The silver fox had returned. Its sleek head peered through the doorway to the Everforest. I sent messages of readiness and bloodthirst to my mantis, eager to see their confrontation.

The beast trotted into my Dungeon, a spring in its step, and laid something from its jaws on a rock. It was one of the Marquis' people, those half-man half-insect creatures. A faerie, I suppose. I begrudged to use the name of elegant fey on such ungainly creatures. Their beady eyes and serrated cricket-legs unnerved me.

But this was a peace offering.

Not only was the fox intelligent, it seemed to recognize I was a Dungeon and want good will with me.

I deliberated.

It cost me little to let the fox hunt in my Dungeon. On the other hand, having an ally in the Everforest could be invaluable. I was not good at thinking diplomatically and putting grudges behind me. I preferred the absolute promise of revenge for any slight.

But this time, I could afford to let things go. It helped that the fox was quite aesthetically pleasing, with its silver fur and single streak of red.

I made flowers bloom as I ate the Mana-dense corpse of the faerie. Accepting this as my blessing the fox trotted deeper into the gardens, shying away from my golems as she searched for food.

There was the off-chance she was a spy, so I made the decision to restrict her to the gardens, which the Marquis had already seen.

I had other places my attention was needed. Namely, the mangrove orchard.

A feeding frenzy had started. Seeing so many golden fruit washed into the water, the poor and hopeless waiting on the shore had simply snapped. It was too much to see riches thrown away while they slowly starved in poverty.

They had dived into the water.

My reelfish, already battered and bruised from conflict with the merfolk, were struggling to catch all the prey in their waters. The fisherman spiders were even worse off as people came rowing across to fight with crude spears and improvised clubs.

But this was nothing. Not a real threat, only a savage grasp for wealth. Humans were dying left and right. So that I wouldn’t lose the souls and Mana from the ones who perished beyond the islands, I made a snap decision.

A hazy glow covered the water’s face, and suddenly thousands of waterlilies appeared, draining my Mana in its entirety to create a tightly woven covering over the lake. Within that space my domain could spread outwards, catching souls shards from the nearly dozen who’d died already. I ate until my Mana was full again, and turned my attention away from the people dying on my shores. They were only distractions, not true contenders. If some slipped away it would only serve to encourage more to come.

Human greed would make my orchards truly profitable. Already, I was more than halfway to my next expansion.

Gemheart Dungeon (Unnamed) Soul Fragments 288/500 Mana 94/132 Mana Per Hour 11.3 Anima: 1 Logos: 2 Arcana: 3

Blessings: Gift of Beauty, Gift of The Sun. Born in strange circumstances, this Dungeon has an exceeding ability to invent strange and wonderous creations, and a vicious knack for survival. Woe betide to any invaders, they will find no mercy.

Ilbur was unwrapped from his silk coffin, left shivering on the floor of a strange garden. He knew he was lucky to be alive. All around him were strange, bubbling shapes of glass, and it took him a minute in his fear-addled state to recognize them as mushrooms, round-capped and conical, ear-shaped and wisp-thin. It was such a strange sight, Ilbur would have believed he’d awakened on the face of the moon.

A man made of clay stood over him. Ilbur cringed back.

The golem reached down, and drew squiggly, looping lines in the earth. Ilbur knew what writing was, but…

“I can’t read.”

The golem tilted its head, managing to convey a sigh despite lacking any mouth, or even a face beyond a single green eye. It reached for Ilbur in a way that made him scramble across the floor on his back, terrified he had just lost his one chance.

“Wait! I- My people came from a Dungeon! It made us because- because it wanted to become a god, and instead, the gods tore it down. Now, we orcs are slaves. Whipped, beaten, humiliated! We need a Dungeon to shelter us again. If you save us, we’ll serve you for a hundred generations. We’re warriors! Shamans!” He was snorting between each word, his snout wet with fear and desperation.

The golem seized him by the leg and dragged him towards a glass cage. The bars melted away, letting the clay man throw him inside. The jail slowly reformed, glass spiralling up in slow, molten motion. Ilbur shrunk to the edge of his cage and stared at the ceiling.

He had failed.

They should never have sent him. They should have sent his father, a true warrior, or the old shaman, who always knew what to say. Anyone but him.

A Dungeon becoming a god? I’ll admit, I was intrigued. It would suit me, I think, godhood. I could be cruel and kind at my whim, and of course people would offer me gifts. It would be a good life. But even if I could let myself dream power-hungry dreams for a moment, I couldn’t ignore one simple fact: it hadn’t worked.

All those grand ambitions had amounted to nothing more than an ignoble death and a handful of ugly pighumans. I would do well to remember that rather brutal lesson.

As for the pig…

I was curious still. Could he become a ‘native’ of my Dungeon? If he spent enough time absorbing the Mana within my domain, would I be able to reshape him to something less hideous?

I had little interest in a pack of brutes roaming my Dungeon uncontrolled, but if they could truly become my minions I would have to reconsider. A large amount of loyal brute muscle wasn’t easy to turn down. For now I simply didn’t have time to devote to the sniveling little piglet.

The silent market was about to begin.

I hadn’t had time to refresh my false markings and lead more fools astray, thanks to the incursion I’d just repelled, but I had plenty to sell and even more plans to put in motion.

Oh yes.

I had been thinking about my place in the world, and I needed to take control of this city above me, this vast hive of alien intelligences all plotting and scheming, every one of them a threat to me. I needed to dip my fingers into the pot of intrigues that was Caltern.

The market would be my means of doing so. If I could seize control, I would have a base of operations that could spread my influence to the city above.

And for that I’d need a large force that could serve outside of my Dungeon. Originally I had considered using golems, but it seemed I was being offered exactly such a force, literally begging for me to make use of them, in the orcs.

How nicely things turned out.

For today, it would be a scouting expedition. Argent and her rats had finished gathering up the spoils of war, and they were rich. An aquamarine brooch that had clasped the swordsmaster’s cloak would stay with me, and the talisman that had bound me would be destroyed.

Beyond that I had acquired three purses full of pearls, a harpoon covered in scrimshaw symbols that seemed to weep a faint magical energy, a necklace of bright red coral, and a small statuette made of a material I couldn’t name. Add to that the spoils of Olin’s lab and I had quite the embarrassment of stolen riches to dispose of.

Adamant donned his stolen garb, having to draw in the arms and legs now that he was considerably shorter. This time, I would sent the glass faun with him- dressed of course in the spare set of clothes from Trivelin's deceased men.

DEFEND HIM. was my order.

Together they set out. The market was in full swing by the time they arrived, with dark figures bustling between the impromptu stalls. The intense quiet lent an immense and moody atmosphere to the flickering of the torches on the arched ceiling above, and the slosh of the river filled the silence, the firelight reflecting on its rippling surface like the gleaming scales of a black snake.

Adamant found a quiet corner among the junk-sellers and laid out his cloak with the numerous instruments we’d taken from Olin, with the golden staff he himself had carried out of the Institute, with the spoils from the mer. There would have been exotic creatures to sell too, if I’d had the time.

Since our raid on the Institute time seemed to blur. So much had happened.

The staff went almost immediately, bought with a full purse of coins and a giddy disbelief as the buyer lifted it. I knew we’d been shortchanged but couldn’t bring myself to care. The bustle of the market was intoxicating. The clink of the iron coins, the swish of cloaks, punctuated a dense silence, and for lack of sound the sights seemed brighter - the gold and the riches on display given the spotlight.

Silverware stolen from rich men’s houses, clockwork wonders from the workshops above, swords and crossbows and other brute weapons lying alongside spelled blades that had the impeccable touch of dwarven craftsmanship to them. Jewels, of course, glittering on rings and chains, or rough and fresh from the mines.

One stall sold strange grey flowers that crumbled into smoke as the buyers leaned down and pulled up their mask to inhale them, the roiling cloud of pale white fog sliding up their nostrils and making them sway on their feet as they walked away.

Women who wore very little but their masks sauntered by, and a necromancer in pale white robes demonstrated the strength of his undead brutes, having them lift weights and mock-fight with clubs for a crowd’s amusement. A little betting ring had sprung up around the dead-fights, and the wagers were soon joined by dice and cards, a seller of wines pouring out cups for the eager crowd.

Yes.

I wanted to own this. There was something delightful to this dark society with their masks and capes. The theatre of it all was delicious.

Just then a man stepped into my view, making angry handsigns, his face obscured by a feathered mask. 'Where did you get this' he demanded in the silent thief-speak, jabbing a finger towards Olin's instruments. Before I could have the glass faun deal with him, a loud, braying voice called out, magically amplified to boom across the market.

A fool in jester’s clothes and a red mask had clambered high atop one of the stalls, balancing on one leg as he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted.

“Ladies and gentlemen! A moment, a moment of your time. Er-hem er-hem. Five days from today, a special market will be held. The key event, for which we’ve called this rare occasion, will be an auction! All manner of things shall be sold! But king among the prizes to be bought, will be a living unicorn! Yes, a live and healthy unicorn, its horn still intact!”

“So come one, come all! The silent auction shall be a show of wonders!”