The second chamber was weird.

I was still flying high from all the destruction and loot from the previous area–not to mention learning that I had some sort of badass, magical boomerang blade at my disposal. Because of this, my attention was obviously compromised, so I didn’t get a great peep at our current surroundings. Stinky, however, brought me back to reality by deflating my jubilation balloon.

“You fuckin’ oaf,” he spat, resting on the ground. “You useless, long-suffering shit from the bottom of–”

“Woah, woah, woah!” I interrupted. “What the hell, man? Why you comin’ in all hot? We just beat that chamber’s ass! I figured you’d be… well, not happy, but, like… slightly less cranky?

“What the fuck is there to be pleased about? That was just gettin’ shit poured on us in an uphill climb.”

“Easy, there, Robert Frost,” I said. “We made it, didn’t we? Everyone is intact, and nobody died.

Plus–without me figuring out how the dungeon worked, we’d never have gotten out of there. Thanks to my brilliance, we live to argue another day.”

“What in the fuck are you talking about, orc?”

“The uh, brood cuckoos, or whatever? I realized they were using the bridge as bait. You’re fucking welcome.”

“That was clear from the start, you fuckin’ donkey,” Stinky hissed. “Why else would I have burned through near-on my whole godsdamned supply of cubes?”

“Wait, what? You mean you figured it out, too?”

“Of course I fuckin’ did, you insufferable bilge dribbler! Are you nearsighted and stupid? Did you fail to see me using the fuckin’ spell to draw them down that archway’s glitterin’ pony path? You thought you were the only one t’figure that out?”

Stinky guffawed in contempt, and I had to stop myself from slugging him right in his stupid yellow face.

“It was a confusing event!” I said, exhaling sharply. “Wow. Sorry that I don’t have perfect battle clarity like you think you have, Richard Simmons. Jumping jacks, really?”

Stinky shook his head as if what I was saying was beneath him.

“No response?” I asked incredulously. “Not even a pat on the back for adopting and executing new Skills and Abilities in the heat of combat?”

I harrumphed.

“Guess you really learn which hoes are loyal in situations like this.”

“Shut up with your nonsense, orc,” Stinky said. “You’re goin’ to be the one that gets us fuckin’ clawed apart–bleeding out from our wounds and tryin’ to shovel our intestines back into our gobs. We’re trapped in this flamin’-fuckin’-shit barrel unless we can stumble over a way out. And we have to do it alone.”

“Oh, we’re not alone,” I said mischievously. Then I held out my hand, revealing the miniature form of the feather chest resting on my open palm. Stinky looked from the chest to me, his mouth open in confusion.

“What the fuck are you talking about, orc? Have you scrambled your damn brain mush?”

I realized suddenly how foolish my action looked without context and backpedaled.

“Wait–er, no! It’s–shit–here, just watch!”

I gingerly set the tiny container on the ground and backed away from it.

“You’re going to want to give it some room,” I said.

Stinky sighed and allowed for a wide berth, still wearing a withering expression.

“Feather chest, maximize.”

FWOO-POP!

The chest instantly expanded to its hulking proportions with a sound like someone had pierced an enormous bubble. Stinky took a tense stance, regarding the object suspiciously.

“Go ahead and open it,” I said confidently.

“What’s in it?”

“Test it out and see for yourself.”

“It’s the fuckin’ eggs, innit?”

“Maybe…” I said conspiratorially, pressing my palms together and wriggling my fingertips against one another in a caricature of malicious excitement.

“Can they breathe in there?”

“Can what breathe in there?” I asked, trying to play coy.

“The possessed roe, you absolute brick skull.”

“Possessed roe? What do you mean? I only–oh, shit!”

I wrenched the lid open on the feather chest, and five orbs flew out, eyes bulging and gasping for breath. They leaned against one another–as well as eggs could do–and made tiny, weak chittering noises. It appeared as though I’d almost left them in there too long.

Man, that could have been bad. That whole damn chest would have smelled like rotten eggs. And I’m not going to clean a magical suitcase. Seems unwholesome.

“Great,” Stinky said, drawing his dagger. “Now, let’s end ‘em and get on moving. We don’t have time for dallying.”

“What? Wait–no–what?!” I said. “I just spent nearly eight minutes running, flying, crashing, and falling to retrieve these guys! And I hate exercise. I’m not icing them now that we’ve gotten to the other side of bad news boulevard–I’ve put in too much work for that. I will dally all diddly-damn day if it means I’m not sunk on the cost of exerting my precious energy. Besides, what if we need them to get past another chamber?”

“Fine,” Stinky hissed, eyeing the still hardly-moving roe. “Keep your pets. But if one o’ them is keen on a nibble, I’m skewering you and them.”

“Listen,” I said. “I don’t want these gross boba-tea creatures here any more than you do, but since we don’t know what’s coming up next, don’t you think it would be weirdly practical to have them stick next to us for the time being?”

“As long as they don’t gods-bloody-damn stick to me either.”

“You know what I mean, man,” I said.

“No, orc,” Stinky said. “I don’t. I haven’t a fuckin’ foggy about any of the things you go on about. You’re as addled as the drifter.”

“Huh?” I asked. “What’s wrong with the way I am?”

“I’m not here to fluff your fuckin’ feelin’s for you,” Stinky continued. “You gab unendingly, and the meat of it is always peculiar at best–or at worst–suspect. You don’t know a shittin’ prick about nothin’ in front of you–or behind you. Every move you make is enveloped in the thickest sheen o’ stupid imaginable, and calamity follows you wherever you go. I’ve had more run-ins with life-endin’ 'cuz of your orc buffoonery in the last several hours than the last half year with the gods-revilin’ Redmark.”

“Yeah, I have strong chaos energy. I’m aware of it, and I’m okay with it.”

I paused, glancing around and noticing the terrain for the first time. The previous chamber had basically been patterned after a Bond villain’s secret volcano base–complete with lava and ridiculous traps. However, this area was as though we’d just fallen into the Jungle Book. It was still clearly underground–based on the fact that the far walls and high ceiling were still rocky, but the space within the confines of the stone was lush and green.

I could hear the chirps and trills of insects and bird calls from somewhere within the dense forestation. Tall, vine-covered trees filled my vision, with a leafy canopy above us. Various other menacing-seeming plants and brush stretched along either side of a narrow dirt path overgrown with what I believed was called lichen.

It would have been very picturesque if–you know–it didn’t reside inside the dim cavern of doom.

“Yo,” I said, drawing out the word. “Does it seem off to you that this section of the dungeon is so different from the last one?”

Stinky shrugged his shoulders.

“It’s a dungeon, orc,” he said. “What do you expect? Each chamber changes. It’s the idiotic nature of these damn things.”

“Wait, how do you know that if you’ve never been in one?”

“‘Vosket’s dick, damn near everyone knows that, orc! On my mother’s memory, you have got to be some special kind of dunce. Did you get dropped into this damn world yesterday?”

He was being facetious… I think that’s the word–so it was funny to me how right he was.

“Pretend that I was,” I said. “What else can we expect from this little field trip?”

Stinky eyed me as though expecting me to be pranking him, so I gave him the best expression of genuine interest I could muster. We began walking along the path, our now scaredy-cat eggs slowly following behind in a cluster.

“I’m sure I can’t expect someone with your savage-fuckin’-origins to know much about the civilized world,” Stinky finally relented. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you know shit-all.”

“Yeah, this world sure is civilized,” I said. “It’s got about as much culture as a bag of spoiled yogurt. What with the apparently big-time asshole dictators and shithead militia groups trying to overthrow said assholes. Oh, and don’t get me started on the casual racism I’ve encountered literally every step of the way.”

“What the fuck are you going on about?” Stinky asked.

“I mean, look at you, for instance,” I said.

“What the fuck about me, orc?”

“That,” I said. “You can barely make it through a sentence before dropping my race in there. Honestly, I probably wouldn’t care so much if I didn’t get the sense that you're using it as an insult. How would you feel if I kept punctuating all of my statements with ‘matau?’”

“That’s what I am,” he said. “I won’t be ashamed of my fuckin’ race, orc, if that’s your aim. Better to be the worst of my kind than the best of yours.”

“See?” I said. “Racist. We ain’t never gonna repair no cracks in the foundation this way.”

“How in blazes is that any fucking different than you calling me ‘Stinky’ all the time?”

“What?” I asked. “I call you Stinky because you fucking smell, dude. Take a goddamn shower or something, and maybe I’ll pick something else.”

“That’s a fuckin’ riot coming from you, orc. You reek of filth and ichor–and the scent of your feet makes me jealous of gutter rot. Have you never heard of boots? I should call you Stinky.”

“That’s fucking stupid,” I said, jabbing a finger at him. “We can’t both be Stinky. I used it first, so I get dibs. And of course I’ve heard of boots, but I haven’t–”

“Quiet!” Stinky commanded, putting a hand up to silence me. He cocked his head to the side, listening for something. I didn’t speak but instead mentally tabulated the amount of animal excrement I might need to properly fill Stinky’s sleeping roll with.

Stinky turned a severe eye to me and held his hand up to his ear, gesturing that I should listen as well. I quietly sighed and concentrated on picking out any peculiar noises or sounds that might be the source of whatever Stinky was getting all moon-eyed about.

Then I heard it.

It was soft at first, but slowly I was able to zero in on the sound enough to differentiate it from the general noises of the living jungle around us. It was a voice. Someone was… singing?

I shot a confused glance at Stinky, who scowled deeper, holding a finger up to keep me from speaking. I strained myself, trying to get a good lock on the song.

The voice sounded like it belonged to a man, with a tone so deep and rich it would have made Elvis Presley sound like Alvin and the Chipmunks. The melody was simple, pretty, and seemed joyful, which was a net positive as far as spook-factor. If he had been singing a song of mourning or worse–a children’s nursery rhyme, I would have noped the fuck out of there in a flash. But this song had a light quality, and though I couldn’t quite make out the words, it seemed like one of those classic minstrel tracks you heard when you stopped at a tavern in a video game. It was also vaguely reminiscent of certain power metal melodies, which often took inspiration from medieval-style music. I liked it.

“We should get closer,” I whispered to Stinky, but he shook his head.

“No,” he hissed. “Use your damn head, or—”

He paused, reframing his phrasing to my great pleasure.

“If we’re the first to explore this fuckin’ place in ages, what sort of creature do you think would want–or is damn fool enough–to be overheard?”

That made me consider for a moment. Unfortunately, he had a point. It was worth considering that anything in a dungeon that was brazen enough to start belting out tunes was either stupid, dangerous, or–in what was growing considerably more and more likely–both. It could be a ruse designed to draw in dungeoneers and start chopping into their butt meat with dull, rusty cleavers.

“It could be Ocho,” I said.

“What?”

“That’s what I nicknamed the eighth member of our entourage.”

“Why?” Stinky asked. “What is ‘ocho?’”

“It’s, uh… an orc thing,” I said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Stinky continued. “If it’s the fucking party ghost, that’s another lantern light to steer fuckin’ clear of. We ain’t seen sack or saddle of the bastard yet, but he’s clearly skilled. More than you, in any fashion. In case you’ve been gifted with too many head injuries lately, he skipped right on past that first chamber before we’d even gotten a chance to scratch our bells. It’s a true idiot that would wander into an unknown area with no fuckin’ strategy in place and try to–orc! What the fuck are you doing?!”

I had made my way forward while he’d been talking and was a few dozen feet ahead of him, pushing through the trees.

“It’s called reconnaissance,” I said over my shoulder. “You know, gathering intel all secret agent-style and getting the jump on any dumbass chucklefucks that think they’re the alpha of this cave. Jeez, read a book, Stinky.”

“It’s called suicide,” Stinky exclaimed.

“Never heard of her,” I said. “I’ll be fine. Trust me. I’m as quiet as a mouse and as unnoticeable as malware you get from downloading mobile porn games.”

“What?!”

“Shh, baby,” I said. “Daddy’s gonna wrestle him up some shenanigans. Watch the eggs, will you?”

Before Stinky could say anything further, I allowed my stealth brain to start working and began moving through the trees with an ease that impressed even myself. I stepped softly, and I moved purposefully, slinking through the flora like a massive, bipedal prowling panther. Boy, oh boy, this Stealth Skill was just aces. All the while, the song was getting louder, and I could even hear some of the words. It was quite the jaunty little ditty.

“O, I oft avoid the gallows;

Afore no headsman have I fell;

I’ve passed the last light bailiff’s cast;

Plugged my ears to the cleric’s bell;

O, but by this time tomorrow;

I will be drawing out to sea;

And mark the dark with friendly spark;

One torch for you and one for me.”

The singer switched up his cadence for the hook. Then, several other voices joined in, belting out the chorus in tired, slurring harmonies.

“Brothers, sisters, raise your arms;

Join the banner, find no harm;

We cannot fall by sword or sling;

So, now we fight and drink and sing.”

What in the actual fuck?

Not only were the lyrics to the song essentially identical to a power metal ballad, but it was a fucking bop. All it needed were super slick, over-the-top, wailing guitar leads and it would have landed squarely in my rotation of rock-solid tub-thumpers to spin while I was doing my thang. Whoever had penned this glorious cut of musical prime rib was clearly operating at a level of skill I reserved for some of the mightiest maestros of metal masterpieces. Now I knew–with absolute, one-hundred percent certainty–I needed to meet these people and pick their brains over this obviously number-one smash hit.

I picked up my pace a little, excited at the prospect of learning more about the song. I hadn’t heard any music since I’d gotten here, which, admittedly, still wasn’t that long ago. Still, if this was any indication, I’d be delighted to start hitting up the taverns, or pubs, or whatever they were called in this world and getting thick into some dance-clubbing.

After a few minutes of urgent, clandestine clopping, I spotted a light in the distance, obscured slightly by tree trunks.

A campfire.

A few shapes sat around the flames in a circle, cheering, laughing, and passing around bottles. The song had ended, but the group gave no indication that their party was winding down.

Yahtzee.

I tip-toed forward–you know, like badasses do–and reached the edge of the trees to get a better look. Hidden in the shadows of trunks and branches, I could see now that the merry band had made to rest in a clearing just off of the main path. Logs had been gathered to sit near the fire, and several well-used bedrolls dotted the area in a configuration that seemed random–as though they’d just plopped down wherever they passed out. I took a moment, watching as the figures enjoyed their revelry.

There were five in total. A pale, thin elven-eared man in dark blue robes leaned against a stump, seeming very eager to discover what lived at the bottom of a hefty jug of liquid. He looked a bit sickly to me, his complexion sallow. An extremely short, barrel-chested woman sat laughing in her bulky leather armor. She spent the time sharpening the blade of a shortsword with a flat stone and leaning away every time a drink passed her direction.

Two individuals sat closely together, playing a card game in the dirt. They were talking shit to one another and forcing the other to take a drink every time one of them lost a hand. Of the pair, one was a human woman with short black hair and brilliant blue eyes that sparkled in the light of the flames; the other was a man of average-ish height with a sandy-blond mop who seemed to be losing more than he was winning based on his reactions. The woman wore heavy armor that was partially dressed-down, pieces of it resting next to the gruesome-looking hammer that rested against the log next to her. The man wore tattered clothing reminiscent of a classic, medieval laborer save for his vest: a leather… jerkin, I think the word is, and a longbow slung over his shoulders.

The last member of their esteemed council was of a race I wasn’t sure I could identify. They looked to be part lizard but also possibly human? It was hard to tell for sure since most of their form was shrouded by an animal skin cloak as they warmed themselves next to the fire. They were big, though, maybe even taller than I was now. They watched the others with a big grin on their face.

They were all conversing now, the song forgotten, and I got the sense from their interactions that they’d known each other quite a long time.

“Gods damn you, Frida,'' the blond man playing cards said to his companion. “I was this close to capturing your Luxury Sword! I'll repeat it for posterity: gods damn you, girl. I can’t keep doing this to myself, or I’m like to dry up my whole deck and have to play you with cards I make myself. Or quit playing altogether.”

“At this point, Calden,” called the short woman with the sword, “abandoning the game once and for all might be your best option. I’m tired of hearing your whinging every night. Both of my shoulders have been drenched near through with your baby tears.”

“It’s not fair, Merra,” Calden whined, gesturing to the one he’d called Frida. “She has absconded with the best of my lot, leaving me with the dregs–and her with an easy victory.”

“You’ve got y’self a fair few decent selection, yet,” said Frida, her voice placid and bearing the linguistic hallmarks of whatever this world called the Scottish accent.

“Oh, what–these?” Calden continued, holding up two cards in his hand. “These are middle-tier at best, you militant ice wraith. At best. All the remaining number are rubbish. Pure, inconsequential, bin-worthy slag.”

“Might not want te let them hear y’say that, Calden,” Frida said. “I’m a-comin' fer ye middle tier, and then ye’ll on’y have them lows to cover ye bets with.”

“See?” Calden demanded of the rest of the group. “This is a psychological attack. She is weakening my resolve with her wily feminine strategy to stack the odds in her favor. There are codes of conduct with Fels, Frida, and you are abusing the prestige of the game.”

“Come off et,” Frida said, rolling her eyes. “Yer jus’ stallin’ te waylay the 'nevitable. Et’s yoor hand, by the by.”

“Of course it is,” Calden sighed, slumping. “Just a slow march to my funeral pyre. Please, write to my family after you’re through desecrating my corpse. Make it known in your letter that I died doing what I loved and never liked any of them.”

This encouraged a round of boos from the assembly. The lizardy individual scooped up a pebble and tossed it at the blond man.

“So dramatic,” they hissed. The sound of their voice was like steam releasing from a valve, setting my teeth on edge and making me a bit uncomfortable.

“I’m not dramatic,” Calden explained, adopting a rigid pose. “I am simply addressing the severity of my captivity here with you unrepentant ruffians. It has transfigured me into a shell of my former, glorious self. ‘What was once the soul of a brightly burning star has faded into the obscure. Now, resigned as the diminutive flickering ember of a candle left in the cold.’”

“Oh, boo to you,” came the retort from the thin man I’d thought looked not long for the world. “Don’t quote Gavanzili at us.”

I was shocked to hear how impressively deep his voice was, especially considering his slight frame. With such a low, commanding tone, he was unquestionably the singer of the catchy jam I’d heard. That was a plot twist I didn’t see coming.

“Do not scold me, Jes,” Calden shot back. “But… are you certain that was Gavanzili? I’d have sworn a blood oath that I’d invented that.”

“I’m sure,” Jes said dourly.

“Well, I suppose you’d be the authority,” Calden said. “On account of your most esteemed and unrivaled upbringing. Your pedigree is showing, friend.”

“Not this again,” Jes sighed, taking a pull from his jug. “My point was that family is family, Calden. You shouldn’t disparage them, whatever their flaws. Regardless of origin, we all stem from the same gods.”

“Yes, you are correct, my inglorious elf. However, your family is storied and wealthy, descended straight from the teats of Palima herself. Mine was shat out of Hilrendar’s puckered arsehole as he squatted over Thorch.”

Everyone but Jes laughed at that. The elf adopted a more somber tone, his speech slurred by drink.

“A heaping portion of good that does me now, does it?” Jes asked, taking another swig of his gigantic vessel. “In here, wasting away with your like, avoiding the same miserable beasts every night and playing audience to the weeping woes of your inability to win a children’s card game against a backwater Guardian. I’d be happy to swap our current predicament to sit at patriarch Vick’s knobby dinner table in your ancestral hovel in Thorch.”

“It’s really more of a shanty,” Calden said, inciting laughter from the others. “And don’t be monstrous to Frida, good fellow. She’s trying her best. It can’t be easy lurching from place to place like she does–especially with as many pummeling shield blows to the skull as she’s sustained. It’s a true testament to the might and wonder of the gods that she is even able to speak a decipherable language.”

“Aye,” Frida responded. “Got a few words for ye, in fact. ‘Ye lose again.’ Give up your Tangled Vine ye fuckin’’ weapon.”

Calden looked crestfallen. With a flourishing sweep of his hand, he deposited a card onto Frida’s lap.

“There she goes,” he said, so softly I was hardly able to hear him. “Yet another thread stitched into the seal of my death shroud.”

“You’re free to lose,” Merra said, finally finishing her meticulous sharpening and sliding the sword into a scabbard at her side. “But the melodrama is going to cost you extra.”

Calden shook his head.

“But, Merra, my sun, my stars, my withering winter blossom. Melodrama is all the remains to me after such a targeted, cutthroat assassination of my sense of purpose and zest for life.”

“Don’t forget your shit cards,” the lizard hissed.

“Ah, yes,” Calden said. “My melodrama and Frida’s future ill-gotten spoils.”

Then the blond man stood, dusting off his hands performatively.

“Mistress Frida: a finer swindler there is not. However, I tire of this boorish contest of unanswered affection between us.”

Frida rolled her eyes and tucked her newly acquired prize into her outrageously tall deck as Calden continued.

“Do not scoff at our eventual tryst, maiden most fair and… bashy. The tension of two hearts entwined so strongly–but resisting nonetheless–while enthralling, I am most sure, to our audience of companions, must be stoppered for the moment. Instead…”

He pointed to Jes, who belched as if on cue.

“Troubadour!” He announced. “Would you be so kind as to regale us with another of your winsome airs? Perhaps one from your days at that delightful kingmaker academy you always speak so fondly of? However, I would prefer it if you'd choose one with an elaborate arrangement of choral harmonies. Nothing morose either; we have enough of that to go around. One even Dedyc can sing along with.”

“Yes!” The lizard hissed, clapping their hands together. “One I can join in on!”

Jes scoffed and shook his head ambivalently.

“You cannot deny the poor dear that service, can you Jes? His unique range is so often squandered or ignored entirely. I do not want to speak for the entirety of our party, but I, for one, grow weary of Dedyc being relegated to the percussion section.”

Jes finally broke, chuckling at that comment and harrumphing to clear his throat.

Loon, you sneaky, sexy son of a bitch. Nobody recons like you.

I was just chilling in the shadows, unbeknownst to anyone, gathering a load of information–and I was going to get a free concert out of the deal. Abstractly, I thought about how strange it was that I was referring to myself, if only in this one instance, as ‘Loon.’

Guess I can figure out the ramifications of that later. I’m about to have my eardrums massaged and my face melted into a puddle of flesh by some bonafide shred.

That was when I felt a blow land to the center of my back, thrusting me forward out of the trees and into the circle of light and horrified faces. I fell onto my stomach with a loud thump but immediately attempted to scramble to stand. Just as I was lifting myself up from the dirt, another blow sent me crashing back down–this one directed to my lower back. I felt a sharp stab of pain in my tailbone as I hit hard, forcing me to release an angry yelp.

“An orc!” Dedyc cried, wheeling on my prostrate form. The others followed suit, each arming themselves or readying empty hands for what I had to imagine was magical oh-shit vapor.

The new arrival who had been sucker-punch-whooping me from my blindside applied pressure with a boot as a glowing light surrounded my ankles, wrists, and neck. The light compressed and formed shimmering green rings that caused my Stamina to tank.

Condition: Restrained

Magically-impeded movement and mobility for the duration. Applies a Stamina drain effect for the duration.

Fuck. Again with the captivity? Come on, man!

I couldn’t move, so I was forced to lay there beneath the newcomer’s heel, trying not to groan loud enough to give them any satisfaction.

“Well, boys,” a man’s voice announced in what I’d describe as a southern United States accent. “Looks like we got ourselves a lookie-loo. Orc too, if it’s to be believed.”

I kept struggling but couldn’t do anything about my predicament at the moment. Exhausted as I was from the many, many death-defying events I’d played spectator to, I was scraping the bottom of the barrel for energy sources or bags of tricks.

“Now,” the man drawled, pressing hard on my spine. “Let’s find out why a beast like this is ganderin’ on our little dungeon get-together. Calden. Get the knife.”