The moment Metcenzerin crossed the threshold of the so-called Dungeon, he got the distinct impression that a door had closed. Not the dungeon entrance – that was still open behind them – but somewhere, something had changed irrevocably.

Five now-called Heroes against one fell dungeon, and the fate of the world at the toss of the cosmic dice...

He felt a song in there.

Raceel strode in front, clad all in gleaming black plate-armor. His cloak hung sideways across his back, hindered by the greatsword sheath he wore like a bow or a lute. The hilt of his new sword rose over one shoulder, dark but elegant like the Fallen Paladin himself. They were all likewise reequipped, supplied with everything they had asked for. The Stitchdoctor wore more belts then anyone, all dangling and jangling with knives of every kind and round bottles in pouches and long, curved, evil-looking needles whose use Metcenzerin did not need to wonder about. The Judge had had the foresight to have Metcenzerin's instruments and hat sent with him, though, as they wandered down the first corridor of Teru's Dungeon, Metcenzerin did wonder what anyone expected him to do with them. Teru would not be charmed by lute music and a three-voiced singer. At any rate, he felt more prepared to save the world wearing proper clothes with feathers in his cap.

Daerth and Kwanai's weapons were too far away to bring in, either in a cabin in the wilderness or somewhere in a specific part of a swamp no one knew how to find. They made due, though, with the Judge's offered replacements; a bow, arrows, and hatchet for Daerth (he had insisted on the hatchet almost as much as the bow), and a simple staff of wood for Kwanai. In the one evening they had before being driven to the Dungeon, the southerner had carved a thousand twisting letters into the thing, transforming it from a walking stick to something that was vaguely intimidating to even contemplate.

“Maybe I should have asked for a rapier,” Metcenzerin mused aloud, eyeing his companions-as-assigned in dawning self-criticism. “I forgot they recruited me to... fight things.”

Daerth made a slight, breathy sound that, though he walked behind Metcenzerin and was therefore out of eyesight, suggested he had just rolled his eyes. And yet, he wasn't the one to speak.

“A thin-sword cannot turn a sparrow into a snake. It merely imbalances the bird to drown in the water.”

Metcenzerin turned slightly as he walked and gave Kwanai a quizzical look. The southerner hadn't said anything since returning from his private “What do you want?” meeting with the Judge, and Metcenzerin had frankly expected that trend to continue.

“Was that a poetic metaphor? Why, my marshland friend, I didn't expect it of you.”

Kwanai continued to stare ahead, not even glancing at Metcenzarin as he replied, “I am not your friend. I look forward to the moment when you die, so that I may use the corruption that will consume your mortal-flesh to carve my name upon your endless-flesh.” He paused, then continued in a slightly puzzled tone, “Indeed, I have considered whether it would not be wiser to poison you all now so that I may save myself the trouble of continuing the farce, but the Judge's offer is still tempting. For now.”

The admission drew the entire group to a slow, wary halt. Raceel turned around, his dark eyes narrow, and Daerth muttered something under his breath too low to catch.

“Is it just me...” began Metcenzerin slowly, “or did you become more fluent in Kingdom-speech just to issue that delightful threat?”

“I have always been fluent,” replied Kwanai, almost lightly but increasingly puzzled. “I am simply so ashamed of myself, allowing your filthy culture to saturate my mind, that I pretend otherwise, even to myself.” He nodded suddenly, satisfied. “We may continue now.”

And he walked on, passing Raceel without a second glance at any of them.

The other three (the Stitchdoctor had continued walking when Kwanai did) glanced at one another.

“Great,” grumbled Daerth, shrugging his shoulder to settle the strap of his quiver more comfortably. “A minute into this, and someone already wants to kill me.”

“There is more behind this then southern-rage against northmen,” Raceel corrected quietly. “The touch of Teru is thick here, and heaviest on the plaguemancer. I have been trained to sense such things.”

Metcenzerin let out a disgusted huff of breath. “Uh, yeah, I sense it too, Mister High-and-Mighty. Teru isn't exactly known for his subtlety.”

Kwanai's accented voice echoed slightly as he called back to them, “There is a door here, and the stench of death. Do not tarry.”

The door was wood, barred but not locked. Kwanai and the Stitchdoctor waited for the other three to catch up, then stepped aside to let Raceel heave the thick wooden beams out of place. Daerth, a little belatedly, began to string his bow as the door swung easily open, and the smell that Kwanai had picked up before hit them all full-force.

Decaying flesh.

Metcenzerin gagged at the unexpected stench, and hastily put up a hand to cover his nose. Raceel gave him a somewhat amused sideways glance as he advanced into the room past the musician, then redirected his gaze to do a sweep of this new chamber. Kwanai and Daerth followed warily, both apparently unbothered as well.

An elbow nudged Metcenzerin's arm, making him start. He looked to find the Stitchdoctor much too close to his face, black-lens fixed on him.

“What?” snapped the musician, already out of sorts. Wordlessly, the Stitchdoctor pulled a length of cloth out of one of his heavy coat's deep pockets, then extended it towards Metcenzerin with a deliberate slowness.

“So you can't smell it,” came the muffled, damaged voice in explanation. “We use special cloth.”

Metcenzerin looked at the little cityman in surprise, but took the length of cloth. The Stitchdoctor cocked his head to one side for a brief moment, as if considering him again, then turned to follow the others into the room. Metcenzerin checked both sides of the cloth (just to make sure there weren't any concerning stains) then wrapped it like a scarf – chin to nose.

Astonishingly, it worked.

It was clear at once what caused the smell. The room still held previous attempts to conquer Teru's Dungeon; four corpses, a week old at least and chewed not-quite-to-the-bone by some hungry creature. From what remained of their tattered clothes, it looked like the Judge had attempted to send peasants into the Dungeon; probably youngest-sons without gainful employment whose older brothers had already attempted and failed the task. Obviously, these ones hadn't succeeded, either.

“But what killed them?” asked Raceel quietly, and knelt beside one of the corpses. Daerth and Kwanai moved to investigate bodies of their own, but none of them had enough to time to even make a guess before the Stitchdoctor, at a glance, declared,

“Necromancy. The dead.”

“He's right,” Raceel confirmed grimly a moment later, using the tip of a dagger he'd found on the ground to move cloth away from a bite-wound. “Human teeth made these tears, but the flesh was not consumed.”

“The dust of older bones then these still hangs in the air,” added Kwanai knowingly.

“That's because there are living skeletons behind us.” Daerth's urgent tone immediately drew all focus. Raceel rose sharply, reaching for his sword, while Metcenzerin and Kwanai whirled to face this first threat.

Daerth was right. A dozen dry skulls grinned at them from previously unseen alcoves in the back wall, lit by a baleful red glow in their eye sockets. The quiet sound of worn bones rubbing against each other was the only audible indication as they stirred, a sound that might not have been enough to alert the distracted team if not for Daerth's warning.

“I am reluctantly impressed,” declare Kwanai abruptly. “And my talents are not much use against the long-dead, so your brute strength will be needed, black knight.”

Far from being insulted, Raceel broke a smile. It was a twisted smile that seemed out-of-place on an otherwise stern, handsome face; a smile that promised death and destruction.

“Stand back then, southerner, for putting the accursed reverent and his ilk back into the ground is what I was trained for.”

“I really should have asked for a sword,” Metcenzerin muttered, and slipped back behind Raceel. The skeletons finished pulling themselves free of their alcoves, bone hands clutching a wide array of notched, rusting weapons that dragged against the ground as the skeletons made their first slow steps towards the party.

Daerth's first arrow whistled through an eye socket, putting out the red light beyond but not so much as slowing the collection of animated bones. Then Raceel charged in.

Rusted metal, swung without muscle, hit the Paladin's black armor and skidded off without Raceel even seeming to notice. He struck with surprising speed, his sword shattering down through the skull and ribcage of the nearest skeleton even as it tried to stick its own blade through his chest. He batted aside the attempted slash of a rusted ax with his gauntletted hand and lunged forward, crushing the skull of the attacker against the wall. A third skeleton struck him in the back; Raceel spun, his greatsword splitting the air, and sliced the skull from the spine along with the upraised hand that held the sword.

Behind him, though, a few skeletons decided to focus on the others. Three of Daerth's arrows glanced off of bones, got stuck at an angle between ribs, but the skeletons seemed about as bothered by them as Raceel was by the skeletons' un-energetic blows.

“Stitchdoctor! Toss me a knife,” called Metcenzerin as the slow-moving dead trundled towards them, but the cityman crossed his arms over his collection of instruments and backed away possessively.

“You are useless, musician,” declared Kwanai, then spun his staff at his side. “Your lute may yet dislodge a skull, however, if there is strength in your arms.”

“I am not bashing my lute over a skeleton's head!”

“Don't just stand there,” ordered Daerth through gritted teeth. He hefted his bow, glared at the three skeletons closing in. “Alright, fine. I've wrestled a wolf – I can wrestle some old bones.”

He threw his bow aside and charged in, shoulder-first. The skeleton struck first but Daerth caught the blade in one bare hand, then tackled the skeleton to the ground and began wresting the sword away. Kwanai swung at the second skeleton with his staff, striking a blow so hard the resounding crack echoed around the room and startled the Stitchdoctor. The little cityman didn't even try to get involved, but backed all the way to the wall and shrunk against it to make himself a smaller target.

Metcenzerin, left to face the last of the three skeletons, refused to consider Kwanai's recommendation. He put himself into knife-catcher mindset and shifted his stance, light on the toes with his eyes fixed on the weapon.

Redirect. That's the key. Redirect it.

The skeleton swung with the same neutral power as it had walked. Metenzerin pivoted on one foot and grabbed the skeleton's wrist and shoulder as he turned, then shoved off it, using what feeble momentum it had against it. The maneuver wasn't nearly as effective against the light but slow-moving skeleton as he had seen it used in the wrestling-pits, but it did stumble past him, its club swinging harmlessly through the air rather then onto Metcenzerin's befeathered head.

Now what?

The skeleton was still facing away from him. Mind racing for a different plan (alas, too slow), Metcenzerin acted on instinct – he dove at the skeleton's legs, bringing it to the ground, then grabbed the club and followed Daerth's example. The skeleton's grip was not very strong, and the moment Metcenzerin had the club he slammed it down into the skull. And again. Over and over, until it was nothing but bone-dust without a single gleam of red necromancy to power the remaining bones.

He let out a pent-up breath and rose, feeling pretty proud of himself. Raceel, of course, was already done with the other nine skeletons who'd concentrated on him (as the nearest opponent), but Metcenzerin refused to let the Paladin's sheer numbers make his victory any less impressive. A sword and armor made everything easier to kill.

Daerth had not fared as well. The skull of his skeleton had been sent rolling across the floor, one eye still gleaming but beyond the range to control the rest of the bones, and he now sat on his heels over his kill, blood running down his wrist as he clutched at his own hand.

“Rotting bloody undead with their rusty swords,” he muttered as part of a continuous stream of cursing, only understandable up close. He reached under his cloak for the satchel of emergency supplies that hung next to his hatchet, fumbling to get what he wanted out without getting blood everywhere.

Raceel strode across the room to regroup with the rest of them, veering off only briefly to crush that last rolling skull beneath his heavy armored boot.

“Here,” he said briskly, kneeling beside Daerth. “Allow me.”

He found the roll of bandages Daerth had been trying to get, then investigated the nasty gash across the hunter's palm before cutting off a length of the white cloth.

“A rusted weapon from a grave-hand... it will become contaminated,” Raceel reported, still in the same business-like tone. “But, as I said, dealing with undead is one of the duties of the Paladin, and they gave me everything I requested before we set out.” He drew a small bottle out from under his own black cloak. “Purifying elixir. It should banish grave-contamination quickly with so small a wound.”

Daerth grimaced as Raceel poured the clear-yet-thick liquid across the gash, but kept silent. Raceel wrapped the bandage around his hand and tied it off, then rose.

“Next time, the archer should not be the second to charge in close,” he said sternly, fixing Metcenzerin and Kwanai in a half-glare. “None of you, from what I have heard, are trained for close-combat, so either work together or don't engage.”

“I have no intention of taking orders from Kingdomers.”

“Plaguemancer, Circle bind me, if you don't stop being needlessly difficult I will march back out of this dungeon with your head, do you understand me?”

Kwanai blinked slowly at Raceel, but barely hesitated before replying, “I do not fear death, black knight. Death is victory for Ku'eb, and Ku'eb holds the lives of me and all mine.”

“Can we get back to the task at hand, please?” begged Metcenzerin, stepping between the two. “We're all new to this 'teamwork' thing and we're going to bash heads, but if I've learned anything it's that the show must go on. I don't like any of you, frankly, and if Kwanai is going to be uncomfortably upfront about his feelings, maybe we all should for a bit? Hey, Stitchdoctor, why didn't you try to help Daerth?”

The Stitchdoctor's masked head turned to lock lens-to-eyes with Metcenzerin, but he said nothing. Metcenzerin shrugged.

“See? Completely off-putting, but one of these days our lives are probably going to be in the creep's hands. So we have to just ignore it and move on, right? Can we please just try to do that”

“You have got to be one of the most uncharismatic bards I've ever heard of,” grumbled Daerth, and Metcenzerin drew himself up.

“I wasn't trying to be charismatic, Mister Poacher, I was being blunt like Kwanai. But if you insist...”

“Not now.”

Metcenzerin let out his dramatic breath with a disappointed puff. Raceel, like Daerth in the wagon, had slipped that simple interruption in just right to completely kill his momentum.

“I suggest you find a weapon, bard,” Raceel continued, then nodded at Daerth, “and perhaps you should as well. I am sure this is only the first battle we will encounter on this quest, and it is good to be armed even if you are not trained.”

“As if you came up with the idea,” muttered Metcenzerin under his breath. Most of the weapons were old, heavy, and rusted, but the weapons of the other group of “heroes” were still shiny. Metcenzerin took the dagger from beside the first corpse, then the sheath and belt with which it belonged. The others waited by the door, but the muttered exchange between Daerth and Kwanai was still clearly audible throughout the room.

“This is hopeless. We're all doomed.”

“At the very least, you and the bard are.”