LogFAQs > #897176743

(Cameos and mentions are always a possibility.)

Level 0
Ruins of Vikenti

Twenty-five adventurers departed Rostik for the Pit of Periphetes, the procession having left the village at sunrise in order to reach the Ruins of Vikenti before nightfall. The parade itself made it to the outskirts of Rostik before the celebrants dispersed to let soldiers of the realm escort the adventurers to the boundary of the land of death, marked by a nameless camp full of lepers and outcasts -- the poor souls responsible for clearing the Ruins of bodies and debris during the safety of daylight. The rumors had it that the squatters had also explored the first level of the dungeon itself, but they admitted to nothing, staying in the shadows as the adventurers passed them.

After the camp, silence greeted the newcomers. Since the sinking of that first well, no animals remained in the land of death, and all the plants there had died, leaving a landscape of browns and grays, marked off only by dead trees casting long shadows as the Sun set behind them. The atmosphere became heavy, and all banter stopped, the adventurers separating into twos and threes as they headed into the Ruins of Vikenti.

The two Orcs, Fox and Grillga, paused and glanced at each other as the first buildings of the Ruins came into view. Fox nodded to Grillga before walking forward, drawing his two saw-toothed scimitars and dropping into a ready stance. Grillga returned the nod, understanding two things as she unstrapped the flamberge from her back: One, that it was a kill-or-be-killed situation going forward, and two, that her fellow Orc at least had her back for the time being. They advanced into the Ruins side by side, weapons ready.

A short distance behind them, Whiskey smirked at their solidarity. His people had been making a science of treachery for millennia, and he had no illusions about the things that he needed to do to survive in the Pit. Next to him, Melon, his companion in ale at the bar the night before, stroked his chin, considering the example the Orcs had set.

"Your thoughts, my hooded friend?" Melon asked, but, as he turned to Whiskey for a response, he had no more words to say, for the Dark Elf had put a sword through him. No warning. No sound. Only the surprise of death. He blinked, looking down at the hilt of the sword as if witnessing a joke. Then, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slid off the blade, falling flat on his back, blood bubbling up in his mouth as he died.

"I don't like sharing my thoughts," Whiskey replied, cleaning the edge of his sword on the cloak of his victim, "and you're not my friend, so you don't deserve them, anyway." He made a mock salute as he walked onwards. "At least you could hold your liquor. Good night, bard." From the corner of his eye, he could already see the lepers scurrying in the shadows, eager to strip the dead half-Dragon of his valuables. He considered pausing to do the same, but he had no need of money in the depths of the Pit.

Link witnessed the murder, and his short sword practically leaped into his hand as, next to him, Winter -- another Dark Elf -- turned to him with a ball of fire in his palm, letting it fly as Link raised his shield to protect himself. The fireball detonated on contact, but the innate magic of the shield redirected the blast outwards, blowing Link and Winter away from each other, leaving both of them singed and dazed, but alive. Both of them then sought cover in the Ruins, realizing the dangers of a stand-up fight in the open.

After that explosion, all Hell seemed to break loose at once.

(Continued)
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-- I Abibde / Samuraiter
Laughing at Game FAQs since 2002.