FINAL CORE : [A holy dungeon-core litRPG] - Chapter 61

~ An excursion into the question of what we should do with the dead, from Sister Samshi’s guide to priesthood

Isaiah sits atop the tower, its wings pulled in close as it hunkers down, peering far over the edge, towards the end of the island.

The road from here to the staircase has been quite active for a while now. Tents and lanterns have dotted the way for many days. But now, the number has increased noticeably. But not just their number, also their pattern.

Adventurers set up their camps wherever seems best. In a nook, below a tree. In quiet bends of the road, near small hills. However, these new tents are organized and tightly built next to one another in small clusters. Lanterns sit, not hung from random boughs or from atop various rocks that someone simply set them down on, but instead from precisely spread poles.

If what Red had said is true and there is really a human army down at the bottom of the staircase, then these must be the first to reach the top of it. Scouts.

But why now?

If an army really is here, then that means only one thing. Everything has gone wrong. But why? While their first meeting was not ideal, it seemed productive enough. The bishop holds a lot of sway in human society, has he simply been ignored or outdone? Or has the man changed his mind, after all?

This is a problem.

Isaiah closes its eyes to look through the vision of a statue. As it does so, it can’t help but wonder if the witch has anything to do with this.

Perchta stirs her cauldron around with a long, stained stick that she had pulled from the forest at random. She had to improvise a little, after all, considering that she had to abandon her home. It wasn’t enough that the creature, the thing that had intruded on her home and life, had destroyed her home. But then it even came there again several times, she can only assume to threaten her.

— She sprinkles some powder from a nearby jar into the bubbling mixture.

She’s dealt with holy types her entire life. Priests and paladins and fathers and sisters and brothers and whatever else they all like to call each other in their little clique. She knows the games they like to play. In society, the church is above the social-order and the ranking members of the organization use and abuse this privilege readily.

The witch-hunts, having come to an end not long before now, were set into motion by them. She lost a lot of good friends because of that.

Perchta taps the stick against the cauldron, narrowing her eyes. She had just wanted to live a quiet, normal life in the north, before the hunts started. But she couldn’t. She had to run. Then, she had tried to just live a normal, quiet life down here, in the deep south. But she couldn’t.

— Her fingers tightly grip the old stick. The end of it that had been submerged in the liquid blisters and peels, the bark lifting off by itself as a slightly smoky residue releases from the dead wood.

“It’s ready,” says Perchta, looking over to the woman, sitting on a chair in this improvised home of hers, which is really just a damp, old cave. It’s nothing like the nice house that she used to have.

The herbalist had collected something very useful for her, and so it is time for her to receive her payment.

Perchta takes a small bowl of the bubbling liquid and walks over to the woman. A deal is a deal, after all. She is a woman of her word. The people of the cities might call her a monster. But she’s seen what they become when the lights go out, the sun sets, and the fires rise. They're ghouls, born from unimaginable horrors.

“Hold still,” says Perchta. “Lean your head back.”

Jizalia, the herbalist, does as told. “Are you sure this will work?” she asks, looking around the room, but focusing on nothing in particular.

Perchta leans down toward her. “Cross my heart and hope to die,” replies the witch. “This is going to sting.” Jizalia fidgets in the rickety chair that smells of old cherry-wood smoke. “Don’t scream,” warns Perchta. “If it gets in your mouth, you will actually die.”

Jizalia purses her lips and does her best to sit still, despite the shaking of her body and the pale, bloodless fingers firmly gripping the wooden seat below herself. Perchta leans in, holding the bowl of steaming, off-colored liquid above the herbalist's eyes.

She slowly tips it over, dropping the first drop of the boiling liquid into her left eye.

Jizalia doesn’t scream. But it does, presumably, hurt a lot.

Isaiah looks through the eyes of a statue, placed at the edge of the bottom of the grand staircase, that leads up towards the island.

Everywhere, people march in uniform, setting up a perimeter, as they establish some sort of massive campsite. Given the sight of the woodsmen that run through the nearby forest, chopping down swathes of trees and bringing the wood back, Isaiah can only assume that they are planning to stay for a while.

There are at least a thousand of them — humans, if not more. There are too many to count.

Isaiah looks to the left and sees people, soldiers, marching around in practiced formations. Isaiah looks towards the right and sees more of them, unloading carriages and carts that sit lined up for as far back as it can see down the road. There are dozens of them, stacked full of crates and boxes. Others are clearly loaded with weapons.

The humans really are attacking. The chances of them just being here on a stop somewhere else are exactly zero.

Isaiah opens its eyes.

“Red,” says Isaiah.

Red, sitting on the branch next to it, her legs dangling down, looks its way. She’s wearing one of the same priestess’ robes that Rorate has on. It was meant to allow her to sell the image of being an acting messenger of the divine easier. “I mean, you know, I told you this would happen.”

“Red,” warns Isaiah.

“Just saying,” says Red. “How about that Red, huh?” she asks loudly, turning her head to the other uthra, who all fly in. “She really knows what she’s doing! I guess we should just ignore her forever.” The uthra nods, content.

“Are you finished, Red?” asks Isaiah.

Red thinks for a moment. “I could go on. But how about if someone throws me a bone here, huh? I think I earned it.”

Isaiah sighs, wanting to get this out of the way. There are bigger problems at hand. “Very well. You were right in your fears, Red,” relents Isaiah, looking back out over its shoulder, towards the distance. “It seems that the humans indeed have come for us, despite all of my best efforts.”

“They’re not attacking yet,” throws in Crystal, lifting a hand. “Maybe they’re just passing by?”

Red’s wings buzz. Several of the smaller uthra are pushed back from the force of the wind, produced by her substantially larger wings. “Fuck off, Crystal,” she says. “You know what this is.”

Crystal rubs the back of his head, looking away.

“What about all of the adventurers and people here?” asks Black. The others look his way. “Beige and I were listening in on them earlier. Everyone down around the tower seems pretty happy about us.”

Isaiah nods. “Then it is as we had thought might happen,” it says, holding out a hand. Magenta, one of the newest and smallest uthras, lands on it. “It seems that the humans have divided themselves into factions.”

“Question!” throws in a sharp voice to the side. Everyone looks over at the uthra. It’s Beige. “Why do we call them ‘the humans’?” it asks. “I mean… aren’t there elves and stuff too?”

Isaiah stares at it for a moment, before shrugging. “There is no reason. It has simply developed this way.”

“’The people’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it,” says Red, narrowing her eyes as she looks at Magenta. Curious. Isaiah wonders if she’s jealous? It wasn’t long ago that she was able to sit on its hand. But she was a lot smaller then.

Ah. Everyone is growing, aren’t they?

Isaiah straightens itself back upright, letting Magenta fly back into the air. “Crystal,” says Isaiah. “How high up are we?”

“Us? You mean… us-us, or the island?”

“The island.”

“Almost three kilometers right now,” he replies. Isaiah nods, looking at Red. “Red,” it says. “I have a special job for you.”

“Oh, really?” she asks suspiciously.

Isaiah nods. “I think you will enjoy it,” it says. "Consider it your reward for being correct."

It's half an hour later. Red hovers towards the northern edge of the island, flying over the dense forest-land that is sparsely used on this side. The north of the island is currently still entirely undeveloped wild-lands. It's mostly the west with the road and the east with the river and the old quarry that get the most attention.

She flies to the edge of the island, looking around for the thing that is supposed to be around here somewhere.

It is pretty big, so it’s got to be hard to miss.

The uthra hovers for a while, zipping around the area until she finds what she’s looking for.

A large, sky-blue eye opens itself next to herself, from inside the rock-face of the outer edge of the floating island. It looks like the monster has made itself a den of sorts here, in the land itself, on the exterior of the island.

“Hey,” says the uthra, looking at the massive monster, the Grand Snowscale Wyrm, that had arrived on the island from afar days ago. “Time to put in some work,” says the uthra, lifting her hands towards the monster that is hundreds of times her size. It begins to stir, rousing from its rest. “Hold still,” she says, using the worker ability she had unlocked at a prior upgrade of hers.

Petty officer Gadrian hoists his rucksack onto his back, looking around the camp and then up at the task before them.

Forget the wars, forget training, forget the dungeon and everything else.

This staircase, this is the real danger. Going up that thing, while carrying a full pack and extra supplies? This is going to be a nightmare. He’s just glad that he isn’t in logistics. They’re going to have a really fun time figuring out what to do with their carts and gear.

He lines up near the front of the legion of collecting men. Hundreds of them sort themselves by rank and group, filing into a massive formation.

Gadrian doesn’t really understand why they’re here, exactly. Isn’t the tower a holy place? His sister had come back to the city a while ago, telling him about it. She had swarmed non-stop for her entire visit, before packing up her things to go back again. Even the bishop had said as much, which, at their dinner-table, holds somewhat less sway than the words of his sister. But he’ll take it.

But orders are orders and the orders are that the tower has to go.

Gadrian sighs, lifting his eyes, as a man, standing on the staircase holds a horn to his lips, to signal the start of the ascent. It’s going to take them all day just to get up there. One or two odd people were able to use some sort of token to skip the stairs, but those few trinkets were rationed and given strictly to the recon teams. The rest of them have to take the long way.

— The man atop the stairs blows the horn.

The machinations of war set into motion.

Hundreds of people step forward in unison, all moving towards the staircase and then up its first steps, the first of very many.

Red hums to herself, waiting a little.

Isaiah had said to take care of it immediately.

But she thinks it’s fine if she waits a little while longer. At least long enough for them to get a taste of the staircase. It’s a tiny, little, itsy bit more suffering that will be added to their lives than if she would just do it now.

However, that’s enough for her. That little drop of juice is exactly what she wants, if she can squeeze it out of them.

She hates humans so much.

The formation has been broken.

It didn’t take twenty minutes before the march, which had started in perfect unison, had simply fallen apart. Walking a parade ground for an afternoon is one thing. But going up a staircase like this is something else entirely.

The very sweaty man looks to his sides, watching the other panting soldiers trying to maintain their composure as they climb the stairs. Most of them are in good shape and are managing well. But some of them simply aren’t as fit as they ought to be, and these individual reductions in pace had led to a cascade throughout the entire formation.

He looks back up the staircase, doing his best not to think about his legs as he takes another step. He thinks he’ll be fine for a while. But this would definitely be a lot easier with a lighter load.

— He adjusts the heavy pack on his back.

But command insisted they take absolutely everything with them, individually. It makes sense, when considering that they would be, in theory, deploying to an island. This would be the usual play in such a scenario.

But this is typical military thinking.

Yes, they are deploying to an island. Technically. But it’s an island you have to take a day’s worth of stairs to reach. You aren’t just sitting on a ship and then jumping off with a full pack.

He sighs and lifts his hand to block out the midday sun.

But before he can do so, before his fingers reach to just above his eyes, the sun seems to be blocked out by something else.

“…Huh…?” he narrows his eyes, looking at the great, long shadow that pulls through the sky. A cloud? He squints. That’s weird, there wasn’t supposed to be a storm to-

“- DRAGON!” yells a voice to the side.

A screaming, massive, white-scaled monster hurtles down from the sky. Its long, snouted face is contorted by a deep, heavy roar that rumbles the world. It comes down fast, moving quicker than the dazed and confused soldiers around him can react. He grabs his sword, not really sure what he’s supposed to do with it in all honesty. But it feels better to have it in his hand than to not have it in his hand as the great wyrm, the size of ten thousand men, barrels down straight towards th-

– The monster, by far the largest he has ever seen, smashes right into the middle of the ornate stone staircase, its long, winding, serpentine body thrashing and flailing around as it destroys an entire section of the stonework.

People around him stumble and fall, many of them losing their balance from the quake and tumbling down the stairs. Gadrian falls down forward, holding onto the edge of the next step for whatever semblance of balance he can get, as he looks up towards the wyrm.

As it finishes its targeted destruction of the staircase that leads up towards the island, having entirely ignored them, he can’t help but feel that it turns its head around to flash them all a dirty look.

— Which is an odd thing for a wyrm to do, all things considered.

The quake stops.

Gadrian looks around himself, trying to figure out what to do now.

A bent metal horn flops down the staircase from above, noisily rattling down the hundreds of steps on its way back down to the ground. People scream as hundreds of them fall down and off of the staircase.

Razmatazz

- - - - - -

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Do we bury the dead? Or do we burn them? It is a question often asked by not only the religious scholars of the world, but also by the more mundane folk who operate the civil infrastructure of the city. In the distant past, burning the dead was considered to be a proper form of burial, given the prevalence of undead monsters such as zombies and reanimated ghouls. Nobody wants to see their close friends and family turn into such things. However, the caveat is that the lack of a body is not enough to stop the powerful magics of the world's ambient DARK currents. If a soul, a body, or a gestalt, has been predestined to become an undead, then burning the body will only alter the type of undead it may become. A corpse that was chosen to become a zombie would then instead simply become a wisp, a ghost, or some other form of haunting spectre that would perhaps be even worse. A zombie can be easily caught and destroyed by HOLY magic or by FIRE. It is no great trouble to return these unfortunate people to their rest. A ghost, however, is far trickier to catch, and that is if you even ever realize that it is there instead of sleeping the deep-sleep. Now, we simply bury them. But graveyards are growing larger and larger, and make attractive targets for necromancers and graverobbers. An alternative solution has been presented, and that is to simply discard all of our corpses by simply throwing them into the dungeons. While pragmatic, this does not seem likely to become socially acceptable any time soon. ~ An excursion into the question of what we should do with the dead, from Sister Samshi's guide to priesthood Isaiah sits atop the tower, its wings pulled in close as it hunkers down, peering far over the edge, towards the end of the island. The road from here to the staircase has been quite active for a while now. Tents and lanterns have dotted the way for many days. But now, the number has increased noticeably. But not just their number, also their pattern. Adventurers set up their camps wherever seems best. In a nook, below a tree. In quiet bends of the road, near small hills. However, these new tents are organized and tightly built next to one another in small clusters. Lanterns sit, not hung from random boughs or from atop various rocks that someone simply set them down on, but instead from precisely spread poles. If what Red had said is true and there is really a human army down at the bottom of the staircase, then these must be the first to reach the top of it. Scouts. But why now? If an army really is here, then that means only one thing. Everything has gone wrong. But why? While their first meeting was not ideal, it seemed productive enough. The bishop holds a lot of sway in human society, has he simply been ignored or outdone? Or has the man changed his mind, after all? This is a problem. Isaiah closes its eyes to look through the vision of a statue. As it does so, it can't help but wonder if the witch has anything to do with this. ~ Witch Perchta ~ ???, Female, Witch of the Blackwater Perchta stirs her cauldron around with a long, stained stick that she had pulled from the forest at random. She had to improvise a little, after all, considering that she had to abandon her home. It wasn't enough that the creature, the thing that had intruded on her home and life, had destroyed her home. But then it even came there again several times, she can only assume to threaten her. She sprinkles some powder from a nearby jar into the bubbling mixture. She's dealt with holy types her entire life. Priests and paladins and fathers and sisters and brothers and whatever else they all like to call each other in their little clique. She knows the games they like to play. In society, the church is above the social-order and the ranking members of the organization use and abuse this privilege readily. The witch-hunts, having come to an end not long before now, were set into motion by them. She lost a lot of good friends because of that. Perchta taps the stick against the cauldron, narrowing her eyes. She had just wanted to live a quiet, normal life in the north, before the hunts started. But she couldn't. She had to run. Then, she had tried to just live a normal, quiet life down here, in the deep south. But she couldn't. Her fingers tightly grip the old stick. The end of it that had been submerged in the liquid blisters and peels, the bark lifting off by itself as a slightly smoky residue releases from the dead wood. It's ready, says Perchta, looking over to the woman, sitting on a chair in this improvised home of hers, which is really just a damp, old cave. It's nothing like the nice house that she used to have. The herbalist had collected something very useful for her, and so it is time for her to receive her payment. Perchta takes a small bowl of the bubbling liquid and walks over to the woman. A deal is a deal, after all. She is a woman of her word. The people of the cities might call her a monster. But she's seen what they become when the lights go out, the sun sets, and the fires rise. They're ghouls, born from unimaginable horrors. Hold still, says Perchta. Lean your head back. Jizalia, the herbalist, does as told. Are you sure this will work? she asks, looking around the room, but focusing on nothing in particular. Perchta leans down toward her. Cross my heart and hope to die, replies the witch. This is going to sting. Jizalia fidgets in the rickety chair that smells of old cherry-wood smoke. Don't scream, warns Perchta. If it gets in your mouth, you will actually die. Jizalia purses her lips and does her best to sit still, despite the shaking of her body and the pale, bloodless fingers firmly gripping the wooden seat below herself. Perchta leans in, holding the bowl of steaming, off-colored liquid above the herbalist's eyes. She slowly tips it over, dropping the first drop of the boiling liquid into her left eye. Jizalia doesn't scream. But it does, presumably, hurt a lot. ~ Isaiah ~ Isaiah looks through the eyes of a statue, placed at the edge of the bottom of the grand staircase, that leads up towards the island. Everywhere, people march in uniform, setting up a perimeter, as they establish some sort of massive campsite. Given the sight of the woodsmen that run through the nearby forest, chopping down swathes of trees and bringing the wood back, Isaiah can only assume that they are planning to stay for a while. There are at least a thousand of them humans, if not more. There are too many to count. Isaiah looks to the left and sees people, soldiers, marching around in practiced formations. Isaiah looks towards the right and sees more of them, unloading carriages and carts that sit lined up for as far back as it can see down the road. There are dozens of them, stacked full of crates and boxes. Others are clearly loaded with weapons. The humans really are attacking. The chances of them just being here on a stop somewhere else are exactly zero. Isaiah opens its eyes. Red, says Isaiah. Red, sitting on the branch next to it, her legs dangling down, looks its way. She's wearing one of the same priestess' robes that Rorate has on. It was meant to allow her to sell the image of being an acting messenger of the divine easier. I mean, you know, I told you this would happen. Red, warns Isaiah. Just saying, says Red. How about that Red, huh? she asks loudly, turning her head to the other uthra, who all fly in. She really knows what she's doing! I guess we should just ignore her forever. The uthra nods, content. Are you finished, Red? asks Isaiah. Red thinks for a moment. I could go on. But how about if someone throws me a bone here, huh? I think I earned it. Isaiah sighs, wanting to get this out of the way. There are bigger problems at hand. Very well. You were right in your fears, Red, relents Isaiah, looking back out over its shoulder, towards the distance. It seems that the humans indeed have come for us, despite all of my best efforts. They're not attacking yet, throws in Crystal, lifting a hand. Maybe they're just passing by? Red's wings buzz. Several of the smaller uthra are pushed back from the force of the wind, produced by her substantially larger wings. Fuck off, Crystal, she says. You know what this is. Crystal rubs the back of his head, looking away. What about all of the adventurers and people here? asks Black. The others look his way. Beige and I were listening in on them earlier. Everyone down around the tower seems pretty happy about us. Isaiah nods. Then it is as we had thought might happen, it says, holding out a hand. Magenta, one of the newest and smallest uthras, lands on it. It seems that the humans have divided themselves into factions. Question! throws in a sharp voice to the side. Everyone looks over at the uthra. It's Beige. Why do we call them the humans'? it asks. I mean aren't there elves and stuff too? Isaiah stares at it for a moment, before shrugging. There is no reason. It has simply developed this way. 'The people' just doesn't have the same ring to it, says Red, narrowing her eyes as she looks at Magenta. Curious. Isaiah wonders if she's jealous? It wasn't long ago that she was able to sit on its hand. But she was a lot smaller then. Ah. Everyone is growing, aren't they? Isaiah straightens itself back upright, letting Magenta fly back into the air. Crystal, says Isaiah. How high up are we? Us? You mean us-us, or the island? The island. Almost three kilometers right now, he replies. Isaiah nods, looking at Red. Red, it says. I have a special job for you. Oh, really? she asks suspiciously. Isaiah nods. I think you will enjoy it, it says. "Consider it your reward for being correct." ~ Red ~ Female, Uthra, Worker {05} It's half an hour later. Red hovers towards the northern edge of the island, flying over the dense forest-land that is sparsely used on this side. The north of the island is currently still entirely undeveloped wild-lands. It's mostly the west with the road and the east with the river and the old quarry that get the most attention. She flies to the edge of the island, looking around for the thing that is supposed to be around here somewhere. It is pretty big, so it's got to be hard to miss. The uthra hovers for a while, zipping around the area until she finds what she's looking for. A large, sky-blue eye opens itself next to herself, from inside the rock-face of the outer edge of the floating island. It looks like the monster has made itself a den of sorts here, in the land itself, on the exterior of the island. Hey, says the uthra, looking at the massive monster, the Grand Snowscale Wyrm, that had arrived on the island from afar days ago. Time to put in some work, says the uthra, lifting her hands towards the monster that is hundreds of times her size. It begins to stir, rousing from its rest. Hold still, she says, using the worker ability she had unlocked at a prior upgrade of hers. Red has used: Mental Charge Effect: Allows the worker minion to take direct control of a dungeon monster's body. ~ Gadrian ~ Human, Male, Swordsman Petty officer Gadrian hoists his rucksack onto his back, looking around the camp and then up at the task before them. Forget the wars, forget training, forget the dungeon and everything else. This staircase, this is the real danger. Going up that thing, while carrying a full pack and extra supplies? This is going to be a nightmare. He's just glad that he isn't in logistics. They're going to have a really fun time figuring out what to do with their carts and gear. He lines up near the front of the legion of collecting men. Hundreds of them sort themselves by rank and group, filing into a massive formation. Gadrian doesn't really understand why they're here, exactly. Isn't the tower a holy place? His sister had come back to the city a while ago, telling him about it. She had swarmed non-stop for her entire visit, before packing up her things to go back again. Even the bishop had said as much, which, at their dinner-table, holds somewhat less sway than the words of his sister. But he'll take it. But orders are orders and the orders are that the tower has to go. Gadrian sighs, lifting his eyes, as a man, standing on the staircase holds a horn to his lips, to signal the start of the ascent. It's going to take them all day just to get up there. One or two odd people were able to use some sort of token to skip the stairs, but those few trinkets were rationed and given strictly to the recon teams. The rest of them have to take the long way. The man atop the stairs blows the horn. The machinations of war set into motion. Hundreds of people step forward in unison, all moving towards the staircase and then up its first steps, the first of very many. ~ Red ~ Female, Uthra, Worker {05} Red hums to herself, waiting a little. Isaiah had said to take care of it immediately. But she thinks it's fine if she waits a little while longer. At least long enough for them to get a taste of the staircase. It's a tiny, little, itsy bit more suffering that will be added to their lives than if she would just do it now. However, that's enough for her. That little drop of juice is exactly what she wants, if she can squeeze it out of them. She hates humans so much. ~ Gadrian ~ Human, Male, Swordsman The formation has been broken. It didn't take twenty minutes before the march, which had started in perfect unison, had simply fallen apart. Walking a parade ground for an afternoon is one thing. But going up a staircase like this is something else entirely. The very sweaty man looks to his sides, watching the other panting soldiers trying to maintain their composure as they climb the stairs. Most of them are in good shape and are managing well. But some of them simply aren't as fit as they ought to be, and these individual reductions in pace had led to a cascade throughout the entire formation. He looks back up the staircase, doing his best not to think about his legs as he takes another step. He thinks he'll be fine for a while. But this would definitely be a lot easier with a lighter load. He adjusts the heavy pack on his back. But command insisted they take absolutely everything with them, individually. It makes sense, when considering that they would be, in theory, deploying to an island. This would be the usual play in such a scenario. But this is typical military thinking. Yes, they are deploying to an island. Technically. But it's an island you have to take a day's worth of stairs to reach. You aren't just sitting on a ship and then jumping off with a full pack. He sighs and lifts his hand to block out the midday sun. But before he can do so, before his fingers reach to just above his eyes, the sun seems to be blocked out by something else. Huh? he narrows his eyes, looking at the great, long shadow that pulls through the sky. A cloud? He squints. That's weird, there wasn't supposed to be a storm to- - DRAGON! yells a voice to the side. A screaming, massive, white-scaled monster hurtles down from the sky. Its long, snouted face is contorted by a deep, heavy roar that rumbles the world. It comes down fast, moving quicker than the dazed and confused soldiers around him can react. He grabs his sword, not really sure what he's supposed to do with it in all honesty. But it feels better to have it in his hand than to not have it in his hand as the great wyrm, the size of ten thousand men, barrels down straight towards th- The monster, by far the largest he has ever seen, smashes right into the middle of the ornate stone staircase, its long, winding, serpentine body thrashing and flailing around as it destroys an entire section of the stonework. People around him stumble and fall, many of them losing their balance from the quake and tumbling down the stairs. Gadrian falls down forward, holding onto the edge of the next step for whatever semblance of balance he can get, as he looks up towards the wyrm. As it finishes its targeted destruction of the staircase that leads up towards the island, having entirely ignored them, he can't help but feel that it turns its head around to flash them all a dirty look. Which is an odd thing for a wyrm to do, all things considered. The quake stops. Gadrian looks around himself, trying to figure out what to do now. A bent metal horn flops down the staircase from above, noisily rattling down the hundreds of steps on its way back down to the ground. People scream as hundreds of them fall down and off of the staircase. Razmatazz ~ Note for Occultists{WYRMS} ~ Wyrms. Not to be confused with worms. What we are calling a wyrm in this story, in the context of dragons, is a long, snake-like draconic entity that is akin to what you would imagine an eastern-dragon to look like, but its smoother and less ornamental. Big snek. In common modern English, a wyrm' is a wingless dragon, often, they are flightless and are often depicted as some variant of a sea-serpent. However, an intermingling with eastern mythology has actually allowed the modern image of the wyrm to become a wingless, flying entity, as the western and the eastern images of these serpentine dragons intermingled into what we have here today. Although this is hard to pinpoint as being exactly the reason. It's more likely just a helpful nudging influence. We can actually see a flying wyrm in Swedish mythology, the goddess Hyrrokkin uses flying snakes to move through the sky. Although, Hyrrokkin's appearances are first only found later on, during the late eras of Icelandinc mythology. The word wyrm' stems from the proto-germanic wurmiz', which then deeper stems back towards India. It's fun, if you go deep enough, almost every old european myth stems back to somewhere from India eventually But let's head back up north for a moment, as you know I like to make a lot of stuff here Germanic or Nordic. Specifically, lets go to Scandinavia again, where some of our other trivia have often stemmed from. In the Ffnisml, another mythological poem of the Edda Remember our dark-elf trivia? Norse mythology is almost all written in poetry. It's very fascinating! there is a great dragon called Fafnir. Fafnir is a flightless, snake-like type of dragon that is called Ormr. Mute that O' a little in your mouth as you say it. It sounds a little like Wyrm', no? Words are fun! Fafnir gets wrecked by the hero Sigurd Who we talked about in an older trivia, if you've been paying attention in what is one of the first classic 'hero slays dragon' stories! In the later tale, Beowulf, the dragon there is actually called Wyrm, specifically. But Beowulf is a whole trivia in and of itself. Maybe we'll get one later on? What is fun though, is that this simple snakelike' version of the dragon mythos is likely, in my opinion, the very first concept of a dragon-like monster to have ever existed. The more intricate variant of a dragon that we know from European mythology, being a fire-breathing entity with wings and legs, was actually a much later evolution of the concept that came about during the romance period of European mythology, fueled by the christianisation of the continent. We can see this, because the dragon of Norse mythology that is said to gnaw on the roots of the world-tree, Nhggr, was actually added to the Norse cannon later on. He was a retrofit, to adapt the Norse mythos towards Christian ideology which was spreading towards the north. Dragons are a big topic, so I have to stop here. But we'll have another, real dragon trivia soon! - - - - - - Apple, Kobo, Barnes and Nobles and other platforms here!