“Hey, bro,” he boomed, clopping over with a lopsided grin on his face, “I bet you’re like me. A fun-guy. Get it? You’re a little mushroom dude. A literal fungi.”
The satyr was a little under six feet tall. Normally Logan would’ve been looking down into the horizontal slit of his beast eyes.
Now? Logan had his head back. He smiled. Well, he attempted to smile; it was hard to tell if it worked with his new face. “Shadowcroft said to keep the puns to a minimum,” he replied. “And for the record, those hooves are perfect for sliding. I never would’ve doubted you. I’m Logan Murray.” He extended one pudgy hand in greeting.
The satyr stepped over and bent down on one goat knee. “Well, Logan Murray,” he said, accepting the proffered limb, “I’m Marko Laskarelis. The pleasure is all yours.” He paused and dropped Logan’s hand, his eyes going hazy for a beat. “Do you realize the first letter in your last name is the first letter of my first name? And vice-versa for the other names involved in this interesting bit of wordplay. It’s destiny that we have met, I think. Yes. Yes! I can feel it in the bottom of my wine cup. Destiny.”
The furry-wristed guy, already a bit drunk, took another long slog from the punch bowl turned chalice. From this close, Logan could finally see what was printed on the front of his toga—THE PARTY STARTS HERE with an arrow pointing down.
Logan had to laugh. “How did you customize your toga?”
Marko shrugged. “When the S-man, old crafty crofty, let me choose my guardian form, I saw my chance to do a little decorating. I have a keen eye for such things, you know. And I do like to party. So, put the two together and bam! A little embroidery later and I’m walking around with a surefire conversation starter. I’m just glad they have booze here. So, which world are you from?”
“Uroth,” Logan replied. “Or we call it Earth. It’s, uh, far away and having issues.”
“I dated a girl like that... far away and having issues. I’m from Sangretta myself, which is like Eritreus, only stupider. But I had fun there, so it wasn’t that stupid.”
“Sangretta?” Logan had to smile. “That kind of sounds like sangria—red wine and chopped fruit.”
“Yes!” Marko drank some more. “I’ll have two. Make both a double. Quadruple me, barkeep, and don’t stop until breakfast. I might as well party it up since I don’t suppose I’ll survive very long. I’m not what you would call competent. Honestly, it’s an absolute miracle I can cultivate as well as I can. I suppose that old saying is true, the gods watch over children, drunks, and fools. I am certainly the last two. Still, I doubt I’ll make it long, even with divine intervention. It’s not like a satyr is anyone’s first choice as far as quality guardian forms are concerned.”
“Better than being a mushroom,” Logan said, sighing.
“No, guy, mushrooms are awesome. I’ve spent some great nights with mushrooms, I can assure you.”
“I don’t know.” Logan’s hands went to his cap. “Is there a mirror in the hall? I haven’t gotten a chance to look at myself.”
Marko laughed. “Gods, I know just what you mean.” He grabbed one of his horns and wiggled his head. “How in the inferno below am I supposed to sleep with these things, hmm? I like to sleep on my side, you know. Not anymore. I wonder if I can sleep standing up? Goats do that—sleep standing up. That would be useful! I’d save a ton of money on beds. At least, I think so.” He tapped at his curly goatee. “Or maybe I’m thinking of elephants.”
A gruff voice interrupted their conversation, slashing through the low murmuring and the uncertain shuffle of feet. “Quiet, all of you. Eyes front and center.”
A formidable gargoyle-griffin-like creature stood on a raised dais at the far end of the hall. He stood upright, legs reverse hinged, his feet ending in bone-crushing, flesh-rending eagle talons. He had huge wings and a lionesque head with a lush mane. He wore heavy silver plate mail, with some sort of blue enamel running around the edges and an intricate dragon crest at the center. A wicked mace hung from his hip, the flanged head the size of a large melon. He looked terrifying, mean, and as dark as the inside of a coffin on Halloween night.
His voice boomed out, sharp and precise. “I said quiet! From this point on, we are watching you, every one of you, and we are grading you. So, you will all be on your best behavior, or you will suffer.”
That sure seemed to get everyone’s attention.
Suddenly, Logan felt like he was in middle school. “I think my vice principal said that same thing to us at one point.”
Marko lightly punched Logan’s arm. “Looks like we’re getting started. Good luck, Logan Murray. I hope you make it. You seem like you’re one all-right toadstool.” The satyr left to go stand with the friends he’d already made. Marko was clearly someone who could make friends with anyone, anywhere.
Logan liked that.
The room fell quiet, and the various monsters shuffled forward. There was no way Logan would be able to see.
He hurried to the side, near where the minotaur and the moth girl loitered, and climbed up on a stack of chairs. Again, he felt his incredible shortness and how fragile his body was.
The gargoyle-griffin raised his claws and spread his wings wide, showing off the spectacular golden plumage.
“Better,” he snapped. “Welcome to Shadowcroft’s Academy for Dungeons. I am Professor Yullis Rockheart, the rector prime here at Shadowcroft’s. We are the finest dungeon academy in all the Dungeon Corps. You may have heard good things about Gadsore’s Institute of Defense or the Crossworld Academy of the Arcane, but they do not have our legacy of excellence.
“Saudrian’s School of Guardians is third-rate, and the Waldorf School of Strategic Learning is a joke—a JOKE!” he roared, the noise shaking the floor. “And don’t even get me started on the shortsighted, myopic curriculum at the Plaguebringer College of the Undead! Nightfall University has given us a run for our money a time or two, this is true, but there’s a reason we’ve won the dungeon games the past three years running.”
Several of the guardians in the place let out a triumphant yell. Logan put two and two together. Somehow, many of the monsters here already knew what was going on and were probably at Shadowcroft Academy by choice.
Logan had to wonder if any of these other dungeon core schools had people who’d chosen the fungaloid guardian form. Maybe mushroom dungeons had fared better at these other institutions.
Professor Rockheart continued. “Shadowcroft’s is the best because we have three things. One”—he stuck a talon-tipped finger into the air—“the best headmaster and staff of any dungeon core academy. Period. Full stop. Two”—another finger joined the first—“the most well-rounded and forward-thinking dungeon curriculum in all the realms. And three.” He paused, face a thunderhead, tone turning dark. “We have absolutely no mercy. Not a shred. You will conform. You will succeed. Or you will be crushed under heel.
“At Shadowcroft,” he continued, “we strictly adhere to Cemoyre’s Constant: only the fit survive. It is our firm belief that only the worthy should be allowed the honor to serve. You will not be coddled at this institution, but pushed to your uttermost limits. Pushed to your breaking point and beyond. My job as rector prime is to ensure this. Many of you will die during your time at Shadowcroft—and likely at my hands no less. Better in here than out there in the real world,” he said. There was no malice in his words but rather a cool indifference—a statement of absolute fact.