No one seems quite sure what to do after your declaration. The adventurers never broke out of the entrance hall. The kobold team stands around somewhat awkwardly, the goblins shuffle their feet in the dust. Adrenalin is still high but there's no one to fight, and every few seconds someone glances at the smear of ash which is all that remains of the dwarf.

Personally, you're exhausted. You've never put that much into a breath attack before, and it's taken its toll. If it hadn't worked as well as it had, and the other heroes hadn't already been mostly contained, it would have had much worse consequences. As it is, you're able to feign indifference while getting your breath back.

“Everyone OK?” you try to break the rapidly forming ice.

“No deaths? Weapon breakages?”

Silence.

Someone coughs. You think it might have been Keth.

Everyone is still staring.

Everyone flinches slightly as the sound of pounding footfalls splits the air. Mercy, clad in full wood warform comes pelting around the edge of the arena, only to miss a step when she meets the combined gaze of everyone else. Arms pin-wheel as she steadies herself, coming to an ungainly halt just before the pool.

“Is it already over?”

With that, the tension finally broke. Sand let out a whooping cheer that was echoed by the other goblins in short order. The kobolds joined in a ululating cry, and you let a small smile grace your features. It is good to know that not every hero incursion will be a hard fought and bitter fight to the last.

The instincts that you pushed down before the fight twinge again, and your smile morphs into a grimace. Something about this whole event has left a bad taste in your brain, and you think you know what it is.

Dungeons aren't meant to work like this. A goblin village might get away with launching a full defence using everyone inside to man the walls and gate – but a canny hero will slip around the back, or fly over the walls. A dungeon such as yours has no such weakness, and as easy as it can be to forget sometimes, this world belongs to the gods, and the heroes are the champions of the gods. Monsters, dungeons, loot, it all exists to fuel the growth of the adventurers. Even your own ability to give magical weapons to your followers is designed so that those weapons will eventually be stolen by heroes. The better you equip your forces, the stronger the heroes that will be attracted to you will be.

It's a hero's world.

And the gods don't want you mobbing them as soon as they set foot in your dungeon.

The almost itch calms as you reach that conclusion. A carrot, or at least a lack of stick. 'Do as we will or your own mind will rebel against you'. No one ever accused the gods of subtly.

You shake yourself off.

“Right, everyone! Back to gathering if you please, we have work to do. Someone gather up the loot bags – I think the cleric's may have fallen to the forest so wood team, keep an eye out for it if you could. We also need to increase stone production – Sapphire, do you think you could scout out another quarry area? We're reaching the end of what we can do with the boulders above us.”

Getting a series of nods and affirmative noises, you leave your minions to it, returning to Clatter and the children.

To your immense relief, the goblin children are mercilessly bullying each other while their aged clansman watches on, a fond smile in his eyes. He turns to you, one eyebrow arched in a way that you, lacking long, droopy eyebrow hairs, could never hope to match.

“That was fast.”

You bob your head. “Thankfully they were less prepared than the last few times we have clashed with heroes.”

You open your animus menu, well aware that you had been down to just 3 of the precious resource.

Animus: 29

“Each was less than level 10, I think. They didn't fight together very well. Once the Cleric was down the others seemed to give up.”

Clatter cackles, the noise briefly pausing the pile of flailing limbs that the children have descended to.

“Always the way. No backbone. The first one always fights to their death, and the others bow out soon after.”

You grunt, your mind going back to Mhæri's near disastrous attack. How even when the Necromancer was dead and the monk no where to be seen they'd been a formidable force.

There had been a lot more than three of them, however, so maybe that's understandable.

Satisfied that the goblins all remain safe, you finally remember what broke you off from wall punching in the first place when the small room fills with a rumbling, echoing roar. The children, in an excellent display of goblin camaraderie, vanish down the stairs, leaving there elder to fight and die against whatever monster was approaching.

Clatter just raises his other eyebrow.

You shrug in response, and follow the children down.

The tavern is mostly empty, even Charlemagne vanished on some errand or other -

You can hear swearing and insectile hissing coming from the cave beyond the kitchen. You think you can guess what he's up to. You have to repress a shudder.

Sand and Notch-ear are sat on the floor next to the fire, a chunk of rough bread and a bowl of stew between them. They glance over as you enter, and Sand gives you a little wave, but it's clear their attention is mostly on each other and their whispered conversation.

One of the tables near the corridor to the kitchen has been stocked with a half eaten loaf and a wide and steaming pot of miscellany.

Your mind wanders as you eat.

Do your instincts, and the gods, have a point?

The kobold village hasn't had a drop of blood spilt there since you built it. And yet you designed it to be as annoying as possible for heavily armoured heroes to pin down your agile kobolds on thin bridges and between piles of stones. The goblin village has walls and watch towers, perfect for a few archers to make life for an assaulting force utter hell. Even the grove has Stumpy as a hidden danger. And yet you face each assault from the entrance hall, and are pushed back, or fall back, through the pool room and arena.

You chew your cheek, uncomfortable with the thought.

If you split your forces, you'll undoubtedly take more losses that you would otherwise. But are you hamstringing your forces by forcing them to fight like you are?

Do you trust your champions to lead their forces without your oversight?

The last of your lunch vanishes, but leaves behind an uncomfortable echo in Sith's voice.

Why didn't you tell them?