Welcome to the Mad Party of the Dark Muse’s Depravity!
An entry room was an important statement in a dungeon. Rockheart was of the mind that the entry was meant to be welcoming in its way—to lure the prospective dungeoneers deeper into the labyrinth, before springing shut the jaws of defeat. That was how Arketa taught the introductory Underground Feng Shui course, which naturally meant most first-years employed those same tactics in their Winnowing final. Yet there was no reason to do so. These dungeoneers didn’t need to be enticed—they were running the dungeon as a matter of survival—so putting them at ease was wasted effort.
The four troublesome cores had been smart to realize that.
Erejam stood with this gnarled staff, the tip glowing and making his oiled black beard seem even more oily. His jewel-encrusted robes glimmered. He frowned as he read the name of the dungeon. “The Dark Muse. So, there will be artwork. Artwork displeases me.”
The Vampiric Runecaster shot Rockheart a glance. “Feel free to use your talons, Tearclaw, to rip apart any paintings we find.”
Rockheart nodded. He was trying not to talk. It was a good thing that the cat man he was impersonating hadn’t spoken much before Rockheart had assumed his identity. He’d had to alleviate the fears of the other raiders when he returned, but he’d won their confidence with ease. He had spent more years as a professor than most of them had been alive, and he knew all the words to speak. All the lies to whisper. He was giving intel, he’d said. Apparently, the gargoyle has a vendetta against whatever dungeon we’re running. He wants us to succeed. And he says it’ll be worth our time if we can win.
They were fools, easily manipulated.
“Gods, but this place is awful,” the rogue, Flynn Corry, said, glancing around at the nightmarish dungeon entrance. The man carried no apparent weapons and wore no apparent armor. But Rockheart noted the eight rings sparkling on his fingers—three of which were magical in nature. “Puts my teeth on edge.”
The thief wasn’t wrong. Truly unsettling work, and Rockheart was grudgingly appreciative of the mastery at play. The rector prime turned his gaze away from the room and took stock of the rest of his comrades, wondering if they would have the skills and power to finish the task.
Orem Leadblade, a dwarven Earthbinder in heavy plate mail, stood ready to fight with both an enchanted stone hammer and a shield crafted from crystalline glass. Ekli Oreniel, a half-elven Wood Warden, held up her rune-etched scimitar, which cast watery blue light across the ground. Their heavy hitter was a half-orc Blademaster called Lyndagg the Skinner. She had an armory worth of obsidian knives sheathed on every part of her sleek ebony armor, striking against her green skin. Besides her knives, she had a curved sword riding one hip and a wicked serrated buckler strapped to one beefy forearm.
They were certainly formidable in appearance, though in truth, those four were only C-Class raiders. All highly ranked, true, but C-Class Iron Trunks, nonetheless. Only Erejam and Rockheart were B-Class. Still, these were the most dangerous of the lot. If they couldn’t beat Logan and his ragtag crew of misfits... Well, that didn’t bear thinking on.
Flynn Corry adjusted his well-coiffed hair, making sure it was as dashing as ever. “Well, I’m not sure what’s going on here, but I’m glad we have two Azure Branch cultivators with us. Especially the great Linraist Erejam.” He tipped his head toward the Vampiric Runecaster. “How many times have you survived the Slaughter Pits?”
Erejam scowled. “More times than I can count. Nasty place, the Slaughter Pits. Each time, though, I delve farther in. Unlock more of its secrets. I will be victorious one day.”
“I have no doubts on the matter, good sir,” the rogue agreed. “But first, you’re going to get us out of this mess, right? You and Tearclaw?”
“Of course,” the Vampiric Runecaster said. “This is an odd sort of place, but it holds no danger to one such as myself.”
Lyndagg banged her weapon on her shield. “Well then, why do we tarry? This talk does nothing. And I, for one, am not afraid of dead bugs and a jester’s puppets!”
From somewhere in the darkness beyond the archway, a slow rhythm started. Closer, far closer, an eerie disembodied flute started piping a maddening tune.
The eyes of the two white-faced puppets suddenly gleamed scarlet. Red swirls painted their cheeks, giving them a weirdly cheery appearance. The puppets, only a few feet tall, shivered to life in strange herky-jerky movements. Both danced out of the slop and started to sing along with the tune.
Welcome you!
Welcome to...
The mad party of the dark muse singing!
The mad party of the dark muse bringing...
Death and darkness to all you heroes
We’ll kill you quick and then have beer, ohs!
The puppets danced closer to the party.
At the mention of beer, Rockheart rolled his feline eyes, ears twitching in disgust. The rhyme was forced, and so very, very Marko Laskarelis.
Before Rockheart could cast a spell that would perfectly imitate Tearclaw’s Ferox sorcery, Erejam summoned living shadows from the air—a trio of twisted creatures with blazing purple eyes, conjured with Umbra Affinity, then given the semblance of life through stolen Vita Apothos. Vampiric Runecasters were a mishmash of Summoners and Blood Elementalists with a number of potent abilities. Shadow Life was among their most basic. The Runecaster flung the shadow demons at the puppets. The impish shades struck the puppets with tearing claws and inky-black teeth.
The Gem-Studded Puffballs exploded, obliterating the attack shadows and spewing their deadly crystalline shards into the air.
Erejam called forth a blood shield with a flick of his hand, preventing the glass shrapnel from getting anywhere even close to the rest of the raiders.
An insane voice broke from the darkness beyond. “My darling little darlings are dead! You will join them before long. Now come into the darkness, my friends, for there are more songs to be sung! And more fun to be had!”
The voice belonged to Marko, though it was echoing and unnatural.
Rockheart sneered even as a feeling of dread filled his belly. “The dungeon is trying to demoralize us,” he said. “We can’t let this fool frighten us.”
Erejam strode forward on supremely confident feet. “Never. I saw those puffballs on the puppets right away. This is a contemptuous attempt at a trap. They have no idea who they are dealing with. We are the best of the Tremblecloaks, the very finest new dungeoneering guild in Aurora and on Eritreus!”
That was laughable. The Tremblecloaks were nothing more than a bunch of upstarts. However, Erejam wasn’t wrong about being the best of their guild. The academy had managed to capture the best the Tremblecloaks had to offer. Too bad the guild’s standards were so... substandard. Save for the Runecaster, who truly was powerful.
Erejam pushed even farther into the entry chamber, raising his gnarled staff overhead in defiance. He turned, offering his back to the dungeon in a display of complete contempt. “I am a Vampiric Runecaster! I can draw the power out of their very blood. I can summon shadows that will kill and kill again. I can divide my form to confuse and confound my enemies even while stripping the flesh from their bones with my all-consuming sorcery! I am death incarnate. I have no equal!” he crowed, throwing his head back.
He had a perfect view as the ceiling opened up above him and disgorged a deadly surprise.