an agony.

Regret immediately hit him. There was a chance he could’ve dealt with both treants himself if he still had his sword by his side. Maybe Ayn would’ve been up on her feet had he not been a reckless idiot. The moment her eyes locked with his, he was already moving in to cover her, hunkering down, planting a knee and bringing the shield in front of them.

He looked at her over his shoulder, casting a deep frown down at her, feeling th half-purified pollen like it were only dust caught in his throat. The two bowmen would likely send arrows their way if he carried her back to Markus. On the other hand, it’d be him leaving her miserable to choke on her own breath and the pollen if he decided on taking the rest of the mossmen head on.

Once again, unlike a paladin. Leonel clicked his tongue. He had to finish this, and quick, at that.

He reached back to clasp a hand on her shoulder — “O lodestar…—” — muttering a quickened prayed under his breath, starry wisps falling over her. A wash of warmth and enveloping numbness easing the pain spread throughout her body, until there wasn’t a feeling at all. All he could offer was to shoulder her suffering.

It hit him all in one go once he stopped chanting, his eyes near rolling to the back of his skull. Stifling a shout, having to steady himself not to keel over. His legs trembled as he stood, head throbbing as the phantom pains started rippling through. Like lightning had split him clean in twain and he’d been knit back together the moment it was through.

Unlike Ayn, the pain wasn’t real. His limbs still responded, no matter how loud his mind shrieked in agony. His headspace took most of the hit from it. He was seeing stars, could barely even call back to Markus to keep watch of Ayn.

Ears ringing, head pulsing, pupils shrunk, huffing and drooling through his clenched teeth like a rabid dog— Leonel stumbled into a dash, shield ahead of him. Pumping the legs out of raw anger and adrenaline. He lowered, scooped up his still flaming sword on the way and snapped it at the first mossmen he laid eyes on.

One, two slashes. Hacking the first just above the navel, sword getting caught mid-way through the vines before it fully cut through. Swiping the second with his claw crossing over and flashing above the neck.

Spoiler: spells casted

Cantrips -
.| Burden Bearer

 

[Daddy Dream]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple Trading Post
DATE—Early Summer

Rioka Yorel​

LvL 1 | Spore Druid
Spell Slots
Lvl. 1: 3/3
Pact: 1/1

TAGS Shotgunpenguin | @AzaleaWonderland | The Regal Rper | Megilagor

Rioka listened once again to Lucas as he explained his position in the group and assigned where she was to be when trouble occurred. It worked out well for her, especially since she discovered she is better when she isnt the center of attention. Being able to hinder the opponents is more difficult when they are charging at you. So, as she was being appreciative of her placement, she did not mentally prepare for where they were entering and immediately felt like she walked into a wall of thick mana. Her body felt both invigorated and sluggish, causing her breathing to catch and her body feeling like it was being thrown in a windstorm. But as fast as the feeling came, it vanished just as fast, leaving her feeling more lively than when she entered.

After the group was adjusted to the atmosphere, she followed behind them quietly and looked around the area. The groups all had their desire for privacy and, judging by what Lucas warned them about, the ability to enforce it. There was the occasional glimpse inside the large canvas structures when people were coming and going, but that was it. Enough to leave one curious but not enough to investigate. Her red eyes turned forward when they entered the Freemason abode, once again observing what was going on around them.

Lucas had been called over by a woman who exchanged a few words with him before he pulled out a wooden container, clattering with glass vials. Rioka tilted her head some to try and catch a glimpse of what was being exchanged, but as she was doing so, another gentleman entered their conversation and blocked her sight. Resigning to not prod any further, she turned her attention away and realized she was now standing with Ake. The man was quite a bit larger than her and made her feel as if she was a twig standing near a large oak. He glanced up at him briefly to catch his features since she really didn't take time to look at him before, however two other Freemason members approached them.

Rioka's attention quickly turned to the larger being, a bugbear, that immediately tried to square up to Ake with a few weak words towards his height. She only gave a sigh and allowed her eyes to drift toward the human man in front of her. A relatively mundane man in terms of features seemed to had gone through a series of emotions the moment the bugbear opened his mouth. However, the words that came out of his mouth didn't really seem all too flattering either. Suggesting for the bugbear to turn his attention to her as a more appropriate target didn't quite rub her the right way. She tilted her head curiously before speaking, ignoring the 'not my type' comment from the bug.

"My, you seem to believe that the bug would want to show interest in me over my companion here. Wasn't he the first one to beeline over here for him? It seems he is tired of the smaller bodies wandering around here unable to quelch whatever unsavory desires he had going on in his head." Rioka gave a bit of a sigh, patting the human on the shoulder. "Alas, I do understand jealousy, albeit its quiet questionable in this situation." Her face showed concern, but her eyes flashed with a light of mischief as she pulled her hand back and shook her head.

 

[The Regal Rper]

Malikron | Amaric Temple, Meeting Point | 9:15 AM

With the organization of their descent made, Malikron followed suit next to the smaller Elf as their group entered the depths below, making way for their destination to the Trading Post.

Much like ascent, the descent was filled with much to see. As his first dungeon delving experience Malik took note of all things he saw as they made their way to the intended spot. It was the rules and warnings Lucas offered about the various trading factions as well as the system delvers used to earn some profit here in bartering that had Malikron listening closely. The Freemason's were a sort in particular he wasn't sure if he heard before but the only assumption he could take was they were closely linked to the Stonemasons of Ardynport, which from all he knew of that sort was better not to mess with-- more so as a foreigner.

The surge of mana though, had him covering his mouth to prevent anything unflattering from possibly slipping and then with a shifting gaze replacing it with a feigned yawn. The experience alone spoke of how rumors did not measure up to the experience. At the same time, he was really most glad to have embarrassed himself by producing a sound.

In the background of the exchange of the brunette, that was where Malikron felt the nudge. A pressing touch on his shoulder that sent a jolt through and made his eyes jerk immediately in the direction past the brunette, towards the man in glasses. The doctor, and it hardly mattered to him of Lucas's friendly status. The sight of Doctor Alessandro made his blood boil, his eyes furrow into, his lips turn, there was only practice in maintaining decorum in expression that kept Malikron from truly expressing all the distaste, displeasure, and fury he felt all in that exact moment and made it seem instead as if he were squinting to see the man clearly.

It was only the fact they were in public and Lucas's warning from before that kept him from trying to approach, trying to even greet and introduce himself. There was only a certain level of restraint that stopped immediate impulse control.

Malikron let out a controlled exhale through nostrils. Touched his forehead as if he were beginning to feel a headache because maybe he was.

A glance at the man had the feelings return, so intense too.

Closing his eyes and breathing deeply, he exhaled.

Blood would have to spill, the question was when. When could he do it, how could he do it unnoticed? After they left here what was the likelihood he would see this man again further along the Dungeon path?

He was completely ignorant to the conversation Ake and Roika were having entirely with the bugbear and their human company. He didn't quite care what stranger was hitting on who in his party at the moment. He needed to figure out a way to do this, and so he merely listened in patiently on the casual conversation Lucas was having.

Mentions: Sir Les Paul Shotgunpenguin Megilagor Daddy Dream

Interactions: n/a

 

[Sir Les Paul]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple (1st Floor, Trading Post)
DATE—Early Summer, 07/04
TIME—1023

The response from Ake was perhaps not scathing, but it was far from warm. In truth, it wasn't even coarse until the very end when he requested the Bugbear return from whence he came. What the Goliath likely didn't anticipate was that a coarse response of any kind would only entice the Bugbear that much more.

Bugbears were interesting creatures. Some races had scales or feathers, Demi-Humans famously had fur, but none had quite as much as any Bugbear. Still, the hairy humanoid was more human in appearance than Dragonkin or Reptilian races, yet their features of fangs, a broad build, and long ears made them more alien in appearance than even Orcs. It put them on the fringe of what most Human society would accept, which itself put them in an odd position given that Bugbears held their freedom and rights—especially in the South, so the Borosi Empire which Ardynport was now a part of—much more so than other races, including that of elves and demi-humans.

All this to say that they were generally accustomed to adversity. Some even thrived in it.

Kal, for instance, only smirked at the rebuke Ake gave him. He crossed his arms, waiting politely for both Ake and the small female companion to finish. His long, pointed ears tilted back slightly, his sharper teeth shown through his smile, his larger nostrils flared out ever-so slightly, and his eyes did widen just the smallest bit under his thick brown. While he thought of his own response, he lifted his hand to stroke his bearded, favoring his left cheek with his palm as it floated downward, now hovering at the base of his facial hair. Only now might one notice that he did seem to actually keep his hair somewhat trim, especially around his chest, likely to help him fit into armor. Granted, if one had never seen a Bugbear, they may not know just how long and thick their hair could get.

"Well, I prefer them strong and prickly," Kal responded, not taking the initial rejection as immediate failure. "Besides being thrown around, who said I wanted to do the—"

The human man was not about to allow that type of filth to spew from Kal.

"—by the fucking grace of Espel, Kal, no."

"No, no no. No."​

He sighed, pinching his nose in frustration.

"We are here to foster relations between the Factions, not for you pick a fight out of boredom," he explained, exasperated. The human, mundane as he may appear, was a very animated in the sense that his body language and facial expressions aided in voicing his displeasure.

"Cal, relations are exactly what I had in mind," the Bugbear replied, straight-faced and blunt as possible.

Cal, the name of the human in this particular situation, could only stare at Kal, the Bugbear, in disbelief.

Finally, he just turned his attention back to Roika and Ake, doing his best (and failing) to hide the frustration on his face.

"I will admit," Cal started, his tone having shifted entirely. The rougher, coarse tone he had taken with Kal had shifted into a higher pitch and a softer tone, "I would have preferred him pay you attention as such would be easier to disregard."

"You are, after all, quite the beautiful elf. It is understandable, agreeable even, to want to approach you," Cal explained, demonstrating an entirely separate side to himself. Honeyed words, flowery language, unclear of if he actually meant what he said or if it was intended to smooth the roughened roads. His brown eyes had to shift up to Ake to give him attention.

"In which I mean no offense, but I am sure you understand my concerns for my partner disrespecting a Goliath such as yo—"

"—Oh no you don't," Kal interrupted, "he wouldn't last five minutes with you in a fight. Don't pretend like you're worried about 'is feelings."

Cal sucked his lips into his mouth, biting his tongue, fighting the urge to spew broiling hot rage at Kal. Their dynamic was clearly strained.

Meanwhile, Lucas was still embroiled in conversation with the Stonemasons. One which Malikron had taken a strong interest in.

Alessandro might have appeared learned, but he did not reflect the expectations one had of doctor. A dark head of hair swooped over to the side with loose curls that bounced when he tipped his head to the side, peering into the top-most box that contained his more exotic requests. The standard potions were easy to investigate. Standard procedure was to seal each layer in a coating of wax, proving it hadn't been opened in shipping. The brunette, surprisingly strong for her meager frame, was lifting each carton up to check this wax seal, ripping it off for later use, then moving on to the next. The doctor was responsible for the rest.

"Ah, I must, my dear Decovo..." he replied, having a particularly thick Borosi accent. Something from the South, the deep South. He emphasized each vowel, specifically Lucas' name, drawing each O with a sluggish fixation.

"Many in your field, they... how to say... cut corners, yes," he went on, "they care too much for gold and not enough for quality. A bad cork, too hot'a wax, too old'a ingredient, an unclean glass. Simply unacceptable for my work." His words carried an almost unfair tone of scrutiny for other alchemists, all things considered. In regards to business, as Lucas had learned, resources like rare herbs were hard to keep fresh in stock. Time and effort were required to clean every vial perfectly and reusing them was nearly essential. Watching wax melt was tedious and dull, easy to burn delicate concoctions, cork was best bought in bulk but it could rot. That on top of the sheer skill it took to create some of his tinctures and essences. Watching a precise heat for a set time, knowing just how much to evaporate off, making sure each ratio was right to dissolve whatever it was he wanted to dissolve. He was no master alchemist, not yet, but his field was one of skill and knowledge. Balancing that with a business was no small feat.

"Your work is impeccable, though... I canno' see even a smudge on the glass or a dimple in your salves. Well worth the Daric," he said, grinning, that tone of his shifting to a more complimentary one. Given what they paid, the attention to detail made sense. Lucas was not yet the biggest alchemist in town, but making a large volume sale like this off the back of a few niche items was well worth the effort. Time-consuming, sure, but a win nonetheless.

"It best be for what you have us pay 'im," the brunette chimed in, shooting a side-eye to the good doctor. Every vial had passed inspection. All that was left was payment. She wasn't hateful, there was a hint of jest in her tone. The shot, if you could call it that, was clearly aimed at the eccentric doctor, not Lucas himself. Once said, she waved someone over from the back. The same relative direction that Kal and Cal had came from him.

Emerged was a man of hair that fell somewhere between a red and a light brown, mostly messy and off to the side, outfit mostly in a dyed leather gear with fur trimming around most of his form. It was not his actual appearance that was concerning, but instead the raw power the man emanated just from being present. He, too, was Twice-Blessed. With him drawing near, the concentration of mana within him due to his seal was immense. Not only did it mean his seal was well-developed, but that he could passively process this much raw mana for no apparent reason. Lucas would know exactly who the man was: Griffith of the Tanning House. Not that Ardynport had noble houses like that, just rich families. No, it was that Griffith was a Stonemason whose family literally owned and operated a tanning house for furs and leather.

He was a powerful Spellsword to say the least. Comparable if not outright greater than someone like Markus. Which then made sense when he would produce the absurdly large bag of Daric that was used to pay Lucas. Griffith held it because no one was going to fuck with Griffith. The new Spellswords likely didn't know enough about delver history to know of Griffith, but Lucas would. Griffith was a swordsman with a magical flame that burned so intensely that it could melt stone and steel as well as burn other lesser magic. There were a thousand rumors about him, like that one could see his breathe even in the summer or that his piss caught fire. There were less truths that circulated around him than there were embellishments, but what was apparent was his capacity for mana. At his level, he was a swordsman that outclassed most mages.

He was the first inside the Stonemason's tent that triggered the innate feeling any Twice-Blessed had around others. Ake, Roika, Lucas, and Malik all knew they were on a team of Spellswords, so there was no reason to act surprised. Griffith was a different story. He was the type of man whose presence could spark the warrior's spirit inside the ancestral memories of Ake or turn the feral instincts of Malik from heated bloodshed into a cowering pup. In the case of Lucas, Griffith was just another transaction. In his early days, he had done some work with the Stonemasons as a psuedo-healer with his potions. He had met Griffith plenty, and while quiet, the man was personable. Human, even. He didn't mind a drink, he just didn't have a lot to say. The type to laugh at a good joke, but never tell one.

The type to immediately make two idiots like Kal and Cal fall quiet.

Shotgunpenguin Daddy Dream The Regal Rper Megilagor

​

 

[Carolyn]

HELENI​

Heleni's light had served as the decisive point of the battle. Without her, the treants would have forced the group to retreat or worse. It was affirmation enough to let someone else claim the final blow against the green tide.

Her concern switched steadily from a bloodshot brawl to damage control. She scanned the battlefield like a hawk. She fixed the strands of hair that fell down to her face while doing so. There, the ragged Leonel and noxious Ayn were on their last legs against the archers.

Heleni prepared to assist them by getting into a running position. Though she was feeling a tinge of exhaustion, her blood ran hot and her legs loose as she burst away from the entrance wall. Each step was a thumping roar.

Closer and closer she went to the archers. Between her and Leonel, she believed the mossmen would target the threat nearest them. Before they could realize it and behind the one-eyed man’s shadow she flanked them.

The arc of Heleni’s following thrust was on the creature that Leonel targeted with his claw. With the tip of her sword pointing forward, she nailed it’s chest and pulled down. Her blade would exit in daring fashion from the pelvis having emasculated the would-be human.

 

[Sir Les Paul]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple (5th floor)
DATE—Early Summer
TIME—1103 → 1124

Markus ⚜ Stonehart​

Lvl. 5 | Supporter-Paladin
Status Focused
Spell Slots
Lvl. 1 4/6
Lvl. 2 3/3
Lvl. 3 1/1

TAGS Haze- ERode November Witch Carolyn

Markus watched in bewilderment. Had this not been a team of Spellswords and a literal construct, he was absolutely certain that success would have cost someone their life or that retreat would be necessary. He could clearly now that each one of them had as many faults as they did weaknesses. Symphony still overestimated her abilities. Had it not been for Ayn and Leonel eliminating the immature treants, they likely would have ended her millennia of life right then. That ability Ayn used was something Markus would have to make some strict guidelines for. Surely there was something else she could have used that wouldn't leave her in her current state. Not only was she a liability, she couldn't proceed in the Dungeon even with a rest and healing. Her decision effectively ended their excursion there. Meanwhile, Leonel brought it upon himself to take away her pain, but for what? His own sadism? She made herself nothing but a liability on the battlefield. Weakening himself for her sake was downright stupid. Heleni was perhaps the least egregious in that she targeted the same mossman as Leonel, a misuse of time and potential.

Then Symphony had the audacity to comment of her approval regarding their self-sufficiency when Markus had directed them following his intervention. He wondered if the wisdom of Espel providing a miracle was in knowing its necessity; the party might just have needed one.

At the very least, the combined actions of Symphony sent the plant core into a type of shock. It would take a few more attacks to truly end it, but at this point, it had one foot out the door and had lost control over all its peripheral appendages. The remaining mossman didn't need cut down, instead, it fell to the ground like a puppet that had lost its strings. Unlike the treants, it could not operate truly independent of the core.

"You've won the day," Markus announced, though his voice didn't carry any excitement or pride. If anything, it was close to sarcastic. Miracle be damned, the performance of the team was sub-par even for a first delve. The encounter was obviously more challenging given all of the unknown variables, but there still certain decisions that defied common sense.

Markus approached Ayn first, knelt beside her, and withdrew two vials from a satchel on his side. Each apparently were variations of a [Bag of Holding] given they demonstrated the same spatial warping around the fingers he inserted into the satchel. One of them was a fairly standard healing potion, though it had a gold band around its seal; an indication it was a higher quality formula. The other was more like a test tube and in it held what looked like a fat root. He popped the cork off the top of the root, slid it out, then had his hand hover in front of Ayn's mouth.

"Gingerscale. It'll stop the nausea so you won't throw up my potion," Markus informed her. His bedside manner wasn't the best, but he clearly wasn't pleased the current outcome. The fact he was treating her at all instead of letting her suffer with a harsh lesson was his kindness. Though, then again, the shame that came with this kindness and the fact Leonel had stolen her pain was likely enough punishment for a warrior.

"I will take care of Ayn," Markus announced again, less disappointment and this time more akin to a drill sergeant, "Symphony, rip apart the core until it bleeds a light blue liquid. Then start ripping off skulls until you have twelve. Afterwards, run a vine through them and tie it off. Crush all the others. That will act as proof and prevent anyone from forging another," Markus instructed, "Heleni, Leonel, gather every bit of armor and treasure you can. Tear apart the mossmen and see if their cores are intact enough to salvage. I doubt we can get anything out of the treants, pods, or main core."

"Which marks your final lesson. What you destroy in dispatching a target will often affect the quality of goods dropped. We are entitled to their armor and any treasures. Anything you damaged will fetch less at the Trading Post. Obviously, the burnt mossmen won't have cores to loot. Making a profit in the Dungeon is a balance of not only kill or be killed, but killing quick and clean to avoid damaging your goods," he explained, the first and only time thus far he had spoke with less spite and more so the stern tone of a teacher.

---

It had proven to be just as Markus explained. Not that many of the goods were in great shape to begin with, but that white flame from Heleni had certainly dealt some damage. None of the four likely knew the markets well enough to know just how much Daric they had cost themselves, but Markus was pretty certain that Leonel might even lose a tear through that eyepatch of his once he saw the cost. Beyond that, it was also as he had mentioned. The first group wanting to contest the spot was there only a few minutes after his party had exited to make a small camp for a short rest. Had that fight went on longer or had they tried a tactic that involved going in and returning, they would have forfeit their full claim to the reward.

Markus had plenty of complaints, but experience was the best teacher of all. Seeing firsthand the problems of their decisions was the best way for them to learn consequences.

Besides that, it wasn't all bad. Symphony was somewhat left out of the loop, but Heleni, Leonel, and even the hurt Ayn were all privy to the influx of experience and mana that came from that fight. Their seals surged with a cool burn, mana poured through them as if it were a faint trace of Unleash. Only Leonel knew what it was like for a Seal to grow, and this wasn't it. That was a different, more intense sensation, but this was similar. Less so for him specifically given it continuously took more to make a Seal grow at each stage, but it held true for Ayn and Heleni. They were closer, perhaps even within the precipice, of their Seals and thus their own power growing. It was a feeling compounded by the wellspring of mana within the Dungeon.

For the mean time, the group was getting a chance to sit around a small fire and eat their rations, rest up slightly, wrap any wounds that needed it. Normally, this was when they would discuss their next plan of action, but returning to the Trading Post was effectively their only option. What Calamity Burnout did to Ayn was not something any of them could heal nor was it something that Markus would purchase a potion specifically for. The type she needed were costly, normally only reserved for the alchemists that make them or Delvers going below the thirtieth. Instead, they would go to the Trading Post, do as they would soon discuss with the loot, and turn in the bounty on the arcane cluster.

At present, they had plenty to discuss.

"First and foremost..." Markus said, cutting through what little small talk they had up til this point. Most of which was from turning away delvers seeking the encounter they had won.

He looked directly at Ayn.

"So long as you are on my party, that skill of yours is forbidden to use. There will only ever be one exception: if it can save the life of your party member. If you refuse this, go find another mentor. I will not have you becoming a liability for the others because your shrine doesn't teach restraint," he told her, laying down the law with utter disregard to her culture or class. He did not care if taking damage was part of her fighting style, there was a limit on what was acceptable. That ability was not.

Then to Leonel.

"You know your sin, Paladin. You are quick to throw yourself on the blade for others. You jump at the opportunity, whether it does good or not," Leonel spat, this time with more venom. He held a fellow Paladin to a higher standard. "You cannot make up for your past by torturing yourself at every turn," he added, if only to make it personal.

He was slower to turn his attention to Heleni. His eyes narrowed.

"You did well enough, I suppose. What little I can point out for your shortcomings are the same sins as Ayn and Leonel. You all burst into battle with Unleash not even considering if it would do you any good," Markus told her, his tone having cooled considerably from the heat he had thrown at Leonel. "Your skillset is more proactive than the others. You may not carve through foes like Ayn or smite them down like Leonel, but your Spells can still change the entire flow of a battle. I heard tell that you outwit bandit chiefs as a Crusader. Use those wits," he went on, providing the most constructive input he had the entire time for anyone, in fact. But, it held value. He saw a lot more potential inside of Heleni than she seemed to make known.

And, finally, Symphony. His eyes narrowed, but not in the same way they did for Heleni. It was not deep thought, but frustration.

"I perhaps should not blame you for the faults we saw in the last encounter. You lot are still new to the Dungeon. A mistake was made in choosing someone in the backline to be a leader. The Dungeon is narrow and small. Leaders need to be both quick and present. Putting you, the slowest of the party who also resides in the back, in charge was a folly. It creates a situation wherein your team is always waiting on your orders, worst off in the beginning of a battle. Anyone in your position would be slower to adapt, anyone in your position would have difficulty keeping up with the flow of battle," Markus told her, though the way he spoke it told a different story. He said he would not blame her, but he did. Though he tried to hide, a touch of truth slipped through. He felt she was a poor decision for a leader. More so, it was a mistake for her to accept.

But then again, this whole situation was about learning. Ayn wrecked her body, Leonel and Heleni weren't setting great priorities, and the three had elected a poor choice of leader. Mistakes that, once learned, shouldn't occur again.

"What I can fault you for is how you fight. You do not carry a weapon—aside from a nearly-useless whip. You rely too heavily on magical threads that any of us can snap with our fingers. Perhaps they are enough to deal with most mortal men, but we are Spellswords and this is a Dungeon. You will need more than your threads, a whip, and a few tricks. I suggest you take your share of the bounty and purchase a weapon from Ardynport, then practice with it. Or, take one of the ones from the fallen Mossman and have it repaired. What matters is that you learn to fight with your full potential. You do not have the offensive might of a true mage nor the skill of a proper warrior. Your threads cannot control an entire fight. Yet, you have significant magical prowess, strength that does not require a Spell, durability that for now is sufficient, and the potential to do some battlefield control. Make yourself greater than the sum of your parts," Markus told her, starting out somewhat rude and demeaning, but quickly shifting not only to suggestions, but of a high-level discussion of battle tactics that demonstrated his own experience. At times, Markus might have came across as a cynical bastard, but there were moments where he demonstrated knowledge closer to that of a tactician than a warrior.

All the while, Symphony had an echo of the past hit her. Words that Markus said that someone had told her once, too. Someone close to her. Someone from the deepest, earliest memories she had. It was a different language, it was a different world, it was a time when she only got to experience life when she was allowed to rest from spinning the threads of her Goddess. Someone once then, too, told her that she needed to make herself greater than the sum of her parts. Not quite in those words, no this language had not yet existed, but the concept was there. Markus was not particularly close to her, if anything, he might have came across as antagonistic. In that moment, though, what he said overlapped with a faint memory of someone who did matter.

"I am sure my advice and ultimatums will cause some uproar... but do keep in mind, you also need to determine what you want to do with your goods. Whine and cry all you want, but there is loot to divvy up. Some parties elect to cash it out, some trade in a portion of their loot for a specific item they want, some keep theirs in a Guild locker to play the market, some just keep theirs as trophies. The bounty will be split evenly, but the rest is up to you," Markus explained, shifting his attention away from Symphony and now back to the entire group. He was sure his input would frustrate them, that's why he saved this quite important tidbit for last. Most people had enough value in coin that it bring brought up as a topic was enough for them redirect their frustrations - if only slightly.

 

[November Witch]

Symphony

~{Constructive Criticism From Centuries Past}~​

Status: Frustrated, then emotional
Spells: N/A
Location: Amaric Temple - 5th floor
Mention(s): Sir Les Paul ERode Haze- Carolyn

As things finally started to die down, the doll’s thread would either retract or be cut off from the finger. She would shove both of her hands into the core this time, and start to pull until it was pulled apart enough to start leaking blue liquid. At which point, she would do as she was told by Markus. Collecting the skulls, running a vine through the, and tying it all off. She would also help with anything else that needed to be done while still in the room.

As the others sat down to begin eating their rations, Symphony elected to stand a few feet away. The warmth of the fire did nothing for her, and she didn’t have the need to eat. So, she figured she might as well stay on lookout, no matter how unlikely it was something would come upon them. She hummed softly, and tapped her right fingers against the wall to the quiet tune she hummed, paying little to no mind to the group. Even as Markus spoke, her head remained facing away from him and the others, but she was certainly listening.

She knew what Markus was going to say before he even opened his mouth. But it was confirmed as he started speaking to Ayn. He was going to lay all their faults out in front of everyone in a condescending way, in hopes they would fix them. After all, shame was a great motivator. Wait, why did she know that? How did she know that? Symphony didn’t have the answer. Likely just another sliver of a greater memory that had vanished along with her soul and body over the years…

He would rip into them for reasons, more or less, justifiable. From what Symphony could put together, Ayn had used some sort of spell or ability that practically immobilized her, and caused some serious issues. Symphony could see the logic in it being banned unless some dire circumstance warranted it. Though, facing away from the group at that time, she wasn’t exactly aware of what this ability did. For Leonel, she was clueless to what Markus was berating him about. Maybe it had to do with the miracles that seemed to happen during the latter portion of their struggles. Symphony could agree using unleash at a better time would have been beneficial for Heleni, but she didn’t really see anything else that she had exactly done wrong or bad. Though maybe she could work on her target prioritization…

But as the heat was turned up on her this time, she stopped humming, and listened. She was being berated about her leading skills. They’d made a mistake, cause she wasn’t ‘quick’ or ‘present’ enough. If everyone felt that way? Then that was fine. She could be removed as the leader. But she disagreed with him. A leader needed to be quick-minded, but physically? It didn’t matter. Present? Yes. But if she’d been pulled into that room instead of Leonel in the beginning, she wouldn’t have been present. What he said made sense in an optimal scenario. But when did an optimal scenario ever present itself in life? Let alone in combat.

Her metallic fingers continued to tap the wall, and their tempo slowly increased. Was it because of the imaginary tempo? Or was she nervous as this man revealed her faults to the world?

“I disagree.”

She said simply, and left it at that, so he could, yet again, continue. This time, honing in on her and not her leadership abilities. While she didn’t like to admit it, he was right. She was still fighting based on muscle memory. When she had more memories. More of her soul. A more intact body. More power. She didn’t need to lug a weapon around with her everywhere back then. She didn’t need to worry about most people or monsters. With those people around her.

Who were they again?

But she would have to adapt and break this habit. She wasn’t as strong as she once was.

How strong was I? What could I do?

She’d likely have to relent and buy some sort of weapon. At least, until she could fix herself up enough and learn how to get back to the level she was once at. Her fingers toyed with the hem of her skirt now, no longer tapping the wall. She had nothing to disagree with this time around.

“I understand.”

No sooner had she finished the sentence had his words unearthed something within her. Her body was shiny, pristine, almost new. At least, compared to now. Her clothing was much more intricate and delicate. A silent night enveloped her, lit by the two moons, and amplified by the white snow covering everything around her. A fir forest, with enough space between the trees to see the moon and sky above. Anything beyond that, detail wise, was blurry, and couldn’t be made out, like a dream. Symphony stood one hand on the brown bark of a tree, and the other held out, watching the snow land, settle, and pile on it. Humming to herself, she had heard the voice say that from behind her. She turned to look, but there was only a white blotchy figure. She couldn’t tell who it was. She couldn’t tell when this was. But her feelings told her this was important. The pang in her chest told her this person was incredibly close to her.

So why can’t I remember?

Anger started to rise, but just as quickly vanished. Symphony used to get frustrated and mad when she couldn’t remember something. But she’d long since quelled that habit. She stared off down the dungeon hall that seemed to move with the flickering light and shadows cast from the fire. For now, she was content to sit in this feeling, and let it guide her mind. Perhaps it would unlock other memories? That did happen sometimes. Strong enough emotions would do that now and again for her. But for now, she wanted to adhere to those words. Not those of Markus. But of that person...

“I’ll make sure I do.”

Oddly, this time her voice was filled with emotion, for whatever reason. Sadness, longing, determination… Facing away from the group, they had no other indicators of her emotional state. But at least she seemed to be taking it to heart, and didn’t seem mad or frustrated. She didn’t say anything after Markus continued speaking to the group about what they could do with their goods. She was in her own little world at the moment. Shutting everything out as she focused on the fleeting feeling. Like a man desperately clinging to the dying feeling of warmth as his fire went out in a blizzard. Inside, she was desperate and almost fearful as it dissipated. But what else could she do?

 

[Merciless Medic]

LOCATION—Stairway to
2nd Floor, Amaric Temple
DATE—Early Summer
TIME—0953

Cole Forrest​

Lvl. 1 | Warlock
Status: Exasperated, Annoyed, in Awe
Spell Slots
Lvl. 1 2/2
Pact 1/1

TAGS EmperorsChosen Prizzy Kriyze Sir Les Paul November Witch

Cole glared at Cecelia. How dare she continue to poke fun at him! He just gave a low growl before ending it in an exasperated huff. He ignored Leander’s playfully flirtatious quip towards the rogue, though he did mentally applaud him for being so smooth with it.

He should take pointers-

No, that wouldn’t do for his own pride.

What then astounded him was Lumina’s magic she showed off. Such control over water, such beautiful flowers she made with them, and not all of the water had turned to ice. He couldn’t help but to watch with widened eyes, interest immediately piqued. Suddenly, the realization hit him.

He had just tried to show off what little he knew of his ice spell to a mage who could control both water and ice like a master. That was embarrassing…

Thankfully, the topic switched to her answering about her clothes, and he was immediately glad his leather armor would be suited for being agile. Plus, he couldn’t get over just how intelligent she was, using loopholes and such to get around having to pay for a team to escort her.

He couldn’t help but stare in awe at the little glowing flower display she made, the flame emitting a chill instead of a warmth. Still, he couldn’t help but to crouch low and look at it more, studying it. His ears perked up as Lumina further expounded upon Cole’s little quip he made earlier, which had him feeling a little called out. Yet, Lumina didn’t call him out, nor did she pin it solely on him, which made him feel a little bit better. He understood her point, at least.

He looked up at her, as he was still crouched with his arms folded over his knees. “So, I heard that the first few floors are easy enough. But you’ve been down there, what should we get ready for before we depart? And are there gonna be camps down there made by guild members to help others rest, or should we not concern ourselves with that idea?” While his ears were still directed towards Lumina, he daringly reached out to lightly touch one of the frozen flowers, feeling his fingers get colder the closer he got to the frozen beauty that sat on the floor.

 

[Sir Les Paul]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple (1st Floor)
DATE—Early Summer, 07/02
TIME—0955

Leander 🗲 Cromwell​

Lvl. 1 | Mage-Storm Sorcerer
Status Excited
Spell Slots
Lvl.1 3/3
Metamagic
1/1

TAGS @Meredith Prizzy Kriyze Merciless Medic EmperorsChosen November Witch

While the lovestruck pup was impressed by the eloquent answers Lumina gave, Leander only found himself questioning her. Her words sounded hypocritic. In one breath, she told them that overconfidence was dangerous. In another, she told them armor effectively wasn't useful. To the sorcerer, these were two diametrically opposed points of view. Not only that, the vast majority of delvers around them had some type of armor, leather, mail, or plate. Even his mage garb was a type of treated leather and weaving. With abundance of evidence that contradicted what Lumina said, it jaded how Leander saw her. She wore that revealing little skirt in a cool, damp Dungeon and an oversized hat to indicate she was a mage.

He had seen this type before. Researcher or not, whatever her other objectives were, she was likely just trying to flaunt herself. Marry a rich man or a delver to fund her endeavors. To get out of this life.

In short, Leander had essentially labeled his Dungeon Guide a whore. At least Neha made sense. Besides, she was a demi-Human. The rules were bent for her kind, not as much was expected of them.

Granted, this was all likely his blue blood talking.

The group had made their way to the apex of the staircase downward. Cole was asking questions about what they might need while they were already at the precipice of the next floor. Surely, their guides wouldn't let them descend if there was more they needed. Right? Surely. Then again, both his guides were skirt-wearing women of questionable origins. At the very least, he could double his confirmation by asking Neha.

Or, so he thought.

Leander searched around, but could not find Neha or Cassius. It then occurred to him that he hadn't seen hide nor hair of Cassius since the Trading Post and he had last seen Neha after they departed the market. Perhaps one wandered off and the other went to find them. In either case, it suddenly meant a third of their group was missing. Worse, it seemed he was the first to notice. Some social awareness from their sultry guide. That hat helped keep tabs of her team so well.

Leander was not amused and the excited face he wore shifted to reflect that. His wide eyes had softened, his lips flattened, and the general happy-go-lucky glow he had faded.

"I would imagine we should get our entire team ready before we go," Leander answered right after Cole had asked, his tone being that of grade school sarcasm. A mean-spirited jest, albeit a light one. However, it was actually not aimed at Cole, but more so Lumina. If anything, Cole was his accomplice in the insult.

 

[Shotgunpenguin]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple (1st floor/Trading Post)
DATE—Early Summer
TIME—10:24

Lucas Decovo

Level 3 | Alchemist/Supporter
Status: At ease, Relaxed
Ki Points 4/4
Spell Slots
Lvl. 1 2/2
Lvl. 2 1/1

TAGS The Regal Rper Daddy Dream Megilagor Sir Les Paul

“Not to worry Doc. I take pride in my work, much like you do your own.” Lucas couldn’t help the small well of pride that worked its way through his face at the doctor's kind words. It was one thing to make a product that he himself thought was of good quality. While he was able to objectively look at most of his work, it still felt good to get confirmation from an unbiased third party. Lucas didn’t know much about the good Doc as a person, but what little he did know was that he wasn’t afraid to call a spade a spade. If he found Lucas’s potions lacking in any way, he was quick to say something. Not that Lucas ever gave him anything to say on purpose.

Lucas took his work with the severity of a man who’s life depended on the quality of his products. As much as he would have loved to believe that the Masons chose to do business with him out of respect for his quality, he knew that at the end of the day they would choose what made them the most profit. All it would take was one bad batch, one spoiled shipment of potions and salves that couldn’t be sold for them to start considering other sources. It was why he put so much effort into ensuring that every vial was spotless, that every cork was the freshest he could procure so that they would last just a few days longer. That, and the fact that people would rely on these potions to help them survive meant that he couldn’t stand the thought of providing a sub-par product.

When you were bleeding out from a gash in your stomach the size of a small dog, healing potions were your lifeline if you didn’t have access to a healer. A potion cut with low quality goods might not be enough to close the wound, let alone halt the bleeding. It was scary to think of that scenario, where your only lifeline failed you and the horrible reality kicked in. With any profession, there were those who cut their potions with cheap ingredients, or even dangerous additives that provided an addictive edge. Even though the potions didn’t work nearly as well as the person believes them to be, the additives trick them into thinking that only the potions they buy from that producer work. Lucas never wanted to betray the trust of those who purchased his products, who relied on them to keep them safe and help them survive.

To the brunette woman’s small jest, Lucas could only huff and give a shrug of his shoulders. Not that he would complain about the hefty sum his products would give him. She waved a hand and motioned for someone to step forward. As Lucas turned his head, he both saw and felt a familiar presence in the dungeons. Griffith, a man of well repute both in and out of the dungeon, approached their group with a heavy looking bag in his hands. He accepted the bag of Daric with a smile and a nod, not bothering to count the amount. The Stonemasons weren’t the type of people who would flake out on a payment, and it was doubly true for the swordsman in front of him.

As with anyone whose name became even slightly well known in the dungeon, countless rumors and tales had been spread about the messy haired man. There were some who had claimed to have seen him single handedly descend to the twentieth floor armed with little more than a broken longsword and the barest of cloth clothing to cover himself. Others claimed to have witnessed his unleash, turning the already impressive swordsman into a nigh unstoppable killing machine wielding a dance of forged steel and mythical magic. There were even some who claimed that he had divine blood running through him, making him some sort of demi-god amongst us mere mortals.

But of course, for every rumor that spoke of his strength or of his skill, there were always those who would repeat unfounded claims in hushed whispers to whoever would listen. Some claimed that he had used his family's wealth and connections to surround himself with mercenaries who did all of his fighting for him. Others claimed that his wealth and connections lend themselves to back-alley deals with unscrupulous individuals to ensure that any threats to his house were taken care of. They were as varied and doubtable as any gossip could be, yet that didn’t stop people from taking it to heart.

Despite all of the rumors and gossip around him however, Lucas held the thought that Griffith was just a man much like himself at the end of the day. One that could easily have coasted through life as the head of his house, but who chose to descend into the dungeon. Whether it was out of boredom, the thrill of descending, or to cultivate his skills, it was anyone's guess. He had his own likes and dislikes, his own quirks that made him who he was.

The gold pouch disappeared into the bag of holding as easily as anything else, with Lucas giving the leather bag a quick pat before nodding to the receptionist. “Always a pleasure doing business with you lot. Make sure to keep me in mind if you ever need another order like this.” Turning his body to face Griffith, he crossed his arms and considered asking the man something, mulling it over for a few seconds before deciding to go ahead with it.

“Say, Griffith. I’m taking a new group on their first descent. Got any words of advice for them?” He asked, giving quick jerk of his thumb to the assembled group, sans the bugbear who’s attempts at either flirting or fighting with Ake, as well as his bewildered partner. Turning to them, he gave a quick explanation of the man for their benefit.

“Everyone, This if Griffith. He’s a pretty well known name around these parts, strong enough to hold his own even on the lower floors. You’d do well to listen to any advice he’d have to give ya’, if for nothing else than to brag about it to others.” Whether or not that would derive them any respect, or have them dismissed as just another letch who claimed to know more than they did, Lucas couldn’t tell. Regardless, it’d be good for them to learn a thing or two while they were still in the relative safety of the Trading post.

 

[Sir Les Paul]

LOCATION—Amaric Temple (1st Floor, Trading Post)
DATE—Early Summer, 07/04
TIME—1025

QUICK RESPONSE: Advice from Griffith​

Griffith inhaled deeply once Lucas had done as much as utter the words "Say, Griffith." He was already sure the alchemist was about to volunteer him for something he would never normally subject himself to. A nervous tick, almost, but he ran his left hand through his hair, pulling it back and letting the front of it fall back in layers. With that gesture, it suddenly didn't look nearly as messy. In fact, it was intentionally layered. The messy look was cut into it intentionally. A fact that might not be so surprising upon second thought; if he was some veteran delver, he likely had the money to afford a haircut at a proper barber.

What might be surprisingly was the fact his hair hid a slightly receding hairline, revealing his age more than his looks did in a more general sense. It was something only shown once he ran his hand into it.

For the moment, he just stayed like that. Arm lifted, hand in his hair, waiting for Lucas to finish his spiel. He wanted advice for a group of delvers. Level ones, at that. It was hard to even think back to his first day. He was a soldier before becoming a delver, so he had plenty of combat experience under his belt before he even stepped foot in the Dungeon.

He exhaled, lowered his hand, and in doing so letting the rest of his hair fall. He shot Lucas a sideways glance. "Fine, Decovo, but you owe me an ale," Grifith responded, in part jest, but it was somewhat hard to pick up on the humor given his overtly serious tone.

"They say a delver ain't worth a damn 'til 'is second season. If you were any other group, I'd leave it that. Tell you to learn the Dungeon leave it be," Griffith said, turning his focus onto the three that Lucas had gathered the attention of.

"But yer Spellswords an' you'll probably get deeper faster," he told them, "so what matters is 'at you don't get too big fer your britches."

"That, and... as your Seal grows, your power will, too. It's easy to rely on it in the Dungeon 'cause it fills up fast," he explained, giving them some Spellsword-specific advice. Which made sense, he was one and it would change the entire dynamic of their experience in the Dungeon.

"Don't. My advice is don't. Even Decovo isn't ready for that type of strength yet," he said, his voice carrying a strong sense of finality. Almost fatherly. As if it were a genuine concern behind his warning, unlike something one might hear on their first day a work. Brothers were few, but coworkers were a dime-a-dozen. The stern tone he offered them was the only way he knew to brotherly.

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