Rogue Dungeon: Troll Nation (Chapters 22 - 24)

Chapter 22

Life’s a Grind

Griff returned two days later with Yevin in tow. The rog magic trainer looked a sight more impressive in his silver-starred azure cloak and sorcerer’s robes than he had in the threadbare prison-issue rags. Over the next few days, the other skill trainers Griff had recruited filtered into the Citadel one by one. And just like that, they had done the seemingly impossible: assembled all the pieces for a Mob Settlement, save for one. A charter. Naturally, with all the base requirements met, Roark wanted to craft it immediately, but Griff stopped him.

“No offense, Griefer, but you’re not exactly the top of the food chain. If ya found this settlement, then invite a bunch of other Dungeon Lords in, every one of ‘em at the top level of their Evolutionary path, they’ll eat ya alive.” The grizzled weapons trainer sized Roark up with a skeptical eye. “How many levels have you got to go before you reach yer top Evolution?”

The advice grated on Roark’s nerves—he was a man of rash nature, and not prone to patience—but he had to admit that Griff had a solid point. Though taking another dungeon by force wasn’t practical, especially for him, it was possible. And if he invited a mass of potential enemies into his midst, it could quickly lead to the downfall of his short-lived regime. Considering just how paranoid, power hungry, and bloodthirsty some Dungeon Lords could be, perhaps waiting until he had a tad more power was the smart play. 

In truth, he really wasn’t far from his final evolution. With the Experience from completing Variok and Yevin’s quest, the constant influx of points from the Dungeon Lord’s Tax, and the Curse Chains Roark had been feverishly crafting on everything he smithed since returning from Chillend, he had been gaining levels like mad. Currently, he was sitting at level 32 and still a Defiler. He checked the Troll Evolutionary Paths in his mystic grimoire, rubbing at his chin as he looked over the various branches.

“Four,” he finally answered, shutting the book.

Griff sucked his teeth thoughtfully.

“When you found this mob Settlement, an announcement’s gonna go out to all a’ Hearthworld with yer name on it, and right behind that’s gonna be your level. Now, I ain’t sayin’ you have to put it off until after your final Evolution, but if you don’t, you’re gonna be fighting mighty hard to correct any assumptions the Dungeon Lords make from seeing ‘Roark the Griefer, Jotnar Defiler - Level 32’ instead of ‘Roark the Griefer, Jotnar Infernali - Level 36.’”

Roark sighed and raised his hands in surrender. “You’ve sold me,” he agreed reluctantly.” It was only a handful of levels, but it could mean the difference between their allying with him or joining Lowen. “My father used to say, the only way to gain a treasure worth keeping is with sweat and hard work. No shortcuts.”

He looked to Mac, who was curled up in his seat on the throne.

“What do you say, Mac?” The Young Turtle Dragon’s head lifted and he blinked sleepily at Roark, scratching at his beard with one clawed forepaw. “Want to try out that maneuver we’ve been practicing against some live heroes?”

With an excited chirp, Mac launched himself off the throne and bounded—well, waddled quickly—out the throne room door, his claws clicking on the stone.

Several hours later, Roark, Mac, Kaz, and Griff were scattered around the incoming portal plate in the Keep’s foyer, neck deep in pale elves.

[MILFenwyn], a pale elf in with blood red hair and matching robes launched Incendiary Lava Blast after Incendiary Lava Blast at Roark. He threw up an Infernal Shield spell, the violet barrier protecting him from the exploding molten rocks and their shrapnel. Not deterred, MILFenwyn snapped her hands out straight, then slashed them through the air at descending angles.

A sound like ripping metal rent the air, and slices appeared in Roark’s Infernal Shield. Suddenly holding it together was draining his filigreed purple Magick vial at twice the rate it should have.

With a flick of his wrist, Roark dismissed the shield. MILFenwyn hurled a wrist thick column of red fire at him, but Roark pulled his body out of line, letting it slip by harmlessly. Spellbook levitating above his left hand, he cast a hasty fireball, which slapped against her shoulder, erupting with a blinding flare that did little real damage, but which did buy him a moment to maneuver. He slipped right, planted one foot, and lunged pie’ fermo, his sword flashing. 

MILFenwyn backpedaled, narrowly escaping Roark’s Slender Rapier. But mid-backstep, she stumbled, her eyes going wide and her arms wheeling for balance. It was too late. She tumbled backward over an invisible obstacle, landing on her hands and knees, hair in her face.

Roark thrust his sword toward her, but instead of impaling her, he cast Infernal Torment, channeling the energy down the length of his extended blade; she threw up one hand at the last moment, encasing herself in a brilliant glowing red sphere ten feet across. The plum-colored flames zinged along the surface of the shield—crawling, searching, hungry—but couldn’t find their way in.

MILFenwyn jumped back to her feet, one hand maintaining the red shield.

“Oh yeah, take that, loser,” she sneered.

Roark laughed. “Enjoy your respawn.”

Her blood red brows knit together, creasing her pale forehead.

Until Mac dropped his camouflage just inside her shield, opened his beaked maw, and belched green-laced acid flame. MILFenwyn screamed as the deadly emerald fire ate through her hip and thigh, taking a good chunk of her abdomen with it as well. Her red Health bar plummeted and the shield dropped. She threw lava, fire, and rock spells at Mac, but he just pulled his head most of the way into his shell, rolls of neck fat protecting him from her best-aimed strikes, and kept blasting her with those green-edged flames.

Meanwhile Roark slipped up behind her and impaled her on his Slender Rapier. The last of MILFenwyn’s Health drained away and she dropped to the flagstones, dead. A look of shock tattooed onto her face.

Mac popped back out of his shell and trotted over to Roark, his spike-studded snapping turtle tail slapping against his shell with happiness.

“I’d say we’re getting quite good at that,” Roark said, giving the beast a quick scratch around the beard. MILFenwyn was the eighth hero who’d fallen for their trip-up attack. It was proving quite effective. Since most shield spells seemed to encompass quite a large area, but didn’t exclude foes, Mac could simply hide inside their guard, bidding his time for an opportune moment to attack.

From the other side of the room, the clash of wood on steel rang out. With his buckler, Griff bashed a pale elf with icy blue hair under the nameplate [MuthrTruckr43]. The battered wood of his shield rasped against her gritty Fulgurite armor, taking only a sliver of her red Health bar with it. At the same time, Kaz darted in and took her knees out with his Legendary Meat Tenderizer, bellowing his now-famous war cry as the hit landed, “FOR SALT!” Another handful of red drained from her bar.

Alone, neither strike did much damage, but Kaz and Griff had been wearing the elf down the whole time Roark was fighting MILFenwyn, and now MuthrTruckr43 was down to less than five percent of her red bar.

The elf swung her sparking, frost-enchanted zwiehander in a huge arc at Griff, the weapon’s blade-edge glimmering with deadly streaks of golden magick. The weapon trainer ducked under it, bashing the blade this time with his buckler, then striking out with his much faster shortsword. Griff’s weapon wasn’t fancy like the pale elf’s. It was pitted, worn, and ugly. But it was damned effective, especially in Griff’s sure hands. The pale elf grunted as the weapon trainer’s blade found its mark in her lower belly, between plates of gritty gray armor. Her health bar flashed out a critical warning.

“Got one here for ya, Griefer,” Griff hollered, slipping away before she could retaliate, leaving an open wide enough for Roark to drive a horse cart through—or a Young Turtle Dragon. “Ripe for the pickins.”

Roark nodded at Mac. His scaly companion rippled and went invisible once more.

Just as the elf was staggering to her feet, eight hundred pounds of beak, claw, and scales slammed into her, throwing her onto her back. Roark was by Mac’s side in a heartbeat, cutting away the last of the elf’s life with a few deft strokes. Her health bar flashed out a warning, then emptied as she died.

“What was that?” Griff asked, wiping his shortsword clean on his pants. “Twelve heroes today, all over level 30?”

“Thirteen,” Kaz said. “But none can stand up to the Legendary Meat Tenderizer’s Shank o’ Lamb attack.”

“Aye,” Griff said appreciatively, “Knocks ‘em right off their feet.”

In Truth, killing so many heroes, especially at their relatively high levels, was a truly impressive feat. The dungeon was attracting far deadlier heroes than ever as its fame grew and spread, and if not for the teleporting plate system—which automatically sorted the heroes, breaking up their carefully balanced parties—they likely would’ve been ground into the dust by now. But Roark was realizing that the greatest weakness of these heroes was their inability to “solo,” a term he’d learned from Griff. Most of the various hero classes were so specialized that they required support of one sort or another, so breaking their teams up and forcing them to contend against a superior force, alone almost seemed unfair. 

Which was precisely the reason Roark liked the tactic.

The portal plate sizzled and cast the room in blue light as it dumped another hero into the Keep. A level 31 Arboreal Druid.

“Back to work, boys,” Griff barked, swinging his shortsword.

“For Roark! For the Cruel Citadel! FOR SALT!” Kaz charged, Meat Tenderizer raised high.

“Oh, shit!” The Arboreal Druid threw up his palms. Brambles and roots shot up between the cracks of the flagstones, whipping around the Behemoth and anchoring him in place.

Roark cast Infernal Torment, the flames licking up through the Druid’s flesh. He screamed and grabbed for a Health potion, losing concentration on the thicket spell. The vines withered and Kaz tore free, rushing toward the Druid once more.

Green light flared and the vines and thorns from the thicket spell shot through the air, converging on the Druid to become thorny armor. During Kaz’s charge, Griff had snuck around back, but as his shortsword lashed out, a whip of vines shot out of the Druid’s armor, smacking the blade away. Kaz attacked, but a branch as thick as a full-grown tree erupted from the armor, handily blocking the Meat Tenderizer’s crushing blow.

“Woohoo!” cheered the Druid. “I knew that Command Plants would eventually come in handy! In your face, Darren, wherever you are!”

While Kaz and Griff traded blows with the Druid’s plant-armor, Roark pulled out his Initiate’s Spell Book and scribbled [All plant matter within a ten-foot radius catches fire and burns to ash] in one of his empty level 6 spell slots.

The spell took, Hearthworld’s unknown magical rules assigning its values:

[Congratulations, you have inscribed Forest Fire in the Initiate’s Spell Book!

Forest Fire can be cast (1) time per inscription!

Base Damage: 120 HP to anyone in contact with plant matter, +10 Fire Damage/sec until blaze burns out.

Cooldown period between casting Forest Fire and re-inscription: (2) hours!]

Griff battled with a series of tentacle-like vine whips while Kaz smashed pieces off of a branch that kept regrowing despite his best efforts.

Roark took advantage of the distraction to creep within range and cast the Forest Fire spell. 

Flames erupted from the Druid’s plant armor with a huge whoomph, black smoke rising in a plume. It burned merrily while the Druid ran around screaming counter spells, but none could touch the conflagration. Within minutes, his red bar had burned down to nothing and he dropped to the floor, a charred, smoldering corpse.

An ascending chime rang through the air.

LEVEL UP!
 

Chapter 23 

Final Form

The sound of driving war drums filled the room and Roark was engulfed in a cloud of roiling amethyst smoke, followed by a short prompt. 

[You have reached Level 36! You may choose to Evolve into a Jotnar Exarch or a Jotnar Infernali!

Warning: Troll Evolution is irrevocable. Once a Primary Evolutionary Path has been selected, a Troll cannot change to another Path. Select “Yes” to choose the Exarch path; select “No” to choose the Infernali Path. 

Note: The Exarch path is the primary evolutionary path of the Jotnar and those who select Infernali do so at their own risk! Unlike the Exarch evolution, each Infernali evolution is unique and based entirely on the individual Jotnar; spells, skills, and appearance all may vary. 

Evolve into Level 36 Jotnar Exarch? Yes/No]

Roark read and reread the message, making sure he understood what it was saying. After a third read, he seriously considered selecting the Exarch form. He’d seen Azibek, the former Dungeon Lord, in action, and that Exarch had been an impressive creature to behold. True, it was possible the Infernali would be even better, but from the sound of things, it might also be worse. 

Did he take the sure bet, or roll the dice as he had so often before, hoping for a greater return? 

He thought about it for a moment longer, worrying on one lip, before finally selecting “No.” He was the underdog—had always been the underdog—and playing it safe wasn’t the way to victory. As soon as he selected “No,” arcs of magenta electricity crackled through the cloud, giving off the scent of molten metal and hot slag. 

Time seemed to lurch and slow as a new prompt appeared, this one different from any other prompt he’d seen before. An image of himself floated in the air, rotating slowly, and next to the ghostly image were a variety of horizontal bars with words floating above them: height, weight, skin tone, hair, tattoos. On and on they went. Experimentally he tweaked a few of the bars; his eyebrows rose sharply as the floating image before him shifted and changed. His skin lightning or darkening. His tattoos glowing in different colors, shifting in design and form—though perhaps not in function. His hair growing longer, shorter, changing color. 

Seven hells, he could actually choose what he wanted to look like, at least within limits. He couldn’t become human, but after a little tweaking and adjusting he looked far closer to himself than he had in ages. His skin was skill unnaturally pale, but with a tinge of olive he could almost pass for human. He adjusted his hair and played with his facial features until they were more or less in the right proportions—deep-set, brooding eyes, slightly hooked nose, sharp jaw—though he couldn’t get rid of the serrated black teeth in his mouth. The wings behind his back no longer looked like crippled, shriveled things, but fully functioning appendages. He added a few glowing runic tattoos and some barbed spikes along the edges, which seemed like they might prove deadly.

Roark examined himself for a long beat, fairly satisfied with the new look. Intimidating. Deadly. Human, but more. Better. With a final thought of Zyra, he added a set of curling horns to his head, similar to hers though bigger, more pronounced. With a thought he hit accept. 

[As a Jotnar Infernali you have unlocked your ultimate race ability! 

Hearthworld is a sprawling planet filled with many varieties of deadly Infernali and Malaika chimera and each of those chimera—from the lowliest Dungeon Troll to the exalted NecroDragon of the Deamonhold Deeps—has a variety of unique powers, special abilities, and spells accessible only by their specific creature class. Each power, special ability, or spell falls into one of eight categories: Transmutation, Infernal/Divine Conjurations, Otherworldly Elementalism, Necromantic Shackling/Divine Resurrection, the Art of Glittering Eyes, Shadow/Light Binding, and Wounding Power. 

As a Jotnar Infernali (Subclass Hexorcist) of the highest order with a thirst for knowledge and magical prowess, you have earned the right to select (2) Infernali Grimoires, which will bind with your Initiate’s Spell Book. When you interact with other chimera of Hearthworld, be they Infernal or Divine, you have a 25% chance to learn any unique powers, special abilities, or spells used by another monster in your presence—so long as the power, special ability, or spell falls within one of the two classifications you have chosen! Once learned, you will be able to cast those restricted abilities as regular spells! But be warned: Once chosen, your Grimoires cannot be changed. Please choose (2) Grimoires from the list below: 

· Change Yourself, Change Your Friends, Change the World: Transmutation Tricks

· Conjurers Field Guide to Summoned Chimera: Gotta Catch ’Em All!

· Harnessing the Arcane Elements: Which Arcane Power is Right for You? (All of Them!) 

· Raising Your Loved Ones or Enslaving the Dead - You Decide!

· Skin Deep: The Art of Glamorous Makeovers

· Embracing the Darkness Inside! Goth Teen Edition

· Tome of Wounding: That will Show ‘Em who’s Boss!]

Roark quickly scanned the titles—they were quite strange for mystic grimoires of supposedly untold power, but then Hearthworld was a strange place—reading over the brief description that accompanied each book. They didn’t reveal much, and this seemed like a large decision he did not want to take lightly. 

If he was understanding this correctly, he would be able to learn restricted abilities from some of the most powerful creatures in Hearthworld. That could be a tremendous edge, especially considering the fact that he was about to broker a deal with a handful of powerful Dungeon Lords. Dungeon Lords with unique abilities that he might well be able to pilfer for himself. But what to choose?

He quickly ruled out Embracing the Darkness Inside—the idea of a Shadowmancer just felt used somehow—and Tome of Wounding he skipped past, since he already had some very formidable damage-oriented spells as a Hexorcist. Likewise, Harnessing the Arcane Elements seemed like a skill set he could replicate with his current powers. Raising Your Loved Ones or Enslaving the Dead - You Decide!, had some appeal, true, but the idea of Necromancy, no matter how powerful it might be, simply didn’t sit well with him; as a noble of Traisbin, one of his family’s primary jobs had been to ensure that the dead stayed dead and enjoyed a peaceful afterlife. He couldn’t in good conscience dabble in such dark arts.

That left him with three books to choose from:

Change Yourself, Change Your Friends, Change the World: Transmutation Tricks—Turn your skin to literal stone, petrify insolent would be upstarts, grow a set of fangs and fur. Need a few party tricks? Well, turn your assistant into a bunny, or turn yourself into one for that matter! The art of physical, transformative magic! 

Conjurers Field Guide to Summoned Chimera: Gotta Catch them All—Who doesn’t need a little help once in a while? Well, as a summoner you can get as many helping hands as you need—though be warned, a summoned monster may also help themselves to a bite out of you!

Skin Deep: The Art of Glamorous Makeovers—Reality is vastly overrated, and though you might not be able to change it, you can certainly put a better face on it. Illusions and Glamours for the win!

Though all were good options, he ultimately decided to go with Transmutation Tricks and Glamourous Makeovers. Illusion magic was powerful stuff, and his own limited ability to cast glamours had already been invaluable. Without his ability to pass as human, he never would’ve gained the ability to leave his dungeon, infiltrate Averi City, recruit Griff, or form the Troll Marketplace. Expanding on that ability seemed like the logical next step with potentially unlimited benefits.  Transmutation Tricks, on the other hand, he chose because physical magic and raw strength were his weakest areas as a Jotnar Infernali. Augmenting a potential shortcoming was always a wise course of action. 

With his choices made, he accepted all changes and dismissed the text.

Time resumed its normal flow in a rush. His black hair whipped around his face, which twisted and shifted, adjusting to the proportions he’d input. His muscles strengthened, and his body elongated. His head pounded as if his skull were about to crack open, and horns burst forth from his scalp, curling and growing. The purple tattoos of power twining up his arms and shoulders pulsed in time with the war drums as Roark felt the bones in his wings stretch and twist, gaining solidity and wicked spikes. The membrane between them caught a gust of sweltering air, and suddenly Roark realized he was aloft. He twitched a muscle deep in his shoulders, and the wings answered easily, raising him higher.

He was flying.

Slowly, the war drums faded, and the smoke cleared. The smell of molten metal was driven away by the stink of burnt flesh and wood.

Roark folded his wings, dropping to the floor awkwardly. That would take some practice, it seemed.

Kaz was staring open-mouthed, and Griff was nodding in appreciation at Roark’s Final Evolution. Neither spoke.

Something crunched behind Roark.

He turned to find Mac munching his way through the charred corpse’s ankle, completely unconcerned with the dramatic display. As if realizing he was being watched, the Young Turtle Dragon looked up at Roark guiltily, crunched through one final bone, then leaned back his head and shook the now dismembered foot down his gullet.

Roark grinned. “I can fly.”

“Roark can fly!” Kaz boomed, clapping.

“Can you actually fly?” Griff asked, scratching his chin. “The way Heralds can fly? Or can you just glide?”

Roark’s mind flashed back to Azibek the Cruel. The Jotnar Exarch had been able to leap into the air and flap his wings, staying aloft for a few moments before slamming back down to earth. But was that the same thing as the sustained flight of the Heralds? He wasn’t sure.

Roark opened his mystic grimoire to the character page. 

What a change. 

Griff had been right to push him to achieve his final evolution. Roark’s stats had shot skyward. His speed had increased dramatically, both his Health and Magicka levels were untouchable, and every other measurable ability had increase by an order of magnitude that bordered on incomprehensible. He could now deal 1225 damage, and his Critical Hit Chance had increased to twenty-two percent, while his Critical hit damage had swollen from two-hundred percent to two-hundred and fifty percent! His stunning Blow chance had increased by two percent as well, and he was now seventy-five percent resistant against normal weapons. 

And most impressive of all? Not only did he see the two Grimoires added to his special skills, but he’d also earned an ability called Ariel Wing … 

He closed the character page with a flick of his hand and offered Griff a deadly grin. “No, mate. I can actually fly.” 

He gave a few hardy pumps of the great leathery appendages, lifting from the ground while wind swirled around his feet.

“Well, that will be one hell of a tactical advantage,” Griff said returning the grin, pleased by this new development.

“And founding the Settlement will be our strategic advantage. Let’s go.” Roark stowed his slender rapier and headed for the throne room, shouting at a passing Thursr Knight, “Heroes in the foyer who need to be looted and marked for griefing.”

From the Dungeon Lord’s throne, Roark sent messages to all of the skill trainers, Variok, Zyra, and Mai to meet him in the throne room. He’d already bound the arrivals to his cause as Greater Vassals, utilizing his World Stone Authority, and now the lot of them—including Roark, Kaz, and Griff—would make up the eleven senior officers required to found a settlement.

As the others drifted in, part of Roark wondered whether Zyra would show. Since the feast, it seemed like she had been avoiding him, hiding out in her laboratory.

But she stalked in last with the Herblore trainer Griff had recruited, a bent, warty little hag leaning on a Gnarled Root Staff.

“What’s all the hubbub, Dungeon L—” Zyra began, her tone sashaying along the line of impertinence, as always. But when her gaze landed on him, the words died on her tongue. Her hood followed his lean form up to the freshly minted horns curling around his head. Though Roark couldn’t see her face, he imagined her jaw had dropped in disbelief. “You’ve Evolved …” she trailed off. “Jotnar Infernali,” she finished in a near whisper. 

Roark grinned. He couldn’t resist a little teasing. “Careful, your awe is showing.” 

Zyra shook her head. “My shock, more like. I honestly never thought I’d see the day,” she claimed, though she didn’t sound at all displeased.

“Tell that to your voice,” Roark returned, smirking. “Because it sounds bloody damned impressed with someone.” This gained him the rare dusky laugh from the hooded Reaver. Satisfied, he turned to face the gathered officers of his new settlement. “And that’s not the only good news. We meet all the prerequisites. All that’s left is to sign our charter. Then we can begin to build.”

Kaz was nearly shaking with excitement as Griff brought the document around.

“What will Roark name the first mob settlement in Hearthorld?” the Mighty Gourmet asked eagerly.

“The Troll Nation, of course,” Roark said.

Chapter 24 

Troll Nation

Roark was the last to sign the charter. As soon as he put the final flourish on “von Graf,” a notice opened before his eyes, accompanied by a regal blast of trumpets.

[Congratulations! The fifth and sixth floor of the Cruel Citadel have been upgraded to the Troll Nation, the first Mob-Ruled Settlement in Hearthworld! For creating a world-first, the Troll Nation will receive an extra 1200 Building Points to distribute and 120 new building options. To access building options or begin building your Settlement, take a seat on the Troll Nation Throne (formerly the Dungeon Lord’s Throne).]

After a glance at the expectant faces surrounding him, Roark went to the Dungeon Lord’s Throne—now the Troll Nation Throne—and sat. A grimoire appeared opened to a page showing maps of the Citadel’s fifth floor and the Keep.

Roark studied the images, so intent that he hardly noticed when a large scaly beast scrabbled up behind him, shoving and burrowing until it was comfortably taking up most of the seat. 

By focusing on one spot on the map, Roark was able to bring it closer until it filled his entire field of vision or back it off until he could see the entire floor. Each time he focused on one point, however, a glowing red square bordered the space, and the message [Construct central marketplace here? Yes/No Note: Once you have constructed the central marketplace, it cannot be moved.] appeared.

The marketplace was the most important feature of the Settlement, and incidentally, the place that would be most vulnerable to attack should any heroes manage to get in. He couldn’t just make it inaccessible—according to the arbitrary rules that governed Hearthworld, every room in a dungeon had to be accessible. However, as he knew from his Curse Chain teleportation experiments, a portal counted as an access point.

If he put the marketplace far back in the Southeast corner, just beyond the river that flowed through the fifth floor, it would already be farther than most heroes ever considered venturing. Add to that walling the entire marketplace off and putting a portal plate outside specifying that natives to the Troll Nation would be transported to a plate inside, and the market would meet the dungeon requirements while also protecting its customers and vendors from raiding bands of heroes. He couldn’t wall it off until he’d built the portal plates, but that was the work of a few hours at most. Until then, he could send a patrol of higher-level Trolls to keep watch for heroes.

He focused once more on that southeast corner.

[Construct central marketplace here? Yes/No Note: Once you have constructed the central marketplace, it cannot be moved.]

With a thought, he selected Yes, then closed the Settlement Grimoire. The ten other senior officers of the Troll Nation were still staring at him.

“It’s up,” Roark said, grinning. “By tomorrow, I’ll have added walls around it to cut it off from heroes, but you should be able to go there now and furnish your shops and buildings. Do what you need to, but I want the marketplace up and running by tomorrow night.” He stood up. “Kaz, I need you to come with me.”

On the way to the smithy, Roark gave Kaz seven single-use portal scrolls and laid out the plan for the Mighty Gourmet’s next diplomatic trip.

                                                                                      *** 

Roark stood at the northern end of the Troll Nation Marketplace, a slab of steel etched with runes lying ten feet in front of him against the northern wall. He dusted a bit of forge ash from the shoulder of his dark leathers, then clasped his hands behind his back. The light armor was polished to a dull shine, his ghostly pale Jotnar skin nearly glowing against it. His leathery wings ruffled impatiently. Mac had stood around waiting for about three minutes before wandering off to find something more exciting, leaving Roark behind wishing he could join him.

The sounds and smells of a busy marketplace drifted over to him. Merchants hawked their wares. Meat sizzled. A smith’s hammer rang out—one of the apprentice blacksmiths hard at work in Roark’s absence. But not on Roark’s anvil, if they knew what was good for them. 

A forest of colossal phosphorescent mushrooms towered high overhead, lighting the market with their ambient glow, but if he shut his eyes and just listened, he might not be able to tell the difference between the Troll Nation’s marketplace and Averi City’s.

He shifted feet, his wings shuffling again. What was taking so long? The sun was down already. The first dungeon lords should be arriving.

From behind Roark, soft music tinkled and the disturbed grass shimmered violet.

“Blasted plant,” Zyra said. “You can’t sneak up on anyone down here without Shadow Stalking.”

Roark smirked. “Were you going to stab me in the back?”

“I wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise,” the Reaver Champion said. Her hood shifted as she sized him up. “Don’t be nervous. They’ll smell it on you.”

“I wasn’t until you showed up. Dungeon Lords don’t worry me. They’re all just overly ambitious Jotnars in different bodies.”

“Then you should know exactly what they want to hear,” she teased, a smile evident in the lilt of her voice.

The Curse Chain rune on the portal plate began to glow blue.

“I’d better get back to my station,” Zyra said. “Don’t make any of them mad enough to kill you.”

Roark chuckled. “I don’t intend to.”

The grass sighed out more tinkling music as she started to leave.

“Zyra?” Roark said. “I’m glad you’re still talking to me.”

For a moment, a leather-wrapped hand slipped into his and squeezed. Then she was gone, leaving a curl of inky smoke in her wake.

A shimmering blue portal opened just above the plate, and a half-snake, half-woman Naga as tall and lean as Roark slithered out. Coppery red scales covered her body from tail to just below her breasts, where they faded gradually to smooth skin of the same color. [Shess the Shrewd], according to her nameplate.

“Welcome to the Troll Nation, Dungeon Lord of the Culling Swamps,” Roark greeted her, his tone welcoming, yet infused with authority. He didn’t bow or even incline his head. He didn’t want any of the other dungeon lords getting the impression that he would play subservient to them. They were in his domain, and he was the ruler here.

The Naga looked around with lidless eyes, her vertical pupils barely touching on anything for more than a moment. “I wasss expecting sssomething … bigger. More impressive.”

Roark schooled his features into a pleasantly condescending smile.

“We’re at the outer edge,” he said. “When the rest of our guests have arrived, we’ll go into the marketplace proper.”

Behind her, the runes began to glow again.

“You may want to come this way a bit,” Roark said.

As the Naga slithered over to stand beside him, another shimmering blue portal opened above the plate. A huge, blocky creature made of emerald green beryl shot through with veins of red stepped out, his crystal joints grinding. [Beryl King the Severe] from the Gardens of the Deep.

No sooner had Roark greeted the Beryl King than the portal plate spit out another dungeon lord, [Gevaudan the Terrible], who looked to be some type of wolf-bear-man hybrid. The remaining four came through in quick succession. [Ishri the Cunning], an enormous Bloodleech with wings to rival Roark’s and a circular mouth ringed with needlelike teeth; [Rohibim the Deceiver], a Void Djinn whose body shifted and roiled like smoke; [Drokara the Gullet], a Harpy Queen with a scattering of tattered, mangy feathers; and [Ko the Faceless] a Mind Mantid with hanging scythe-like arms and an iridescent plate of chitin where her eyes and mandibles should have been.

When the final greetings had been made, Roark addressed them as one.

“You all traveled here today by single-use scroll, and you’ll travel home the same way. But keep in mind as we tour the marketplace that if you choose to ally your dungeons with the Troll Nation, you’ll be given a portal plate with infinite uses to transport any of your dungeon’s mobs—yourself included—here at any time of the day or night.” It was like the fountain court in Averi City, though nowhere near as fancy. Yet.

With that, Roark turned on his heel and led them to the lush garden on the outskirts of the marketplace. Nearby stood a shack on chicken’s feet, bobbing almost imperceptibly. On its porch, sat the bent little hag in a rocking chair, her Gnarled Root Staff across her lap.

“This is the Herbalist’s Garden.” He gestured to the hag. “And this is our Herbalist, Emala. She sells herbs and ingredients and provides training in Herblore.”

Gevaudan, the wolf hybrid dungeon lord, lifted his snout and sniffed at the air.

“Are you growing Fangbane, old woman?”

Emala nodded her wrinkled head. “Seven gold for a pound, Dungeon Lord. Picked fresh before your eyes.”

“How did you come by it? It only grows in the Deathwail Caverns.”

“I get around.” The hag cackled softly, rocking in her chair.

Roark hid his smile as Gevaudan pulled out seven gold and handed it over. The first foreign transaction of the Troll Nation market.

Their next stop was Zyra’s shop. Each individual trainer, master, or merchant in the Settlement had been allotted 150 points to furnish their shops with, and the Reaver Champion had set hers up in much the same fashion as her lab in the Keep. Magical fires burned under bubbling flasks, metal tubing dripped strange-smelling potions into tiny cauldrons, and shelves of various and sundry ingredients lined the walls. In deference to the nature of the market, however, Zyra had added a seller’s counter which she leaned on grumpily as if she’d been in the trade her whole life. 

The Naga, Shess, slithered over to a multicolored display of potions and picked up an Ample Health Potion. A calculating expression crossed her face, one Roark recognized. She was realizing that what she held in her hands could completely shift the balance of power in her fights against invading heroes.

“How many of thessse do you have available to purchassse at one time?”

Zyra shrugged. “I have seventy-five at the moment, but they’re nothing to whip up. I also have Sufficient and Modest Health potions for the lower levels, Magicka potions for spellcasters, and a lovely assortment of the deadliest poisons in Hearthworld.”

Shess hissed. “A Naga needsss no poison beyond the venom in her fangsss.”

But the serpentine Dungeon Lord continued to admire the Health potions until Roark led them back outside. The smithy was next door to the Alchemist, a bit of settlement design Roark had tweaked himself, bumping the more logical choice of Yevin’s school of magical training across the street. 

The Bloodleech, Ishri, seemed especially interested in the armor being crafted. His people used their teeth and parasitic abilities to latch onto and drain heroes, but their bodies were soft and slimy. Easily pierced. Protection from heroes’ weapons would make an immeasurable difference.

By then, they were deep into the marketplace, and the street between both rows of building was filled with other merchants Variok had recruited—and the man had been busy. Apparently, he’d sold the idea of the Troll Nation Marketplace as easily as he sold everything else. Brightly colored tents, wooden stalls, and vendor spaces displayed every type of ware anyone could hope to find. The dungeon lords wandered through the aisles, inspecting, touching, and even buying. There was some good-natured haggling, and though Roark briefly worried that the stony Beryl King might upend a table covered in precious gemstones, the incident passed without actual violence.

Always a good sign, that.

When they finished their tour of the outdoor market, Roark led them across the street to the engineering trainer. Nathan, a burly, gregarious man, showed them the gleaming metal weapons and contraptions he crafted. Crossbows, mechanical traps, and even an enormous metal bull.

“What is it for?” the Beryl King asked in a voice like grinding rocks.

“Is for riding!” Nathan said, slapping the bull’s flank. “A mount, for when you don’t want to walk no more, yes?”

“How much weight can it carry?”

Nathan put up two fingers. “Two tons. More than twice what the strongest living mount in Hearthworld carries. And best part? Never tires. As long as you keep feeding wood into firebox, mount keeps going.”

From there, they went to Griff’s outdoor training area to watch him teaching a small group of Changelings fighting tactics. All of the dungeon lords took special interest when one of the scrawny Changelings, a level three Roark had specifically selected because of how close she was to reaching four, leveled up and Evolved into a musclebound Thursr.

“Our final stop is the Troll Nation Inn,” Roark said, leading them inside. “Where you can order stat-boosting meals prepared by our Troll Gourmet or purchase cooking skill training to bring food to your very own dungeon.”

Kaz shot Roark a nervous smile as their dungeon lord party took seats at the long table at the center of the common room. None of the dungeon lords looked very impressed by the idea of food.

Until they took their first bite.

                                                                                     ***

He’s done it, thought Randy Shoemaker as he trailed Roark the Griefer and the seven dungeon lords through the mob marketplace. I don’t know how, I don’t know why, but he’s done it.

The Trolls populating the place weren’t fighting or killing anything. They shopped, talked, worked together, bought skill training. It was fascinating. They were performing complex actions and having organic conversations that Randy could never have imagined coding them for. It defied all sense of logic or reason.

Why? Why set up a marketplace for mobs, then essentially lock out every hero? It didn’t fit with the modder’s griefing reputation. As far as Randy could tell, Roark had no plans to even tell the other players in the game that this existed. So what as the point of creating it? Money? A modder this talented could write himself in infinite gold. The same went for getting his hands on Unique and Legendary weapons. There was no point to going to all this trouble when you could just code in your own.

Randy shook his head as he followed along behind the Griefer. He was supposed to be following the modder to get answers, but it seemed like everything he saw just left him with more questions.