| "My biggest tip on dungeoneering? — Wipe your feet. I know that you might be thinking; what’s the point of such a dumb gesture when you’re entering a dungeon? A dungeon that is likely chock full of mud, slime, gunk, goo and froths of twenty different shades? I’ll tell you why you should wipe your feet. It’s a real simple reason. Respect. You need to understand that a dungeon isn’t just some random hole in the ground. It’s not just a cave or some pit. It’s a delicately crafted, constructed place, where something lives. That something is very much alive and very much aware of who is inside of its home. Sure, that something may try to beat my ass every time I come by. But it’s what I need to take into consideration, just as if I were breaking and entering into a cottage as a burglar. There’s a risk to the job. So you can bet your biscuits that I’m not going to make it angrier than it already is by dragging mud in from outside. — Wipe your feet. Thank the dungeon for any chests you find. Apologize if you break anything unusual during a fight. Pick up your trash. When things go sour, those little details might be the difference between you getting sent packing with a bruise on your ass or not being able to feel your body ever again by the time night falls. Call me crazy if you want to. But the fact remains that I hold the world record for being the sole survivor of over seventeen adventuring parties. And no, I don’t tell anyone at the guild how many failed groups I’ve been in if they ask me about my experience. Then, when we go, they always make fun of me for wiping my feet. Joke’s on them, I guess." |
~Interview with [Redacted for privacy reasons], unconfirmed current holder of the record of sole survivorship after party wipes.
| ~ [Rorate] ~ |
Rorate sits on the anqa, riding through the overgrown forest.
Despite the thick foliage, the anqa seems to find its footing relatively easily and wanders towards the east, towards the space where the woodland becomes noticeably denser.
It’s hard to explain, but Rorate can’t help but feel that the trees, thickly lining them on both sides, seem to be shifting and moving the deeper that she pushes into the forest. Not in any active fashion, but rather, the once scattered trees seem to be growing now in straighter, narrower lines. Their branches are woven together, their trunks twisting around each other. It's like their funneling her into a set direction.
Eventually, there is only one path left and it leads straight ahead, down an unnatural alley of perfectly aligned trees.
They’re just as green and as alive as any other trees in the forest. But there is a difference to the ones this far in the eastern half of the wood.
Their leaves seem to catch the sunlight just a little wrong. It is as if the glossy reflections, expected of their smooth surfaces during such a sunny day as today is, just aren’t all in the right places. They’re off by a few degrees, as if the light that they were catching was coming from a source separate from the sun.
The grass, while green and healthy, seems to be oddly… stiff.
Rorate lowers her gaze, watching as the grass that the anqa treads on remains perfectly untouched, the moment it lifts its heavy, taloned feet off of it. It looks like it was never stepped on at all. There isn’t a single bent blade anywhere, not even through any other natural occurrences, such as wind.
The grass is too perfect and it remains that way.
The dark-elf grips the reins of the anqa and lifts her head, holding her shoulders back stiffly.
A witch is a powerful being. It isn’t entirely human anymore. It isn’t entirely inhuman either. It’s a strange affliction that causes a person to become something in between. Reclusive. Odd. Other.
Witches are reviled by society, most of them having been outcast, killed or driven into hiding.
She herself had come here weeks ago, to find a way to die painlessly. Now, she’s going back, dressed as a priestess, riding an anqa.
Rorate looks down at herself.
Life sure is funny, isn’t it?
She almost wishes she had some of that mushroom-brew left, so she could laugh about it.
The forest grows darker.
She gulps, as the anqa carries her into the shadowy part of the wood.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
The larger group of humans are in the hot-spring.
Isaiah watches them swim around, enjoying themselves. They’re a playful bunch and are opting to splash around in play, rather than to just quietly relax.
It shifts its vision.
The straggler who had wandered into the territory by himself is outside, skulking around the tower's grounds.
He’s a hooded figure, carrying a notebook. He appears to be making notes and sketching the place out.
Isaiah looks closely, seeing that he’s drawing a rough map.
— A cartographer?
Maybe it’s some entrepreneur, hoping to make maps of the dungeon to sell?
Isaiah returns to its normal vision.
| ~ [Rorate] ~ |
Rorate dismounts, holding onto the anqa’s reins with one hand and letting her other rest against its body as her wary eyes wander towards the small, crooked house, standing in the middle of the forest, all by itself.
The house is odd in that it’s octagonal, coming together with a pointed roof in the center. It is just as unnatural a thing as the rest of the forest is. But everything about it is just a bit… run down.
The craftsmanship is well-meant, but poor. The maintenance is non-existent and the house looks to be as overgrown as any old rock or fallen log in the forest.
Cautiously, she lifts a hand to knock on the door of the witch’s house.
Rorate notices that her legs are shaking.
Now that she has a will to live, standing here, in the shadow of the creature just beyond this door is… terrifying. It’s terrifying in a way that it wasn’t only weeks ago. A voice inside of herself is screaming to turn around, to get back on the anqa and to ride away from here as fast as she can manage. She even finds her foot grazing back a step, away from the house, her body almost getting ready to leave without the anqa.
— A spontaneous gust of wind breaks through the tight forest overgrowth. The long-traveling breeze blows down a cascade of many leaves and many more colorful flower petals.
Rorate’s eyes go wide.
It looks just like it did back then, when Isaiah had spoken to her for the first time atop the tower.
This is a sign.
Isaiah is with her.
Rorate exhales, holding a hand against her chest for a moment as she feels her heart beat.
The woman nods, steeling herself, as she knocks on the door, having found fresh strength from a well that she had never tapped into before.
Faith.
Rorate knocks on the door again.
She has faith that the divine being who saved her will keep her safe.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Isaiah stares with narrowed, annoyed eyes, as it watches the adventurers traipse around the tower.
First they went to the hot-spring. Then they went outside to kill the respawning wisps a few times. Then they went to the graveyard and walked through it, before heading to the river and scaring away the melusine by looking at it, while it was singing to itself.
The shy monster is currently hiding behind some reeds, waiting for them to leave.
— And now they’re back in the hot-springs, just kind of floating around the water again.
“RED!” barks Isaiah.
“What?” asks Red, flying in. “You don’t always have to yell. Damn.”
Isaiah looks at the entity, feeling a tightness in its own chest for a while. It then sighs, dropping its shoulders.
Why is it getting so tense and upset?
There is still a little time before the eggs hatch. Not much. But a little. Yelling at its helpers isn’t going to be productive or useful.
“…I apologize,” says Isaiah, turning back down to look off of the tower. “I find it stressful, having humans here.”
“Well, wasn’t that the plan?” asks Red.
Isaiah nods. “It was. I suppose I was not ready for it,” explains the entity. “I expected them to walk right inside, to get right into a fight and then die, like the goblins did.”
Red floats there for a while, her arms crossed. She turns her gaze, looking down off of the tower towards the blobs bobbing around the landscape.
“Your problem is you’re watching them,” says Red.
Isaiah perches itself on its branch, not sure what Red means. “Why would I not watch them?” asks Isaiah.
“Why would you watch them?” counters Red. “Are you going to get into the fight yourself? They’re not a serious threat.”
“No,” replies Isaiah. The dungeon will do all of the fighting in this case.
“Exactly,” says Red, flying after Isaiah. She pats it on the shoulder. “Your problem is that your old human side is getting in the way,” explains Red. “That’s why you’re stressing out.” She points down at the blobs. The people. “You’re humanizing them by watching them. That’s making you stress out because you know that they have to die,” says the uthra. “It’s like giving a slaughter-animal a name. Just don’t do it.”
Isaiah stares for a time, processing everything that has happened so far. “…Has it really come to this?” it asks. That it must make what can be compared to a slaughter-house for people, humans, elves, orcs, dwarves, in order to achieve its goals? Was the whole purpose of the passive experience-points gain for the tower not to avoid this?
But those mechanisms are too slow and it only has precious few days left before the eggs will hatch.
“Hey,” says Red. “Don’t ask me. You want to build a giant tower so that you can get turned back into a bird or not?” she asks. “That’s what we’re doing here, right?” The uthra tilts her head. “Because if not, it’s too late to get off the cart now. We’re already rolling downhill.”
“Would you?” asks Isaiah, looking at Red. “If you could get your partner back?”
Red looks at Isaiah, crossing her arms. “Fucking Crystal… never keeps his damn mouth shut.” She’s quiet for a time.
Perhaps that was a rude thing to ask? Isaiah is uncertain. It remains silent.
“Yeah,” says Red, finally. “I’d do anything I could.” She looks towards Isaiah. “You have a chance that not all of us get,” explains the uthra, pointing at the entity. “Don’t pass it up because you’re getting doubts now. You’ll regret it if you do.”
Isaiah looks at Red for a while and then nods.
“Thank you, Red,” says Isaiah, lifting its gaze towards the sky instead. “Then I will simply have faith.”
| ~ [Rorate] ~ |
Rorate stands there, inside of the house. Her robes, white, are bathed in creeping shadows that squirm and crawl along her skin. The darkness of the room moves in an unnatural, unexplainable fashion, rising and falling over her like the crashing waters of the ocean.
The dark-elf stands up straight, looking ahead of herself at the silhouette of a woman, who is leaning back on a rickety, wooden chair that creaks like an old ship at sea.
“Witch of the south,” says Rorate, looking at the crooked, bony figure who sits there. A large, flat-brimmed hat is draped over her head to hide her eyes, even inside of the dark room. A long, thin, smoking stick is held in her fingers, releasing a sweet smoke that smells of juniper and summer wild-fire. “I’ve returned.”
The witch does not speak. She does not lift her head. She does not move apart from the lifting of her arm to take a long pull of the smoking stick. The shadows continue to move over them, together with the thin whisper of rising smoke that slithers through the room.
“Witch Perchta.” Rorate pulls her pursed lips apart, fighting off the terror of her body. “- I want to make another trade.”
| "My biggest tip on dungeoneering? — Wipe your feet. I know that you might be thinking; what’s the point of such a dumb gesture when you’re entering a dungeon? A dungeon that is likely chock full of mud, slime, gunk, goo and froths of twenty different shades? I’ll tell you why you should wipe your feet. It’s a real simple reason. Respect. You need to understand that a dungeon isn’t just some random hole in the ground. It’s not just a cave or some pit. It’s a delicately crafted, constructed place, where something lives. That something is very much alive and very much aware of who is inside of its home. Sure, that something may try to beat my ass every time I come by. But it’s what I need to take into consideration, just as if I were breaking and entering into a cottage as a burglar. There’s a risk to the job. So you can bet your biscuits that I’m not going to make it angrier than it already is by dragging mud in from outside. — Wipe your feet. Thank the dungeon for any chests you find. Apologize if you break anything unusual during a fight. Pick up your trash. When things go sour, those little details might be the difference between you getting sent packing with a bruise on your ass or not being able to feel your body ever again by the time night falls. Call me crazy if you want to. But the fact remains that I hold the world record for being the sole survivor of over seventeen adventuring parties. And no, I don’t tell anyone at the guild how many failed groups I’ve been in if they ask me about my experience. Then, when we go, they always make fun of me for wiping my feet. Joke’s on them, I guess." |
~Interview with [Redacted for privacy reasons], unconfirmed current holder of the record of sole survivorship after party wipes.
| ~ [Rorate] ~ |
Rorate sits on the anqa, riding through the overgrown forest.
Despite the thick foliage, the anqa seems to find its footing relatively easily and wanders towards the east, towards the space where the woodland becomes noticeably denser.
It’s hard to explain, but Rorate can’t help but feel that the trees, thickly lining them on both sides, seem to be shifting and moving the deeper that she pushes into the forest. Not in any active fashion, but rather, the once scattered trees seem to be growing now in straighter, narrower lines. Their branches are woven together, their trunks twisting around each other. It's like their funneling her into a set direction.
Eventually, there is only one path left and it leads straight ahead, down an unnatural alley of perfectly aligned trees.
They’re just as green and as alive as any other trees in the forest. But there is a difference to the ones this far in the eastern half of the wood.
Their leaves seem to catch the sunlight just a little wrong. It is as if the glossy reflections, expected of their smooth surfaces during such a sunny day as today is, just aren’t all in the right places. They’re off by a few degrees, as if the light that they were catching was coming from a source separate from the sun.
The grass, while green and healthy, seems to be oddly… stiff.
Rorate lowers her gaze, watching as the grass that the anqa treads on remains perfectly untouched, the moment it lifts its heavy, taloned feet off of it. It looks like it was never stepped on at all. There isn’t a single bent blade anywhere, not even through any other natural occurrences, such as wind.
The grass is too perfect and it remains that way.
The dark-elf grips the reins of the anqa and lifts her head, holding her shoulders back stiffly.
A witch is a powerful being. It isn’t entirely human anymore. It isn’t entirely inhuman either. It’s a strange affliction that causes a person to become something in between. Reclusive. Odd. Other.
Witches are reviled by society, most of them having been outcast, killed or driven into hiding.
She herself had come here weeks ago, to find a way to die painlessly. Now, she’s going back, dressed as a priestess, riding an anqa.
Rorate looks down at herself.
Life sure is funny, isn’t it?
She almost wishes she had some of that mushroom-brew left, so she could laugh about it.
The forest grows darker.
She gulps, as the anqa carries her into the shadowy part of the wood.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
The larger group of humans are in the hot-spring.
Isaiah watches them swim around, enjoying themselves. They’re a playful bunch and are opting to splash around in play, rather than to just quietly relax.
It shifts its vision.
The straggler who had wandered into the territory by himself is outside, skulking around the tower's grounds.
He’s a hooded figure, carrying a notebook. He appears to be making notes and sketching the place out.
Isaiah looks closely, seeing that he’s drawing a rough map.
— A cartographer?
Maybe it’s some entrepreneur, hoping to make maps of the dungeon to sell?
Isaiah returns to its normal vision.
| ~ [Rorate] ~ |
Rorate dismounts, holding onto the anqa’s reins with one hand and letting her other rest against its body as her wary eyes wander towards the small, crooked house, standing in the middle of the forest, all by itself.
The house is odd in that it’s octagonal, coming together with a pointed roof in the center. It is just as unnatural a thing as the rest of the forest is. But everything about it is just a bit… run down.
The craftsmanship is well-meant, but poor. The maintenance is non-existent and the house looks to be as overgrown as any old rock or fallen log in the forest.
Cautiously, she lifts a hand to knock on the door of the witch’s house.
Rorate notices that her legs are shaking.
Now that she has a will to live, standing here, in the shadow of the creature just beyond this door is… terrifying. It’s terrifying in a way that it wasn’t only weeks ago. A voice inside of herself is screaming to turn around, to get back on the anqa and to ride away from here as fast as she can manage. She even finds her foot grazing back a step, away from the house, her body almost getting ready to leave without the anqa.
— A spontaneous gust of wind breaks through the tight forest overgrowth. The long-traveling breeze blows down a cascade of many leaves and many more colorful flower petals.
Rorate’s eyes go wide.
It looks just like it did back then, when Isaiah had spoken to her for the first time atop the tower.
This is a sign.
Isaiah is with her.
Rorate exhales, holding a hand against her chest for a moment as she feels her heart beat.
The woman nods, steeling herself, as she knocks on the door, having found fresh strength from a well that she had never tapped into before.
Faith.
Rorate knocks on the door again.
She has faith that the divine being who saved her will keep her safe.
| ~ [Isaiah] ~ |
Isaiah stares with narrowed, annoyed eyes, as it watches the adventurers traipse around the tower.
First they went to the hot-spring. Then they went outside to kill the respawning wisps a few times. Then they went to the graveyard and walked through it, before heading to the river and scaring away the melusine by looking at it, while it was singing to itself.
The shy monster is currently hiding behind some reeds, waiting for them to leave.
— And now they’re back in the hot-springs, just kind of floating around the water again.
“RED!” barks Isaiah.
“What?” asks Red, flying in. “You don’t always have to yell. Damn.”
Isaiah looks at the entity, feeling a tightness in its own chest for a while. It then sighs, dropping its shoulders.
Why is it getting so tense and upset?
There is still a little time before the eggs hatch. Not much. But a little. Yelling at its helpers isn’t going to be productive or useful.
“…I apologize,” says Isaiah, turning back down to look off of the tower. “I find it stressful, having humans here.”
“Well, wasn’t that the plan?” asks Red.
Isaiah nods. “It was. I suppose I was not ready for it,” explains the entity. “I expected them to walk right inside, to get right into a fight and then die, like the goblins did.”
Red floats there for a while, her arms crossed. She turns her gaze, looking down off of the tower towards the blobs bobbing around the landscape.
“Your problem is you’re watching them,” says Red.
Isaiah perches itself on its branch, not sure what Red means. “Why would I not watch them?” asks Isaiah.
“Why would you watch them?” counters Red. “Are you going to get into the fight yourself? They’re not a serious threat.”
“No,” replies Isaiah. The dungeon will do all of the fighting in this case.
“Exactly,” says Red, flying after Isaiah. She pats it on the shoulder. “Your problem is that your old human side is getting in the way,” explains Red. “That’s why you’re stressing out.” She points down at the blobs. The people. “You’re humanizing them by watching them. That’s making you stress out because you know that they have to die,” says the uthra. “It’s like giving a slaughter-animal a name. Just don’t do it.”
Isaiah stares for a time, processing everything that has happened so far. “…Has it really come to this?” it asks. That it must make what can be compared to a slaughter-house for people, humans, elves, orcs, dwarves, in order to achieve its goals? Was the whole purpose of the passive experience-points gain for the tower not to avoid this?
But those mechanisms are too slow and it only has precious few days left before the eggs will hatch.
“Hey,” says Red. “Don’t ask me. You want to build a giant tower so that you can get turned back into a bird or not?” she asks. “That’s what we’re doing here, right?” The uthra tilts her head. “Because if not, it’s too late to get off the cart now. We’re already rolling downhill.”
“Would you?” asks Isaiah, looking at Red. “If you could get your partner back?”
Red looks at Isaiah, crossing her arms. “Fucking Crystal… never keeps his damn mouth shut.” She’s quiet for a time.
Perhaps that was a rude thing to ask? Isaiah is uncertain. It remains silent.
“Yeah,” says Red, finally. “I’d do anything I could.” She looks towards Isaiah. “You have a chance that not all of us get,” explains the uthra, pointing at the entity. “Don’t pass it up because you’re getting doubts now. You’ll regret it if you do.”
Isaiah looks at Red for a while and then nods.
“Thank you, Red,” says Isaiah, lifting its gaze towards the sky instead. “Then I will simply have faith.”
| ~ [Rorate] ~ |
Rorate stands there, inside of the house. Her robes, white, are bathed in creeping shadows that squirm and crawl along her skin. The darkness of the room moves in an unnatural, unexplainable fashion, rising and falling over her like the crashing waters of the ocean.
The dark-elf stands up straight, looking ahead of herself at the silhouette of a woman, who is leaning back on a rickety, wooden chair that creaks like an old ship at sea.
“Witch of the south,” says Rorate, looking at the crooked, bony figure who sits there. A large, flat-brimmed hat is draped over her head to hide her eyes, even inside of the dark room. A long, thin, smoking stick is held in her fingers, releasing a sweet smoke that smells of juniper and summer wild-fire. “I’ve returned.”
The witch does not speak. She does not lift her head. She does not move apart from the lifting of her arm to take a long pull of the smoking stick. The shadows continue to move over them, together with the thin whisper of rising smoke that slithers through the room.
“Witch Perchta.” Rorate pulls her pursed lips apart, fighting off the terror of her body. “- I want to make another trade.”
