Shadowcroft Year 3 - Chapter Ten

Logan stood Viewing Dock #6, watching Marko’s surreal masterpiece of dungeonesque performance art. The satyr was obviously having the time of his life. Not only had he created a very strange dungeon, he wasn’t cleaning bathrooms. He’d asked the Gelatinous Knight and Nemoy, the elderly undead merman to help him out while he was away for the Crucible. Both agreed, though Marko had expressed some concern they wouldn’t do a good job. To think, he was worried about your average Arborean restroom. Things had changed.

Logan should’ve been enjoying his suite, which boasted multiple rooms, huge, tiled bathrooms, and an expansive kitchen with more than enough room for his digestion pit. But instead, he’d left his fancy hotel room to support a friend. Logan stood on the balcony staring down at Marko’s dungeon, which was part Cirque du Soleil, part malarial fever dream nightmare, but mostly it was pure, unadulterated Marko.

Even at a glance, it was clear the goat man wasn’t trying to win. He was just trying to be a spectacle. In that, he couldn’t fail.

The name of his dungeon was Trix/Terrible, and it had its own logo—a mannequin covered in roses facing a mirror. In the mirror, there were shadowy things with teeth and tentacles. It was deeply, deeply unsettling. Even by Marko’s standards.

The dungeon started off with the basics—old moss-covered stone, dripping water, and silence, which was punctuated every so often by a well-timed shriek. Logan could appreciate the skill level. The nuance of it all. The water drips were timed perfectly to be anti-rhythmic. The screams were at the exact decibel level to conjure as much terror as possible.

Sure, the dungeon started off kind of generic. Then it got… weird.

Marko was facing the full complement of Shadowcroft’s simulated adventurers. They were actually ghosts, but through the magic of the Threshing Turtle, they now had physical bodies. In Logan’s mind, it was disturbingly unethical to enslave the souls of raiders for millennia, but then again, they were trying to save the universe, and none of the raiders seemed to complain about the arrangement. Not any of the twelve versions the tournament runners had created, anyway.

The party was chock-full of the classic hits:

· Brandybutter as armor-clad, melee damage dealer.

· Arfgar of the Hill People playing the role of front-line tank.

· Sir Mediocritus spec'd out as a ranged damage dealer.

· Lindarval Lanathandyxtook on the mantle of healing support. She was also known as Feathers, given she was a worshipper of Illumina Pate, the Bald Phoenix.

· The team also had two sorcerers, Morty Mercutio Mimsy and Hallsee the Sad—both dangerous powerhouses if left to their own devices.

· Lastly, there was an explorer/rogue by the name of Daggers McFinn.

Most of the seven raiders would be high C-Class, but there would also be some B-Class as well—at least two, if not three. Not that Marko was actually worried about the dungeoneers. He was far more interested in the story of the dungeon; a true, artist unconcerned with the grading criteria. Which was insane. Although the Crucible was a simulated event, it came with some very real consequences to make it more interesting for the powerful and wealthy spectators who liked to gamble on the event. If the raiders broke through his defenses and managed to shatter his dungeon core gem, the satyr would die, whether this narrative structure was solid or not.

But Marko was cool as a cucumber, despite what was at stake.

In Trix/Terrible, the meta-story was as confusing as it was self-referential. It was literally about a satyr trying to win a dungeon competition. The fictional dungeon master knew he wouldn’t win, and his heart was broken, though he was trying to repair it with a magically crafted item called the Harmonica of Healing. It was absurdist to the extreme, although Marko would definitely get points for creativity, set design, and for crafting such a unique and interesting magic item. Which was good, because Logan was pretty sure those were the only points he’d be receiving from the judges.

Marko’s dungeon was just too artsy to be very effective. Once again, the satyr had gone for style over substance.

As the seven raiders crept through the dripping water room, they came upon a sad mannequin in a satyr costume sitting on a splintered throne, decorated with copious amounts of graffiti. The dummy in the goat outfit was pining over his failures while other mannequins tried to soothe him. None of them attacked the dungeoneers. The raiding party simply walked through the room while the fake Marko monologued about the futility of life and his inevitable defeat.

Overall, it was a thoughtful and poignant vignette that reflected on the struggles of a dungeon core, while simultaneously imploring the adventurers to turn back and reconsider their life choices.

Of course, it had no effect whatsoever.

Those mannequins, however, would follow the party and would attack them in the main trap room, which was a beautifully painted portrait of Wintersylver. She was standing on the corpses of other tournament competitors, which was eerie. Logan saw Lady Elesiel, pierced with spears, holding Chadrigoth’s decapitated head. Jimi Magmarty had been crushed into a pile of rubble.

When the dungeoneers entered the room, the painting of the ice dragon sprang from the walls and attacked, while the mannequins from the monologue room launched a rear ambush.

The dummies were surprisingly effective and managed to kill both Sir Mediocritus and Morty Mercutio Mimsy.

Brandybutter was eventually able to slay the white dragon without it killing anyone else—though the whole party suffered some grievous wounds.

The next room was bare, but there was something eerily wrong with the shadows. Marko’s voice drifted through moving patches of darkness, once again pondering his own eventual failure. And yet, Marko would definitely get points for structural engineering—he had a secret passageway that connected the shadow room to the inner sanctum, so he could go and play his lute and summon eldritch horrors before retreating back to the sanctum. One of the summoned abominations devoured Hallsee the Sad, and while Brandybutter and Arfgar were wounded, they managed to kill the horrors.

Unfortunately, Lindarval Lanathandyx managed to heal both the paladin and the barbarian before their wounds turned mortal.

Worse, Daggers McFinn detected the secret passage, and so Marko’s horrible victory feast room, which was actually there to celebrate his defeat, was totally skipped. Too bad, because Marko had set up a puppet theater using a combination of his College of Form abilities: living shadows, unsettling mannequins, and powerful, hidden mimics. The puppets—all tasteful imitations of the First Cohort—had been set to attack and overwhelming the dungeoneers. A host of Italian food mimics would’ve sealed the raiders’ fate had they taken a bite of the heavenly spread.

The surviving four adventurers followed the snaking secret passageway directly into Marko’s inner sanctum, where he wore a dunce cap, up on stage, sobbing, “What is dungeon? Dungeon is me. What is dungeon? Dungeon are we!”

Then the stage exploded as a single Cthulhu-like mannequin rose up from the wreckage, revealing the central pedestal underneath.

Marko cackled laughter and put the Harmonica of Healing to his lips. He didn’t need to be healed, but he was using the item anyway, because of course, it was like Chekhov’s musical mouth instrument—once you introduce a magical harmonica, you have to use it. While Marko played a jaunty little healing tune, he performed, Nataraja’s Wretched Rhythm—a strange, disjointed dance that hypnotized Arfgar. The Cthulhu mannequin than ripped the barbarian’s head off with his mouth tentacles. Creeping up behind the monstrosity, Daggers McFinn landed a critical backstab that felled the eldritch horror in a single powerful blow.

Marko wasn’t about to spoil his work of art by actually fighting himself.

Instead, he hoisted himself above the pedestal, and hung in the ropes, in a pathetic display of defeat. “I am fate’s sorrowful puppet,” he declared. “Destiny has hunted my dungeon core since I was first damned to this world of raiders and the raided. Failure was my destiny from the start!”

Brandybutter, the cleric, and the rogue stood in front of the stage like spellbound audience members.

Logan found himself both entranced by the drama and genuinely concerned about his friend survival. Marko wouldn’t let his dungeon core gem be shattered for the sake of art, would he?

By that time, it was 8:00 A.M. and Viewing Deck #6 was packed with spectators, all struck silent at the spectacle. Logan was positive that the Crucible and the Interschool Tournament had never seen anything even remotely like the dungeon Marko had created.

Finally, Brandybutter broke free of the mesmerizing performance and rushed the pedestal, his enormous broadsword swinging for the fences.

Marko, however, wasn’t quite out of the fight. He activated his Dumbshow of Burguk ability, which allowed him to use his mime abilities to create invisible objects, like a wall. Marko mimed his heart out. And altered reality in the process.

Brandybutter smashed into the invisible rampart just as the puppets and pasta mimics, moving on noodle legs, rushed into the room, hitting the adventures in the back in an avalanche of teeth and red sauce. It was a marinara massacre that was sure to leave ungodly stains for years to come. The chaotic ambush also bought Marko just enough time to drop from the ropes and hurl a flurry of magical knives. Conjured blades pincushioned Brandybutter, ignoring his magical armor, as he was pulled down and enfolded by a monstrous one-hundred layer lasagna.

Puppet Chadrigoth had claws that shredded Feathers the cleric like a cheese grater going to work on a block of parmesan. Puppet Lady Elesiel drove her sword into Daggers McFinn, backstabbing the backstabber.

Puppet Magmarty pounded Brandybutter’s armor flat while Puppet Tet leapt around the room—the epitome of feline grace—unleashing carnage in her wake.

The auditorium erupted in applause and reverberating cheers.

It was pretty clear to Logan that Marko hadn’t really planned on defeating the raiders, but he’d managed to pull it off, thanks to his puppet creations.

The satyr was still alive, but he’d used every bit of his Apothos to achieve the victory. Of course he’d nailed the Wow Factor, but that was only 5% of his total score.

Inga and Treacle stood nearby, watching the battle play out below with worried glances.

Inga blinked as the last of the raiders finally fell—head disappearing down the gullet of a delicious looking chicken parm. “That was… that was…” Her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. “I don’t know what the word is.”

Treacle threw sarcastic jazz hands. “Two words. Trix/Terrible.”

They waited- while Marko re-absorbed all of the remaining Apothos energy he could, though there wasn’t much left. For better or worse—probably for worse—he’d gone all out. The judges flashed his total score over Dungeon #6:

· Apothos Usage = 50/100

· Structural Economy = 85/100

· Minion Management = 75/100

· Crafting Manifestations = 95/100

· Wow Factor = 100/100

· Total Weighted Score = 68.25 (D+)

Marko had survived the trial—and he’d clearly impressed the judges with his creativity—but thanks to his abysmal Apothos usage, he was going to be scored at the very bottom of the barrel.

Inga sighed. “It’s unfortunate but not surprising.” Back on Friday morning, she’d run an almost perfect dungeon, but even she wasn’t at the top. She’d scored a 92, with a mixture of scores in the 80s and 90s.

Treacle exhaled. For once, he wasn’t holding the jawbreaker or sucking on it. He did, however, spout poetry. “Now is the time. Minotaur dungeon fantastic. Blood on spinning gears.”

Logan rubbed his head. “What’s that now?”

“Treacle’s competing in the next round” Inga translated, before hugging the big minotaur. “I wish you the best of luck, my friend. We’ll be watching!”

Logan knew what Treacle Glimmerhappy was planning to do to the simulated dungeoneers, and he couldn’t wait to see the carnage.