Shadowcroft Year 3 - Chapter Thirteen

The Magnificent Mimsy’s form flickered and vanished as Sir Mediocritus’s headless corpse fell to the floor in an explosion of clanking metal.

Above him, Logan could see the people cheering him on, but he couldn’t hear a thing. The arena magic must’ve muted the crowd noise—a fact he was grateful for, since he was sure the noise was deafening.

Daggers McFinn wheezed as he laughed. “That looked like it hurt.” The thief’s face was pale as he struggled to breathe. He had to be suffering from shortness of breath at this point. The rogue had sneaked back out of the fungal growths to regroup with the rest of the party in front of the bridge.

Feathers immediately grabbed the barbarian. “By Illumina Pate’s pink scalp, I call upon the powers of the bald phoenix to make you mellow again!”

Her hands glowed with golden power as she cast the anti-curse spell, neutralizing the effects of Logan’s Narcotic pollen.

Arfgar blinked. “Me do something bad?” He asked, glancing around. He sheepishly looked down and realized who had killed. He shrugged. “But not too bad.”

Sad Hallsee wrinkled her nose. “Ew, gross! So much blood!”

The real Mimsy appeared back in the center of the bridge. Flickering flames engulfed his hands, not burning him, but providing ample light. “My new Fire Form ability worked perfectly. I knew this place was going to be exceptionally dangerous. It’s in the frickin’ name. Mushroom Mangler? Yeah, there’s a ton of mushrooms around here to mangle us. Glad I entered in my illusory form.”

If Mimsy could cast illusions with his usually more vanilla fire magic, it probably meant he was a B-Class—unfortunate since fire was one of Logan’s greatest weaknesses. He would just have to redouble his efforts to take out the sorcerous before he got into the inner sanctuary.

Arfgar snorted and slammed his bloody ax into his chest plate, the clang reverberating off the high ceilings. “Me fear no fungus!” He grimaced and stormed up the bridge.

Sir Brandybutter motioned to the rest of the party. “Follow Arfgar and Mimsy, but stay on your toes, yes?”

Feathers, Hallsee, and Daggers followed after the impulsive barbarian, moving slowly while the rogue scanned for any obvious traps. Once the party was fully on the bridge—Arfgar in the front, Sir Brandybutter taking up the rear—Logan launched his first direct assault. He forced Apothos from his core, sending it racing through the invisible channels that littered his fungaloid body. He triggered Mycological Rage, a new ability that would give him an unreasonable amount of rage-fueled speed and strength for a short while.

While under the effects of the rage, he would see red, and be compelled by some basic instinct to rampage and kill.

He threw open the secret door with a flourish and charged out with a booming roar. As he rushed forward, he activated another of his Halo Spores abilities, this time shedding Athlete’s Affliction in a cloud. The back three raiders—Sir Brandybutter, Hallsee, and Feathers—were suddenly up to their knees in fungal pollen. At the same time, Logan bent and used his augmented strength to toss Sir Mediocritus’s headless corpse  into the digestion pit spread out below the bridge. Immediately, he felt the acids begin to work, breaking down Sir Mediocritus.

At the far side of the bridge, the skullcap waddlers launch their attack—armed with Crimson Coral swords and wearing piecemeal red fungus armor. They came at the adventurers in a wall, but they were comically small compared to the barbarian leading the dungeoneers. They barely came up to his waist. Arfgar hacked up one, then another, while Mimsy tossed a fireball into that side of the room. The heat washed over Logan and killed untold spores.

Sir Brandybutter lunged at Logan with his sword outthrust, but Logan danced back, plucked a writhing mass of Ghoul’s Snare from the bridge railing, and hurled it into the paladin’s face like a fastball. The fungus immediately wrapped itself around Brandybutter’s face as though it were trying to crawl down his throat.

Logan summoned a silver short swords from his Ring of Blades and slashed at the paladin, but it bounced ineffectively off  Brandybutter’s armor. Although Logan was physically bigger and stronger than he’d ever been before, he still wasn’t a match for a B-Class fighter decked out in heavy plate mail.

“Devil fungus begone!” the paladin cried, peeling the clinging mushroom mask off the bottom of his face. Ghoul’s Snare really wasn’t designed to act like a xenomorphic facehugger, but Logan just needed to buy himself a second—to get away from the knight and into range of the far more vulnerable spellcaster, Sad Hallsee. She was almost as squishy as Logan was, so a physical attack might actually do some good.

Fueled by Mycological Rage, Logan launched himself onto the bridge’s guard rail and sprang off, coming down with sword reared back for the killing blow.

Sad Hallsee was about to get a lot sadder.

Logan batted aside her staff with his chitinous free arm then drove his sword into her chest. The blade punched through her sternum and his sheer weight bowled the sorceress over, sending her tumbling, ass over tea kettle, off the bridge and into the digestion pit below—his gleaming blade still firmly planted in her torso like some gruesome version of the Sword in the Stone.

The reckless charge also sent him plunging into the acidic soup, but Logan’s digestive juices were only dangerous to others. Even in heavy armor, he easily glided through the sludgy, unnaturally warm liquid and clambered onto dry ground, near the willowy mushrooms sprouting on the far side of the room. With a thought, he recalled his weapon, stowing in once more in the Ring of Blades before his digestion pit could begin to devour and reclaim the metal. That done, he turned and bolted toward his secret passageway as arrows thwacked into the wall.

The corpses of Sir Mediocritus and Hallsee were both fueling him now, and he was feeling their power coursing through his veins. C-Class adventurers sure packed more of a punch than a week-old ham sandwich.

Logan vanished into another fungal curtain, revealing the darkened corridor that led to the second chamber .

Brandybutter saw him retreat. “Lo, a secret passageway!”

“On it!” Daggers called, gasping. “Lucky my sinuses are so full, I can’t smell a thing.”

Logan grinned as he slid down the mucal film slide, easily controlling his descent. Halfway down the steep and treacherously slippery mucal slope was a small stone alcove. Secreted away was another secret passageway that would allow Logan to bypass the second chamber and go directly into his inner sanctum, all concealed by thick stone and a layer of Crimson Coral.

Logan leapt into the alcove and waited for the adventurers to take the plunge behind him.

Back at the top, he heard Daggers yelp. “Wait? What? Slippery!” And then the rogue sneezed, loudly, and there was a cacophony of cursing and yelling as the thief careened down the passageway.

There was no light, just darkness, and deadly spits of razor-sharp coral protruding at random intervals from the floor and walls. At the bottom of the corridor was a closed door—its backside was covered in jagged, foot-long spikes of Coral. The whole passageway was basically like human-sized garbage disposal. He might’ve been able to stop his rapid decent with a well-placed dagger, or maybe he could’ve wedge his short sword in the wall, but both options were beyond his abilities as he gasped, sneezed, and coughed his way down the mucal slide.

Daggers must’ve had some kind of intuition or second sight, because he tried to slide into the alcove where Logan waited.

Logan, though, gave Daggers a little nudge, just a tiny kick, and the rogue continued down, slamming into the spikes with some truly disgusting sounds. Logan couldn’t help but the love the irony of killing a trap-finding thief with a trap. It was one of a dungeon core’s little treats.

Still under the effects of Mycological Rage, Logan raced down to the bottom of the passage and grab the body of the rogue, still warm and twitching. Logan briefly considered tossing the rogue into his digestion pit, but already, he was snacking on two adventurers. He had a better idea of how to use the remains of Daggers McFinn. He pulled open the door to the central chamber with a grunt, dragging the rogue behind him. This second room wasn’t as large or impressive as his inner sanctum, but it would it was deadly in its own right. Logan had gone heavy on the stalactites and stalagmites. And again, he’d learned a thing or two from Marko. Water dripped a-rhythmically, creating an unsettling sense of atmosphere, along with a whistling wind. He’d also added a few extra cavern sounds, taken from, embarrassingly enough, Minecraft.

Logan propped Daggers up against one of the stalagmites jutting up from the floor, as if he was skulking there, waiting for the rest of the party to join him.

Around him floated Sunflower Pods, the eerie big balloon like fungi which drifted about, were filled with very flammable, poisonous gasses.

Logan conjured a handful of God’s Eye Caps under Daggers’s feet, but mostly, he pumped the rogue full of Corpse Bomb fungus. Adding some Rapid Growth spores, he encouraged the body to fill with gases, the skin blackening and starting to split as it rotted at an accelerated pace.

Logan slammed the entryway door to the central chamber than quickly retreated into his inner sanctum. But even though he was no longer physically present, as the dungeon lord, he could see the entirely of his dungeon—including the first chamber, where Brandybutter, Arfgar, Feathers and Mimsy were milling about uncertainly. They’d dispatched all the waddlers easily enough, but Dagger’s had disappeared down the corridor and hadn’t reported back in yet.

Because he was dead. Very dead and now filled with an explosive fungus.

Arfgar grumbled, “Me want to find Daggers. He owes me five gold pieces.”

Mimsy tittered. “I have some bad news—I think you’re out five gold.” He crept up to the edge of the downward sloping passageway and called out. “Daggers? Are you alive?” His voice echoed off the stone.

There was no reply.

The sorcerer frowned, shrugged, then stuck one hand out, palm up and unleashed a wave of fire, scorching the mucal film and the Blister Wart, though leaving the Crimson Coral intact.

“If he wasn’t dead—which he probably was—he is now. Let’s continue, shall we? I would imagine the hardest part of this dungeon is over. Plus, I just charbroiled everything inside this connecting passageway. Should be relatively safe now.”

Arfgar shook his ax at the wizard. “You go first then.”

“No, my giant, idiot friend. That’s your job!” the wizard shot back.

“He’s right,” Brandybutter said. “Best we make haste. The longer we tarry in this place, the more likely we are to be affected by the fungaloid’s many spores.”

Arfgar grunted marched forward, back across the bridge, and regarded the scorched ground suspiciously. “Okay. But me go slow.”

“We will guard your posterior,” Brandybutter promised.

“I might guard it, but I’m not gonna heal it.” Feathers grimaced. “I don’t want to get that close to him. Don’t the Hill People bathe?”

“Only before festival day,” Arfgar growled. “Give me cudgel. It is dark. Me no like dark.”

Mimsy shot a flaming finger at Arfgar’s ax, and it was immediately covered by a bright yellow fire.

Arfgar wrinkled his nose. “As barbarian, me no like magic. As guy who want to survive, me love magic.”

The barbarian squeezed his big metal-covered body through the narrow crack and into the slopping passageway. They found the spike studded door at the bottom of the corridor, but there was no sign of Daggers, and Mimsy’s fire had burned away the blood that had pooled on the floor. All that remained now was a charred, black smudge. Arfgar pried open the door and halted at the threshold into the central chamber.

Brandybutter pointed at the Ghoul’s Snare spread out across the floor. “Careful now. Do not stray into that black fungus. It will capture your feet. And the taste is very foul indeed.”

They followed the trail of bare rock that wound between the stalagmites, avoiding the black mushroom material, but they didn’t have their rogue to point out an indentation in the stone. It looked like a simple dried-up pool, but since it wasn’t covered with Ghoul’s Snare, Arfgar though it was safe.

He was wrong.

Logan could’ve snapped close his trap right then, but he waited. The real problem raider was Mimsy—his fire magic was devastating, and Logan was pretty sure he was holding onto his most powerful spells, preparing for an assault on the inner sanctum.

Logan waited until Mimsy was in the indentation and then unleashed his trap.

In the ceiling above was a mucal film, holding back a digestion pit. Logan re-absorbed the mucal film, and suddenly it was raining acid, the indentation quickly filling.

Arfgar must’ve smelled the rancid bile because he shoved Mimsy back, thinking he could escape the worst of the digestive juice rain. Once again, the barbarian was wrong.

Arfgar was immediately drenched. It was as if Logan had thrown a hill giant’s stomach acid on the barbarian. He dropped his axe and started screaming as he clawed at his face and eyes with clumsy fingers.

Mimsy bumbled back into Feathers, and Brandybutter yanked them both to safety.

By that time, Arfgar was a blubbering mess, trying and failing to wipe away the digestive juices that were eating holes in his skin and pitting his metal armor. Unfortunately for the barbarian, it was going to be a long, slow, painful death.

Mimsy saw this and decided to put the poor brute out of his misery with a knife strike to Arfgar’s exposed throat. The barbarian fell onto his belly, eyes glazed over in death, his body entirely covered in burbling acidic goo.

Logan felt another jolt of Apothos as another raider started to disintegrate.

Mimsy frowned. “Damn shame to lose my knife.” Then he laughed. “Only three of us now. I would suggest we turnaround—”

Brandybutter frowned and cut him off. “—Of course you would. The Blue Philter Divine won’t help your core. However, it willaid Feathers.” He rubbed one sabaton over the other, trying to itch an obvious scratch.

The cleric scowled. “It’s Lindarval. Or even Linda would be fine. You know how I feel about being called Feathers.”

“Gods, but she is insufferable,” Mimsy sneered. “In case this isn’t abundantly clear, I genuinely don’t care about her. As I was saying, I would suggest we leave, if not for the bounty of Ashvein waiting at the end of this reeking pit. Even just an ounce of that stuff goes for several pounds of gold on the open market. I need the money now that Daggers is dead. Turns out, he owed me five gold pieces as well.”

“We don’t know he’s dead,” Feathers, a.k.a Linda, protested.

“The evidence isn’t good.” Brandybutter stamped his feet. “Also, my feet are itching terribly. I worry I might have to remove my sabatons to get some relief.”

“Or we could just keep moving like the professionals we are supposed to be,” Mimsy suggested. “Here, perhaps this will help.” He pointed a gnarled finger and gave Brandybutter’s long sword a fiery upgrade. “There. You are now on the front line, my friend.”

Brandybutter nodded. “Yes, you are correct. I will not think about my own discomfort. We will avenge our fallen friends.”

“I wouldn’t exactly go as far as calling them friends,” Feathers replied. “Acquaintances? No, even that feels a little too friendly. I know! Co-workers. That feels better on the tongue. Although, I suppose I would list Daggers as a reluctant acquaintance, since I did have a laugh with him at that bar that one time ” She paused and canted her head to one side. “Does it feel like we’ve all done this before together? I get the feeling we’re caught in this endless loop of dungeoneering. Like, I think it’s been decades since I’ve showered.”

Mimsy squinted at her. “You’re daft—probably just the effects of whatever fungus is floating in the air. We met at an inn. There was beer, a pretty barmaid, and bathtubs there. We all decided to join forces to complete this dungeon.”

“And we became fast friends,” Brandybutter insisted with a determined nod. “We said we would do anything to support one another. Even if it meant our deaths.”

“The paladin has a very selective memory.” Mimsy said. “Go on, fighter guy. And try not to get yourself killed.”

“I shan’t my, good man. And, for what it’s worth, you are quite right, Linda. We have done this before. But that doesn’t matter to me since I do so enjoy the game. In truth, there is naught else I would rather be doing.”

So the dungeoneers did have some idea of their predicament after all. That was extremely disturbing, even if Brandybutter clearly loved the adventure.

Brandybutter turned and traipsed across the room, stopping every so often to scrape one armored foot over the other as he attempted to scratch his feet. He paused and pointed his sword at a darkened figure in the distance. “Daggers! Daggers McFinn! I see you! Are you alive?”

The three raiders slowed then stopped.

Logan held his breath. So far, everything had gone his way. But he still had a couple of hours before the competition ended. So many things could go wrong in that time. He’d just have to hope for the best.

“Why isn’t he moving?” Feathers said. “Daggers! Answer us, my good man!”

“It’s a trick!” Mimsy screeched. The wizard tossed the biggest fireball yet right at Daggers.

Logan winced. Which was exactly the response Logan had been hoping for—but the problem was the dungeoneers were too far away.

The Sunflower Pods exploded, one after another, each a literal mushroom cloud of oranges and yellows. Rocky stalagmites dropped from the cavern above, smashing into the ground and exploding outward in a hail of stony shrapnel. Unfortunately, the blast also activated Logan’s Corpsebomb. The fiery fog soon gave way to a green, deadly mist.

Although Brandybutter and his ragtag crew of adventurers avoided taking fire or shrapnel damage, the creeping, poisonous cloud was another thing entirely.

But Feathers raised her glowing cudgel. “By my phoenix lord’s sacred leg mites! Protect us from gasses most foul!”

All three raiders inhaled deeply—golden light suffusing their bodies. They were going to walk through those poisonous gases without a second thought.

Then Brandybutter sat down and took off his sabatons.

Logan hoped to see rotting flesh, but instead, Brandybutter’s toes were just a bit red and irritated. With a simple prayer, he quickly healed the bacterial infection, foiling yet another of Logan’s schemes. Other than killing Arfgar, his second chamber had been a bust.

Brandybutter jumped to his feet with a clang of metal. “Well, the air is a bit foul, but let’s not have that stop us.”

Mimsy grinned. “I’m going to chop up our mushroom friend and make a stroganoff out of him.” He casually tossed another fireball into the narrow stairs winding down into the inner sanctum. The blast ignited most of his Gem-Studded Puffball bombs and incinerated the Ghoul’s Snare clinging to the floors and walls.

“I hate the stroganoff!” Mariah squeaked beside Logan. She was standing in reserve, along with his three most powerful Blistering Death Wargs.“The beef! So stringy! The sauce! So rich! The noodles! So noodly!”

Noodle Doodle barked at hearing his name.

Logan was pretty sure that his main minion had never eaten beef stroganoff. He was equally sure that he might be in real trouble. He was about to face three adventurers, and at least one, if not two were B-Class Cultivators. Logan had never missed his friends more. At the end of the day, he was a support dungeon—as lame as it was to say, friendship really was his superpower. It was dangerous to go alone.