Civil War: Rogue Dungeon Book 2 (Chapters 11 - 12)

Chapter 11

Changes

With only 100 points to play with to design the first floor, Roark had to get creative … and sacrificial. 

In one fell swoop, he scrapped all the traps and pitfalls in favor of keeping the next group of heroes alive and well until they reached Wurgfozz in the second-floor throne room. Roark hated to see the traps go, as they did prove effective in winnowing down the heroes’ Health to make them easier kills for the Changelings and lower-level Reaver Bats and Stone Salamanders. He promised himself he would bring a few of the best back tomorrow—the spring-loaded spiked grate and the spears that stabbed out of the walls, definitely. And that chest that spewed a cloud of deadly plague? Without question, since that was among his favorites. 

But for now, the traps needed to go, though it would endanger the floor’s residents—especially with the ever-stronger heroes tromping through these days. To offset that, he would keep the lowest level first-floor creatures working together in large groups or close at hand to some heavy duty Thursrs. There was no task so formidable or daunting that it couldn’t be overcome with effective planning, thoughtful logistics, and good strategy. 

With the traps gone, the counter beneath the tiny depiction of the first floor’s layout—complete with every room, corridor, furnishing—rolled back up to 29 / 100. Good, but not good enough for all that he needed. Griff’s new training room alone would cost him ten of those points, and there was still a private chamber for the weapons trainer to consider. Expensive, that extra little space, but Griff’s value to the creatures of this floor was incalculable. An edge no other floor had. He would pay almost anything to keep the man happy, and hopefully, in time, he would be able to fully earn the man’s trust. Something Roark hoped would lead to the addition of even more Skill-Trainers from topside.

Somewhere on the edges of his concentration, Roark felt Mac twitch, the slumbering Elite Salamander’s sticky feet kicking a few times around Roark’s sides. Then with a sleepy chirp, Mac burrowed his bulbous, velvety head more securely against Roark’s back and fell still once more.

Roark studied the corridors with a merciless eye, straightening one of the winding passages to save the space and points the twists and turns had taken up, then subtracting the entirety of a dead end where a small group of Trolls usually lay in wait to ambush pursuing heroes. That done, he closed off the corridor leading into the great hall from the antechamber. It would still be accessible from the opposite direction, but the change would force incoming heroes to take the only door out of the antechamber, down the corridor toward the library and smithy. 

The dead end and great hall corridor could be returned tomorrow. After the twenty-four-hour waiting period for Floor Design changes was over and they didn’t have promises to keep and vital alliances to cement.

Roark couldn’t bring himself to touch Kaz’s kitchen—not even for a single day—and ten points apiece or not, he would part with the smithy or library when someone pried them from his cold, dead fist. His modifications so far had brought the Floor Design counter up to 41 / 100. Not ideal, but that would have to be enough.

Running through the list of options and sub-options, Roark selected a training room, placing it down the corridor from the kitchens. A plain, functional room, the walls made of gray stone, completely unadorned save for a few flickering torches mounted in wrought-iron wall scones. This he populated with straw-stuffed dummies, freestanding archery and throwing knife targets, and a few standing weapon racks. The rest he left as a wide-open space perfect for learning or practicing new maneuvers alone or as a small group.

Off the training room, Roark added a humble living quarters for Griff. The accommodations were sparse—little more than a bed, a chest of drawers, and a few small shelves on the walls—but it was the only bedchamber available on the first floor. As far as Roark knew Trolls never slept, so it was probably lucky that there were any living quarters in the Citadel’s layout options at all. He went through the furnishing options—which cost nothing extra—selecting the finest feathered mattress available, then choosing dark wood, all polished to a dull glow.

Certainly, nicer than many an Inn he’d stayed in during his time with the Resistance.

With a bitter smile, he thought back to the little room he’d shared with the Danella, the golden-haired thief who’d taught him the art of the cheap shot and the backstab and the pocketful of pepper-laced sand … and other more enjoyable pursuits. That had been early on, when he’d been little more than a boy playing at being a man. He could still see the room with perfect clarity, its flattened, defeated goose-down mattress and creaky floor boards. A small washstand in the corner with a chipped porcelain bowl and a steel pitcher of warm water. And as always in the memory, Danella sprawled across the bed, hair partially obscuring her face as she smiled. All coltish legs and creamy skin covered with more scars than a young woman her age ever should’ve had. 

Unfortunately, the price of reliving those pleasant memories was remembering the final one in the same level of perfect detail: Danella’s face bloated and black, her arms slack as she dangled and swayed gracelessly from the bough of a tree, her blue eyes and clever tongue already pecked out by the crows. Her final lesson to him, one paid in blood and heartache: everything can be taken. 

Ruthlessly, Roark pushed the past away and returned his focus to the Overseer’s Grimoire. With Griff’s needs taken care of, he turned back to the newly straightened corridor leading to the library and smithy. Just before the smithy, he added a secret passage connecting the hallway directly to the throne room. A little niche appeared on the map at the entrance, with a suit of armor holding a polearm standing there as if the nook had been built to showcase it.

That was the last of the points, and the counter sat at zero once more. Roark looked over the changes to the layout a final time. Satisfied, he shifted his focus to the bottom of the page to accept them.

[You have changed the floor layout of the Cruel Citadel Level 1! Changes will take place immediately, but no further changes can be made for (24) hours. Are you sure you wish to proceed?]

[Alter the Cruel Citadel Level 1? Yes / No]

Roark selected Yes, accepting the changes to the floor, then he turned to the grimoire page marked with the ribbon Troop Management. There, near the center of the page was the roster showing the status of all the Infernal chimeras native to the first floor. 

Interestingly, Griff had been added to the list as well, but when Roark tried to select the grizzled old trainer’s character sheet, he couldn’t. Either Griff didn’t have one or it wasn’t yet accessible to Roark. Making a mental note to ask the trainer about that later, he turned to the contact option beneath the roster. From there, he could speak to any of the first-floor natives, singly or en masse, via some form of telepathy.

Roark chose the mass contact option, but unticked Zyra’s name. She was already where she needed to be for now.

“Everyone meet in the great hall immediately to go over the plan for our next band of heroes,” he sent. “This round’s going to be … unconventional.”

Then he closed out of the Overseer’s Grimoire and stood, stretching the stiffness out of his neck and back. On the throne, Mac woke and followed suit, paddlelike tail shaking and fat belly curving as his back arched.

Kaz still stood in the doorway to the second floor, but was looking over his shoulder at Roark uncertainly.

“Should Kaz accompany Roark to the great hall or continue to guard the staircase against assassins?”

“Actually, mate, I have to ask you to move down to the third floor temporarily,” Roark said. “Right at the bottom of the stairs where I died.”

The mighty chef chewed his lip, his heavy brow furrowed with worry. 

“But will Roark be safe here without Kaz?”

Roark nodded. “If no assassins can get through you down there, then they can’t make it up here to assassinate me.” And he wouldn’t have to worry about the softhearted Thursr leaping to his rescue and getting himself killed or killing the heroes meant for Wurgfozz if the plan went awry. But Roark kept that reason to himself.

“Well,” Kaz said reluctantly. “Okay.”

As Kaz headed downstairs, Roark left the throne room and traveled through the torchlit stone corridors to the great hall, the sticky sound of Mac’s feet slapping the ceiling above him.

All of the first-floor Trolls, Bats, and Salamanders were already in the great hall, milling around, telling stories of their latest turn griefing or their experience with evolution, and drinking ale and snacking on bread and other tidbits from Kaz’s kitchen. Griff was at the far end of the long, rough-hewn table, one foot up on a chair, one elbow propped on that knee while he talked animatedly to a small gathering of enthralled Changelings and Thursrs.

Roark went to the head of the chamber—an anticipatory hush fell as he passed through the throng. The last muted murmur died as he turned to face them. For a moment, the memory of his first attempt at gathering all the creatures of the first floor flashed through his mind. He’d been a lowly Changeling then, so short he’d had to climb up on a table just so they could see him. No such problem now. Though whipcord lean, his Jotnar form towered over the largest of the Thursrs by more than a foot.

“By now most of you have heard that the Dungeon Lord sent a group of assassins to take me out,” he said, raising his voice so that it carried through the chamber. “You’ve probably also heard that it worked. Moreover, I’m sure most of you are aware that Azibek has put a steep price on my head.”

A chorus of angry grumbling erupted at this. Roark let them get the majority of it out of their systems, then raised his hands. They fell silent again, though he could see the outrage glinting in many an eye.

“What that means is simple. The time for peaceful negotiations with Azibek and his ilk has passed. It is time for hostility. For war. It will be ugly. Nasty. But necessary. And I won’t lie to you, Azibek still has a significant advantage over us, but even now we are working to undercut him.” Roark paused, folding his claw-tipped hands behind his back as he surveyed the room. “Toward that end, we’ve made an alliance with the Trolls of the second floor,” he finally continued. “That’s where the next round of griefing comes in. In short, there won’t be one.”

This time the chorus was a round of livid shouting. Roark had to shout to be heard over them. 

“You’ll notice there’s no door into the antechamber anymore.” He paused a moment, giving them time to glance at the place where the corridor had been earlier, a few pairs of eyes suddenly popping wide with surprise. “That’s to herd the heroes the right way. We’re funneling the next band down to the second floor as a show of good faith for the new alliance. When that’s over with, we’ll go back to our regular griefing habits. But until those heroes are safe in Wurgfozz’s oversized hands, I need the lot of you to stay here, in the great hall. Understand?”

A dull roar rumbled through the crowd, most of it irritable mumbling and grumbling. The grizzled weapons trainer seemed to be the only one holding his peace. Still leaning one elbow on the knee propped up on the chair, Griff was watching Roark with a look of bemused fascination in his one eye and scratching his stubbled chin.

“I know this is difficult, but you’ve trusted me so far, and look at the reward all of us have reaped. Power! Evolution! Food!” He offered them a slight smile while thinking of Kaz. “I’m asking for you to trust me once more. Together, we will bring Azibek to his knees and the Cruel Citadel will rise, better and stronger than it has ever been before.” 

One at a time, and then in a wave, the Trolls began to affirm that they understood what Roark was asking of them. That they believed him. Trusted him. 

“Good.” Roark clapped his hands together. “Now, I’ll also need a pair of volunteers for a dangerous mission. No one lower than their first evolution. This is most likely a suicide mission, and I don’t want anyone losing levels if they get killed.”
 

Chapter 12

Heroic Pursuit

Less than an hour later, when the next group of heroes descended the crumbling staircase into the first floor of the Cruel Citadel, they found the antechamber deserted, as planned. Roark watched them from the twisted obsidian throne. Though none of the names stood out as heroes they had griefed before, the four invaders crept through the halls warily, as if they had heard all about the numerous traps and ambushes implemented in this place. Their leader seemed to be a level 15 Necro Knight by the name of [The_Mustard_Knight]. None of the others were below level 12.

Looking at their levels and watching them creep forward, something Kaz had said what felt like eons ago prickled at the back of Raork’s mind: “Griefing can lead to dire consequences. Higher-level heroes might later come and grind the griefer into dust, wiping out him and anyone with him.”

Roark had paid no mind at the time, only considering the consequences of his actions when PwnrBwner_OG led the guild raid against him, trying to obliterate Roark completely. With the insane High Combat Cleric soundly thrashed, Roark had dismissed the problem as far less dire than Kaz had made it out to be. Now, however, he was beginning to think he saw the truth behind Kaz’s fears. It would not be the sudden grinding of a runaway boulder which would succeed in crushing the Trolls of the Cruel Citadel, but the slow, steady grinding of a gristmill. A gristmill that gained strength and power the more the rumor mill turned and called attention to the beatings heroes were taking in these twisted halls.

In the corridor outside the library, the heroes encountered the pair of newly evolved Thursrs, [Frig] and [Flatuli]. The Thursrs fought valiantly—Roark had told them to hold nothing back; if this plan was to work, there could be nothing in their actions to spark the heroes’ suspicions—but soon the higher levels got the better of them, and Flatulina was decapitated by The_Mustard_Knight’s longsword.

Roark winced. Flatulina had just reached level four and evolved into a Thursr, so she wasn’t losing any experience or accrued levels, but having her head hacked off couldn’t have been a very pleasant way to die.

As if the death of his comrade had forced Frig to see that he was outnumbered, the remaining Thursr wheeled about and sprinted away, chunky legs pumping as he flew down the corridor toward the smithy. The_Mustard_Knight and his party followed cautiously, keeping a line of sight on Frig while taking care not to blunder headlong into a trap. Yes, it seemed word had spread about just how deadly the Citadel could be to the unwary. 

Just before he reached the smithy, Frig slid to a stop before a niche showcasing a rusty suit of armor. He grabbed its polearm and levered the weapon forward. The grating of stone on stone echoed down the hallway as the suit of armor and the walls of the niche surrounding it rumbled to the side, revealing a secret passageway, just barely wide enough to fit the burly Thursr.

Frig disappeared into the passage just as the heroes caught sight of him, conveniently forgetting to close the wall behind him.

The_Mustard_Knight stopped just outside the passage, beckoning forward an azure-skinned elf in black leather armor crossed with straps and buckles. The dark elf crept forward into the passage, glaring into the shadow.

From his end of the passageway, Roark saw the flash of blue light as the dark elf cast a detect traps spell.

“We’re good,” the dark elf called back, voice echoing down the passage into the throne room. “No mechanisms or pitfalls.”

“You sure, Joey?” The_Mustard_Knight asked, his voice oddly high-pitched. “I’ve heard this place is supposed to loaded with traps. Weird ones, too. Seriously, brosif, I’m gonna be pissed if I get impaled by a bunch of spikes again.” 

“Dude, that was one time. One,” came Joey’s replied as he thrust a single finger into the air. “I’ve said sorry like a gajillion times—just let it go. And I’m telling you. There’s nothing here, man. It’s clean.” 

“Fine,” The_Mustard_Knight grunted, “but you’re totally going in there first.” 

As the heroes tentatively set off down the passage, creeping along in a single file line, Frig sprinted into the throne room and skidded to a stop in front of the dais. He bent over, hands on his knees, as he wheezed in great lungfuls of air.

“Good work,” Roark said. “Wait for my signal, then go shut the passage behind them.”

Frig saluted him.

“Yes, sir …” More wheezing. “Lord Overseer.”

Roark scowled—certain Zyra was responsible for getting that started again—then he turned back to the magical remote viewing of the heroes that the Overseer’s Grimoire allowed him.

The heroes followed the dark elf into the passage. As they rounded the bend, the entrance to the tunnel disappeared, stranding the heroes in utter darkness—save for the soft glow which came from the runes worked into their gear. Roark signaled Frig, and the Thursr slipped out through the portcullis, making his way back down the corridor the long way, to the niche where the suit of armor resided.

Roark made certain Frig got the exit closed before shutting the Overseer’s Grimoire and standing. Then he pulled the Superior Rapier he’d forged less than ten minutes before. It was no Slender Rapier of the Falcon, with its movement speed boosts, but it was a fine weapon nonetheless. Along with a set of leather armor he’d stitched together, the rapier would do nicely until he could collect his belongings from the third floor.

The dark elf appeared at the end of the tunnel first. When he saw Roark, he leapt backward, eyes wide.

“We got a boss room,” he shouted over his shoulder. “You’re up.”

Calmly, Roark raised his rapier and free hand in a clear invitation to attack.

The_Mustard_Knight and a musclebound rog sprinted from the passageway with their longsword and katana aloft, both bellowing discordant, wordless war cries.

As they closed with him, nearly inside his measure, a level 12 Mind Mage wearing deeply purple robes cast a spell from the relative safety of the tunnel.

Instinctively, Roark threw up his Infernal Shield. That filigreed purple vial appeared in the right of his vision, a spoonful of the purple draining away as the violet shield erupted around him. The spell bounced off.

[Roark the Griefer has resisted Paralysis Spell!]

“Yep, definitely a boss,” The_Mustard_Knight yelled, circling to the right. “He’ll have a weakness. Probably a cooldown period. Wait for his ward to wear off, then hit him with everything you got.”

Roark felt vaguely insulted, but reminded himself that as long as they were underestimating him, they wouldn’t be analyzing his next moves as closely as they should.

The rog closed with Roark in a flash, slapping his gleaming katana disinterestedly at Roark’s shield. Roark dropped the Infernal spell suddenly, the glimmering barrier disappearing, and lunged pie’ firmo at the green-skinned warrior.

The rog squawked in surprise, dancing back a few paces, and just managed to bring up his katana in time to deflect the slash. Roark took a quick series of pressing steps forward, attacking dalla spalla mandritto and riverso—large, diagonal slashes that would lay an opponent open from shoulder to hip if they connected, but which also left Roark open to a well-timed assault. Despite his relatively high-level, however, the rog didn’t seem to have the skill or wherewithal to exploit the weakness. Instead, he backpedaled, parrying the slashes but clearly too startled to mount a counterattack. His yellow eyes were frantic and wide as he tried to stay ahead of Roark’s vicious, calculated cuts.

From behind, The_Mustard_Knight’s longsword slammed into Roark’s shoulder blade, knocking him forward a step and leaving a gaping gash aching in the open air. A bit of the red in his filigreed Health vial drained away.

Roark stumbled, careful to let the momentum carry him toward the door in the corner of the throne room. Oblivious to anything out of the ordinary, the rog recovered his composure and proceeded to herd Roark toward the corner.

The_Mustard_Knight followed hard on their heels, and Roark soon found himself blocking attacks from a longsword and katana at the same time, dancing through an ever more intricate series of parries. If they noticed the door, they paid it no immediate mind, either thinking that he couldn’t or wouldn’t retreat to the next floor.

They were wrong on both accounts. 

His rapier connected with the blade of the katana, trovar di spada, though the katana’s higher position gave the rog the advantage. With a flick of his wrist, Roark executed the tight circle Griff had demonstrated for him, not only throwing off the katana, but slashing open the rog’s forearm with a spiraling cut at the same time. A second after Roark’s stramazzone counter was complete, The_Mustard_Knight’s longsword sliced into the meat of Roark’s bicep. Blood oozed up and began to trickle down his pale white arm. His health vial emptied another few notches.

From the corner of Roark’s eye, he saw the mage cast another spell. Roark threw up his left hand once more, the Infernal Shield flickering to life and licking away at the Infernal magick in his purple vial. The spell bounced off in a shower of bright sparks.

[Roark the Griefer resisted Stun Spell!]

Over The_Mustard_Knight’s shoulder, Roark saw the dark elf slipping toward the corner, trying to flank him, a pair of wickedly curved daggers drawn and ready. It was time.

Roark dropped the violet barrier again and turned on his heel, racing down the shadowy, torchlit staircase. His long legs skipped two and three steps at a time as he ran. A cacophony of shouting and clanking armor followed behind him. He leapt down the final four stairs all at once, landing at the bottom in the gloomy torture chamber that was the second floor. Without a backward glance, Roark sprinted for the door to the next room.

He should’ve kept his shield up or written a rebound spell for the chase portion of the plan. Roark realized this the moment he felt a burning fist smack him in the center of his spine. 

[You have been Slowed! Movement speed reduced by 45% for 30 seconds.]

“Yeah, nailed him!”

“Nice shot, Doc!”

Indigo lights circled his head and chest, speeding up faster and faster as his own movement slowed to a crawl. It felt as if he were slogging through chest-deep sucking mud. The long muscles in his arms and legs strained as he fought to speed up, but he couldn’t coax anything resembling haste from them. A newborn foal that had just slopped onto the wet grass could’ve run him down at this speed.

Roark could hear the heroes gaining on him as he edged around a cage and its grinning skeletal occupant. If they noticed that this floor was as abandoned as the one above, none of the heroes mentioned it. They caught up to him as he was passing the breaking cradle. Longsword, katana, and now dual daggers were ripping at his flesh like a pack of dogs tearing apart a bear. Red drained from his Health vial in a steady stream. Only his increased Health Regeneration rate as a Jotnar kept him alive—and even that was a near thing. 

These heroes were far more powerful than he’d originality anticipated … If Roark didn’t do something differently, they were going to kill him before he made it to the throne room. 

Mentally, Roark scrambled, cogs clanking away inside his skull as he desperately tried to figure out a way to stay alive long enough to see this gambit through.

He veered left and leapt over an open pit of coals, moving slowly enough that he could look down at the glowing branding iron stuck deep in the bed of embers. The pit touched off a spark of memory in his mind. It looked so like the one in the first-floor torture chamber. The pit of coals where he’d found …

Neveret’s Last Laugh! He dug into his Inventory and ripped out the glittering black lava glass and metal mask.

It would block at least some of the damage from their weapons, but he wouldn’t be able to see where he was going. Worth the trade off? A glance at his Health decided it—the red in the filigreed vial was well below half and dropping with every fresh attack.

Roark took one final look ahead, committing the layout of the room to hasty memory: The doorway to the second room was five long paces away. The only way he could miss it was if he stumbled and went severely off track. Which was a possibility, considering that the mask contained no eyeholes.

With trembling hands, he fitted Neveret’s Last Laugh onto his face, rendering himself temporarily blind. Immediately, the bright lines of pain each blow dealt faded, and thin white text appeared in the darkness.

[Roark the Griefer has resisted stabbing damage from Superior Longsword.]

One pace.

The mask extracted its price of one Health per character level for the first second worn. Roark grimaced behind the nonexistent mouth of the mask. Neveret’s Last Laugh was deflecting 100% of the damage from all non-magical weapons, but with so little red left in his vial and so far to go, 8 Health felt like a steep price to pay. But then he noticed his naturally High Regeneration rate was combating the toll. As a level 8 Jotnar, he regenerated 6 Health per second, which meant that per second, Neveret’s Last Laugh extracted a measly 2 HP—practically a steal, considering the circumstances. 

[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]

Two paces.

[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]

The dark elf’s dual daggers still cut little bits of his life away, but without the assistance of the larger blades, they were nowhere near as effective.

Three paces. Another 8 Health drained away.

[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]

Four paces. Roark braced himself to slam into the stone wall.

[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Superior Longsword.]

Five paces! He must be inside the second room, an open space studded with lava pits and roasting cages.

For a split second, he lifted the mask away from his face to check his surroundings. Orange light from the molten lava illuminated the doors on the far wall. The last one was his target. He slapped the mask back down, and not a moment too soon.

[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]

[Roark the Griefer has resisted stabbing damage from Superior Longsword.]

[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Superior Longsword.]

[Roark the Griefer has resisted slabbing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]

Neveret’s Last Laugh continued to extract its price for protection, and the Slow Spell continued to make Roark’s progress a damned faraway fantasy. 

Beneath the mask, Roark managed a wry smirk. If he had to find a golden lining to all this, it was that at least the heroes were committed to following him. He’d barely had to do anything to get them this far. As long as losing nearly three-quarters of his Health counted as barely doing anything.

[Roark the Griefer has resisted slabbing damage from Folded Steel Katana.]

[Roark the Griefer has resisted slashing damage from Superior Longsword.]

Roark stumbled. At first, he thought he’d tripped over something without feeling it. But then he realized his arms and legs were pumping freely again. It was like being held under water as the oxygen drained away and your lungs fought for air, then suddenly being released and gasping down lungfuls of fresh, sweet, delicious air. The Slow Spell had ended. Roark laughed—a full-bellied thing that rose from his center—and ripped off the mask. Suddenly, his long legs ate up the stone floor, leaving the surprised heroes dashing like mad to catch up.

Quickly, before the mage could cast another bloody Slow Spell, Roark held out his left hand, and conjured an Infernal Shield to protect his back. He shot through the door on the end, then down the twisting meat-hook-adorned corridor usually crawling with Reavers, hungry for a kill. 

The heroes were catching him again, nearly breathing down his neck as he burst into the lava-lit throne room. But it hardly mattered, as the moment they stepped over the threshold was the moment four Elite Reavers hit the party with Paralysis Spells from every direction. The heroes stopped dead in their tracks, bodies immobilized, expressions ranging from shock to rage frozen on their faces.

Roark slowed to a halt and came face-to-face with the obese, spike-studded Wurgfozz. The Thursr Behemoth’s eyes glittered greedily.

“Your show of good faith, as promised,” Roark panted, sweeping hand toward the paralyzed heroes. His lanky black hair had fallen into his face from the chase, and he quickly swept it aside with one sweat-slick hand.

“It’s quite the wonderful change of pace to work with a Troll of his word,” Wurgfozz said in his high-pitched purr. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Griefer… Or should I say it’s about to be a pleasure?”

[Congratulations! You have delivered (1) group of heroes to Wurgfozz the Sadistic within the allotted time limit! Your alliance with the Trolls of the Second Floor is now Secure!

To Maintain the Alliance: Allow second floor Trolls access to first floor kitchens, trainers, and strategies; allow Wurgfozz the Sadistic to continue ruling the Second Floor as Overseer.

To Break the Alliance: Challenge Wurgfozz the Sadistic for the position of Second Floor Overseer.]

As soon as Roark closed this page, more text appeared, notifying him that

[Congratulations! Your Troll Leadership skill has increased to Level 2! Trolls who were Receptive to your Leadership will become Supportive of your Leadership when spoken to face-to-face!]

With a thought, Roark dismissed the notice, took two long strides, and slumped into a stained aquatic torture chair. Every scrape, cut, and bruise he’d been trying to ignore flared up immediately, sending his vision swimming for a moment. The second floor trolls who were hard at work attaching the party of motionless heroes to various devices of torture blurred into meaningless orange-tinged shapes.

Then a leather-wrapped hand materialized to his right holding out a bright red Modest Health Potion.

“Drink up,” Zyra’s voice said from somewhere out past the heavens. “We’re too close to enemy territory for you to be wandering around without full Health.”