Dragonheart Core

To the surprise of no one, no bugs had managed to rise above their piddly scuttling status and claim their fill of the mana in the center. I shuffled about my points of awareness in the little gladiatorial ring, idly glancing at the dead and dying corpses scattered over the stone. Easily dozens, maybe a hundred; all killed by each other.

Yet still, the thimbleful of raw mana sat undisturbed.

A few were interesting; the mosquitos, large and swollen by their time feeding on my mana-rich creatures, buzzing and irritating. I could see a place for them on the fourth floor, swarming in the endless tunnels until invaders quite lost their way in focus on hitting the bugs out of their way. Lots of potential there.

But my gaze was more drawn to the others fighting their way to the center.

There had been only two so far, their soft and spongy bodies easily trampled and stabbed by the grasping pincers of other bugs, but the caterpillars were deeply intriguing to me. I still missed my old flight, as much as the Underlake and Drowned Forest soothed me, and with every creature I'd yet found capable of soaring the skies called to me. None had reached butterfly status yet, but they were striving for it, as natural and common an evolution as could be found. I couldn't tell what they'd evolve into but these caterpillars were deep blue things, rich and velvety; a jewel rather separate from the greys and blacks of their surrounding cave insects. They'd come from somewhere outside, though I couldn't hazard a guess as to how. The little worms weren't exactly fast.

The moths were the same way, though their caterpillars were fuzzy and ridged with spikes. The other bugs avoided them, fearing perhaps some poison I didn't know, but while they were more numerous in number than the butterfly's caterpillars, they were even slower, and often died to a spare hit from some of the more gladiatorial bugs who had not so much decided that they would be getting it, but that no one else would be getting it.

But soon they'd reach it, I suspected. Few bugs had ever had access to the feast I'd laid out. I'd spawn a few more outside just to give them the chance.

Of course, there were the other insects proud and ready to claim it; great lancing beetles with grasping arms like blades, or round, carapace-hard walking mountains who shrugged off hits that came their way. Plenty of options for who would grow strong enough to join my halls in true sequence.

But my thoughts went back to the flying critters.

I had the bat, I knew, and doubtless though they could survive on the fourth floor I knew it would be a constant battle of respawning them as their numbers died in droves to the thornwhip algae. No, I wanted to give them a place to actually thrive.

And, well. I was a deeply selfish creature at heart. The fucking Dread Pirate had taken away my wings, my flight; I wanted it back, even if in part.

…my fourth floor was stable enough I could technically move to a fifth.

But what would it be? My points of awareness spiraled through my halls as I pondered, glancing around as if for inspiration; as much as I wanted to shape it like the open skies, just two tunnel openings on each side for entrance and exit and nothing but open air between, cloudskipper wisps kicking up great storms and lightning while birds and beasts and bats all swarmed overhead, I couldn't.

Because while I had hope Seros would gain his wings eventually, he didn't yet have them, and I would not deprive him a way down to my further levels.

And my other creatures too, I supposed. But Seros first.

So then what?

I wanted the storms, for whatever lightning-attuned evolution I could coax out of the cloudskipper wisps, and open air was as important to me as it could be; while narrow channels and spiraling halls would make for a far more difficult flight, I wasn't building this for the select few flying races of the world. This was for my creatures.

With the added bonus that the vast majority of invaders would have to walk exactly the path I laid out for them. Maybe a few fliers would find this a wildly easy floor, able to soar above the majority of my traps, but then I'd just make the sixth something to fear.

So now something for Seros to stride on. Not just a stone path, stretching and prone to crumble; while he hadn't yet evolved, I know that seabound monitor wouldn't be his final stage. And judging by his previous route, he would be continuing to increase in size. I needed a path to support him.

One of my points of awareness swiveled towards the Drowned Forest, where my canals sat, unassuming and quiet, with a variety of moss-covered stones sticking out of the white-ridged water.

Or, at least what looked like stones.

The lichenridge turtles, as stepping stones for invaders to get across the canal with. Though I didn't hazard that I could somehow summon turtles large enough to serve as faux stones for an aerial level, I could take inspiration.

Massive, spiraling pillars, jabbing into the sky, with bridges stable but impossibly thin stretching between. Strong enough for Seros to worm his way across, though I rather doubted this would be as favourite a floor for him as the Underlake, and exceedingly dangerous for invaders. They would have to focus on concentrating on their balance, keeping their head, and avoid the myriad of flying dangers I could summon.

And if they lost their way? Well. It would be a long fall, a truly unpleasant one, onto perhaps jagged iron spikes or a poisonous river, with no way back up once they had fallen. My scavengers would feast.

Oh. I liked this very much.

The bats and the bugs, and whatever other flying beasties I could gather; algae-light, because I was fond of seeing and the fourth floor's trick could only be pulled off so many times; hidden beasts on the pillars, ready to snap and tear and all manners of unpleasant things. Massive pillars stretching to the sky, swarming clouds of beings sharp and angry, knotted messes and monsters.

Oh yes. I could make that work.

But not yet.

I still didn't know what was happening in Calarata, and I couldn't afford to use all my mana carving out stone and constructing pillars when an invader was threatened at every corner. I suppose. Annoying, at the very least. I could continue to swallow my frustration and fear and call it irritation, wishing I knew what was happening on the other side, or even deeper within the mountain. Something had to be happening. There was no other reason I could have gone so undisturbed for so long, not when the fucking Dread Pirate was still out there. He wouldn't have just… died, would he?

That thought was harrowing. Surely a man that damned powerful had enemies, and while I didn't have an inkling on what gave him the powers he had, it couldn't have been natural. So what if that power had been temporary? What if some other accursed enemy of his had gone in and killed him?

Not that I didn't want him dead, because I can very much assure you, I did. Only I wanted to be the one to do it. I wanted him to enter my halls—once I was ready—and be squashed on perhaps the first floor, maybe the second, all while having the knowledge that I was so much more powerful than him. Then I'd cut out his fucking heart before his eyes and let my creatures feast on his mana.

But I couldn't, because I didn't know where he was and what he was doing.

Gods. I'd been so refusing to die, so hungry and starving for revenge, but now I couldn't fight back yet. It'd been weeks since I'd last seen the man who'd killed me. I'd comforted myself with building and expanding, endless creatures and schemas and powers. But I wanted his death. I wanted it more than I'd ever wanted for anything in my past life.

Soon I would get a spy. Maybe one of the bugs, maybe the bat, maybe whatever evolution was coming soon to the rats; I would Name another creature and they would show me what lay beyond my halls.

Soon.

-

His hands were not bound, his feet free. He had been set loose to wander over the past two days, in a courtyard with open doors and lax guardship at best. Every opportunity to run and try to flee.

Nicau had not. Foolish though he was finding himself to be, he was not yet foolish enough to try the trap so cleanly set out for him.

Lluc had seemed almost disappointed when he'd returned after the two days.

With him he brought Aloma, a lower member of the Dread Crew; she was tall and she gangled, arms ridged in scars and skin pulled taut between. Cold brown eyes, like deepwater mud, frowned upon him even as a grin wrote itself across her face.

"'Ere's the little brat," she cooed, twisting a blade thin as spider's silk between her fingers. "My new leader, eh?"

"Shut up," Lluc snapped, jamming his wolf fur lined hat further onto his head. "Boy. Come along."

Nicau was rather cognizant enough to sense the overall mood these two were delivering, and he followed quietly behind.

They strode through the worn and weary streets of Calarata, along buildings well past repair dates and hovels built of packed mud, past beggars who stretched desperate hands before they recognized the First Mate and huddled back to their shadows. An unkindly place, but not one without character; storm-warnings written by children's hands on the walls in fruit-paste, a seamstress humming an old fisher's song as she stretched out a new tunic. Even beneath the grime and dirt, there was light here.

Nicau had just never been privy to it.

On they marched, over wharf and dock, until their boots clambered on pebbled shores and they arrived at the base of the Alómbra Mountains, where the dark things dwelled. Lluc stared up at their peaks, mouth drawn in a low frown.

"The Dread Pirate was very clear," he said. "Go in, explore the first few levels, then get out. Don't go collecting treasure nor creature. We'll let him do that. Savvy?"

Aloma shrugged, eyes sharp. "Clear as rain, your lordship." Her shoulders bobbed as she turned her back on him, hand placed in faux thoughtfulness on her chin. "'Course, can't help but wondering why it's me who's going in there, when the Captain saw fit to give you the order. Or why you're sending this 'ittle brat in as well. Can't be that you're scared, no, not the First Mate."

She didn't look at him but her eyes sparkled. "Or that you're awfully angry right now, and your eye's looking a trifle twitchy. Had some poor news, o' leader of mine?"

Aloma tried to continue, mouth opening, but no sound came through. No air either, face paling and purpling all at once, lips gasping like a fish. Nicau curled tighter over himself.

Lluc lowered his hand, the ring on his finger losing its glow, and Aloma sucked in a heaving breath.

"Go in and report back," he snarled, and marched away.

Nicau watched him go. Maybe it was best he hadn't been able to make it onto the Dread Crew. They all seemed less like the unbothered, all-powerful group he'd always imagined them as.

Aloma hissed, massaging the sides of her throat, but she turned back to him with an unchanged grin. "You heard the man," she said. "Up and at 'em. You first."

The mountain loomed before. He'd been here before, those other half dozen times he'd sent other unwary adventurers into its depth to fetch a prize he didn't know. He wrapped his arms around his thin shirt, to the cold, stiff lump pressed against his ribs. He'd had two days alone after learning that it was a dungeon instead of just a dragon-heart, two days to think and plan; gods, he hoped his gift would be enough. He wanted to survive.

But he was losing hope, now.

Nicau didn't much believe in karma. It was hard to, in a lawless city where the rich plundered and the poor died.

But looking in the gaping maw of the mountain where so many others had followed his guidance, he felt uncomfortably like he was being told he deserved this.