Dueling Dungeons (Rogue Dungeon 5) - Chapter Two

The Poser Owners

Scott Bayani, in his quickly leveling PwnerBwner_007 Ranger-Cleric, rocked up to the Troll Nation with eight tanks, casters, and fighters from his brand spanking new guild, the PwnrBwner’s Poser Owners.

Roark the Griefer, Dungeon Lord and leader of the Troll Nation, had messaged Scott to bring the best raiders he could muster up on short notice, so he had cherrypicked these guys from the ONLINE section of his Guildmaster Grimoire, going mainly by their level and how well they’d round out a raid party. He wasn’t super familiar with all their names and shit yet; the guild was gaining new members by the buttload and he didn’t have time to memorize every single one. He knew GothicTerror, the smoking hot Screamo dark elf covered in Death’s Heads and black lace, and the rog who always hung out with her, Ya_Boi_Flappie_Sak, but the rest were all new members.

As they strolled through the bustling marketplace, his group of POSes—which Scott had just decided he was totally going to call them—eyed the Harpies, Djinn, Imps, and Rock People wandering up and down the busy streets of the Troll Nation like they’d never seen a mob before.

Okay, so admittedly, there was a time when Scott would’ve crapped his armor and gone on an all-caps rant chewing somebody out if they’d told him mobs could run their daily errands like IRL people, too, but he’d seen a lot of insane shit since joining up with the Griefer. The Troll Nation was basically his Ranger-Cleric’s home away from home now, and he was a VIP persona extra-grata around town.

The POSes caught onto how comfortable Scott was acting among the monsters that were usually ripping them apart and eyed him with a new and more appropriate level of admiration. Even the goth thot was trying not to pretend like she didn’t notice Scott was a big fucking deal around here.

So he layed it on a little thicker, nodding at one of the Griefer’s upstairs floor bosses he recognized.

“’Sup, Wurgfozz?” Scott jerked his chin at the enormous Thursr Behemoth.

Wurgfozz stopped to stare at him in confusion. The rusty chains and spikes and rings pincushioning the huge meaty mob jangled at the change in momentum.

Scott breezed past the dude without slowing down. “Can’t chat today, bro. Special emergency meeting with the Griefer. You know how it is being part of the brain trust. Second Floor’s looking good, though. Real tortury. Keep up the good work.”

Scott heard the jingling of chains as Wurgfozz turned to watch him go. He also heard one of his POSes whisper, “Whoa. Did you see that?”

“I told you this guild would make us cool,” another one whispered back.

“Damn right it will…” Scott checked the speakers’ stats real quick to make it look like he knew their names already. “…Jack_Out and Ronin2029. Stick with me, and I’ll make you rich as fuck, too.” He turned back to watch where he was going and added under his breath, “In Hearthworld, anyway.”

Scott took a left onto a wider avenue and nearly ran into the back of the line winding down the road from the Flavortown Inn. Scott’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

Kaz’s tavern had been the most popular spot in the Troll Nation since it opened, due mainly to the incredible diversity and quality of foods and meads offered by the Troll Gourmet. This, though, was taking that popularity to a whole roided-out new level. Velvet ropes directed customers around squiggly endless mazes like the lines for the best coaster at an amusement park on Fourth of July while hulking Thursrs and skulking Reavers posted up at regular intervals watching for cuts and butts.

Word must’ve gotten around about Kaz’s new garlic smoked bacon.

GothicTerror eyed the living traffic jam. “Just FYI, I charge overtime loot for standing in line.”

“Don’t blow your stacks yet, we’re not standing in a line like some loser tourists,” Scott said, waving a hand for the thot and the rest of the POSes to follow him. “Come on.”

As he edged around the line, a Dread Reaver he didn’t recognize stepped out of a swirl of inky shadow, Peerless Fulgurite Daggers gleaming with poison and glowing orange with some high-level enchantment.

“Right this way, PwnrBwner_007,” the cloaked Reaver hissed, gesturing toward the back of the inn. “The great Troll Gourmet has reserved your party’s table… in spite of the fact that you are well over ten minutes late—our usual time to turn over a reservation.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Scott said. His leather armor creaked as he crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t realize Kaz hired somebody to be a pass-ag asshole to his customers.”

The Reaver eyed his poisoned blade, then sheathed it.

“Very good, sir.”

The Reaver dick led them between the huge casks of Kaz’s honey mead and the meat smoker, into the back door. Apprentice chefs and staff of all mob varieties hustled around the kitchen, preparing and plating food or washing dishes. The big blonde chick dating Kaz called out orders from the window, then snatched up a tray of flagons and disappeared into the dining room.

Scott’s mouth watered at the smell and sizzle of frying garlic and spicy meat. He knew the scents, sounds, and sights in taverns around Hearthworld had been specially designed to entice players into dropping coin at in-game restaurants, but that didn’t make Kaz’s creations any less amazing. Hopefully there would be a little something-something at the meeting. There usually was when the Troll Gourmet was in attendance.

The dining room was even louder than the kitchen. Over in the corner, some bard played one of those crank-organ things while female mobs danced and clapped along. Every table except one was crammed full of patrons eating, laughing, and yelling loud enough to hear each other over the music and everybody else’s yelling. Most were mobs—creatures of every type and form—but there were a handful of human NPCs as well, mostly skill trainers and tradesmen who had taken up permanent residency in the Cruel Citadel. Scott spied Variok, the elf merchant and former resident of Averi City, haggling with a blue-skinned Arctic Grendel at a corner table. Dude was always wheeling and dealing. Scott respected the hustle.

Once the Poser Owners were settled in at their reserved table and ready to party, Scott nodded at GothicTerror.

“Let’s go, Screamo-thot.”

“Whatever, dickbreath.” She hooked her Unique Wraithpiercer Arbalest over her shoulder and followed him upstairs.

The smell coming from the room at the top of the stairs was a combination of everything good in the world—bacon, wings, pizza, booze.

Scott didn’t bother knocking, just strolled on in like he owned the room, the tavern—hell, even the dungeon.

Almost everybody from the Griefer’s inner circle jerk was already there—Kaz, being awesome and showing that spidery Nocturnus and a rog in Paragon robes the variety of dipping sauces for the wings. The grizzled trainer, Griff, kicking back with a tumbler of some kind of amber liquor. Mac, the spikey, scaly Adolescent Turtle Dragon, was trying to burrow into the back of Roark’s overstuffed easy chair, even though the seat wasn’t even close to big enough for the both of them.

The only one missing was Zyra, which was just fine with Scott. Her last Evolution had given her an extra set of arms and added four spidery legs to her back, making her officially creepy AF. He shuddered just thinking about it. Anyway, it was crowded enough in the room with all these high-level mobs crammed in there.

“What’s up, losers?” he said.

“Good, you’re here.” The Griefer scooted to the edge of his chair, and Mac squeezed in behind him, scales rustling against Roark’s leathery Infernali wings. “We can get started.”

“Boo,” a dusky voice said from behind him.

Scott spun around and flinched. “Gah! What the fuck, Zyra?”

The Orbweaver Ravager was crouched in a shadowy upper corner of the room, creepy-ass spider legs holding onto the walls and ceiling while her mostly-human body hung suspended in midair.

Zyra laughed and spider-climbed down. “Who’s your friend, egg-sac hatchery?”

“Cut that shit out,” Scott snapped. “It wasn’t funny in the Underworld Cairns, and it’s not funny now.” He glanced over at GothicTerror to make sure he wasn’t the only grossed out, but she looked pretty into the spider aesthetic. He rolled his eyes. Of course the Undead scream queen was into the nastiest crap. “This is my lieutenant, Morticia Addams. She’s a total bitch, which is why I hired her to help me keep the Poser Owners in line. Morticia, this is everybody.”

The thot jerked her chin at the room. “Hey.”

She was definitely trying to play it cool, but she had her Arbalest in hand, glowing green wraithbolt in the chamber, like she was waiting for one of these things to go aggro.

The Troll Gourmet leapt to his feet, making the floor shake. “Welcome, Morticia! Would the heroes like some refreshments? Kaz’s new Dark Citrus Brew pairs excellently with Gry Feliri’s Lost Recipe Dumptruck Pizza.”

“Obviously yes, Kaz. You’re a saint.” As far as Scott was concerned, the Griefer was a turd and Zyra was a freak, but Kaz was one of the boys. Scott grabbed a flagon and a slice, then flopped down in the last empty chair. Goth-thot could stand. Chairs were for Guildmasters. He sank his teeth into a topping-overloaded bite of pizza. “So, Griefer, what’d you need me and the POS ballers for?”

“A raid.” Roark gave up trying to stay in the chair with Mac behind him and stood up, his curved black ram’s horns almost brushing the exposed beams of the ceiling.

Out of the corner of his eye, Scott saw GothicTerror shrink back a step from the Jotnar Infernali.

“Yeah, no duh a raid,” Scott said with his mouth full. He swallowed. “Why’s it such a rush now?”

“I need to grind out enough levels to use this.” The Griefer produced a rough cut black gemstone big enough to choke a gorilla. Blue and orange lights twined around inside the rock.

It was the Necrodragon core stone, courtesy of Aczol the Eternal, a piece of treasure Scott wasn’t going to forget anytime soon. He and most of the people in this room had died to help Roark get his greedy Jotnar mitts on it. The fancy rock wouldn’t do anything for Scott, but in Roark’s magical hands it was a game changer. He could unlock some kind of mega-evolution, just as he’d done with both Kaz and the spidery Zyra.

“I can’t wait any longer to launch my attack on the Vault of the Radiant Shield,” the Griefer said. “Certain new information has come to light. There’s a working portal back to my home world in the Vault, and my…” he faltered, choosing his words carefully. The douche was keeping something close to his chest. Scott decided to file that away for later. It wouldn’t be a huge deal unless it got them in trouble down the road. No need to demand the deets on boring shit in the meantime.

“We have an agent inside I want out of danger as quickly as possible,” he finished after a moment. “The only way to do that is by getting Lowen out of the way once and for all, then finishing the job I started with the Tyrant King. My plan was to integrate the Necrodragon’s core and unlock my MegaEvolution, but currently, the level disparity between Aczol and me is too high. He died at Level 99, and I need to be at least Level 70 to use the core.”

Scott took a sip of Dark Citrus Brew and wiped the foam off his upper lip onto his Ranger-Cleric’s leather bracer.

“Right. What level are you at now?”

“Sixty-nine.”

Behind Scott, the whore-thot snorted.

“Noice,” Scott said, grinning. “My favorite level.”

“What?” The Griefer frowned like he didn’t get the joke.

“Wine ’em, dine ’em, Level 69 ’em?” Scott said. “You guys don’t have that on whatever weird-ass alien planet you’re from?” He waved his hand at the confused Jotnar. “Whatever, forget it. So, what crazy impossible place are you looking at raiding today? We already took out the End Dragon of the whole fucking game, so I assume you had to look pretty hard to find something more suicidal.”

Roark slipped the core stone back into the pocket of his oiled black leathers.

“Have you heard of the Onyx Sands?”

“Well, the offer for the expansion pack has only popped up every fucking time I logged in this week, so yeah, I’ve heard of it,” Scott said. He shrugged. “I haven’t bought it yet. Still on the fence. If the reviews are good, maybe I’ll think about it.”

Also, he was low on funds until next Thursday when the Bell paid him.

“Heroes can buy land in this dimension?” Roark asked. The dude looked legit shocked. “Don’t you have to be a member of the gentry?”

“What? No, buying the expansion isn’t buying land, it’s like paying extra to play a new part of the game you already subscribe to. It’s like the DLCs from the old-timey console games.” He slashed a hand through the air. “Look, it’s obviously bullshit, but it’s how they make their money and keep people playing. We’re getting off track. The point is I heard all about the Onyx Sands. It’s supposed to be mondo-high level everything, with all new loot and themes and junk. There’s even a rumor they’re going to patch in a new god-tier boss one of these days. That’s what I’ve actually been waiting for.”

That and cash flow.

“Well, mate, we can’t wait any longer,” Roark said. “I want to fast travel to the edge of the Onyx Sands within the hour. You mentioned once that Hearthworld gold can be bought with your dimension’s currency; is the opposite true? Are you able to purchase this… expansion pack with Hearthworld money?”

“Yeah, but that would take an assload of coin.” Scott pulled up his Character Sheet and toggled over to the Purchases & Special Offers tab. “Seven point nine million gold?” He let out a low whistle. These guys didn’t fuck around with their in-game economy.

The Griefer didn’t even blink. “I assume your guild members will need theirs unlocked as well?”