On the other hand, monsters are beasts consumed by the allure of mana, and more mana. Growth, in a way, is like a drug. They eschew their natural instincts , mayhaps even losing their sense of self-preservation, and duly attack anything that they deem a threat to their territory. Of course, we take the term territory loosely here, a monster’s greed colours everything in its purview as territory. Transcription from “When is a beast not a monster?” By Philiarz Oonswarner.

The party met in front of the fortress when the shadows were long and the sun had already dipped northwest of the Humpbeast Ridges. Every single one of them was armed to the teeth, or armed with teeth.

Wurmtooth weapons glinted like polished enamel in the dying light. The wurmhide was an orange brown, almost blending with the sunset. It would have made for very good camouflage against a sand dune.

Thankfully, the armor did not chaffe or pinch when Arthur tried it on. It was also thicker at the torso, elbows, around the neck and knees. and Cuisses wrapped around his outer thighs, secured by buckles while shoes were also part of the ensemble, also thicker at the bottom of the soles . It was close fitting, flexible, and covered all the joints. However the Djy'veli's versions were like bodysuits despite the heat.

The threading was almost unobtrusive and you could only tell the seams from the glue that had covered them up, and even that was hard to see. It was also completely unenchanted but nevertheless invulnerable to piercing and slashing as the [Wurmhide Seamstress] had demonstrated on delivery.

The wurmhide armor would have looked better in black if he wanted to be a vigilante who punched people at night minus the cape of course. However, he had on his Nightstalker’s robe which was way better.

Overall, the hide had a pebbled appearance on the outside but was supple on the inside. Also, they looked like they’d be more suited to an actual liquid ocean, not a sea of sand like the Dust Bowl. Arthur was surprised that leather would be cool in a climate as humid as the oasis.

“Hoo! Aren't you just delectable?” Livierre cooed as she sidled up to Arthur and nudged him with her elbow. “ You look like a [Wraith Blade] straight out of Saelethil’s bard tales,” she added, sizing him up.

Arthur shook his head ruefully. The woman was full of beans. Xazhu beans specifically. It must have been the rejuvenating brew—the one he'd been given was enough to give him a coffee rush.

The other woman in their party was something else. Underneath her cloak, the sandy brown suit really flattered her figure. She’d only come off as simple because of all the clothing she’d worn compared to the other women. But now she looked as though it was made just for her . Her platinum blonde hair was also out and done in a double French plait. She looked like an alien princess.

“ You look amazing, Mastresse Nora,” Arthur blurted out before he could help it. ‘Damn that was so embarrassing,’ Arthur thought, trying to keep the blood from going to his cheeks. ‘Must be something in the air; yes, the aroma of Xazhu is intoxicating’

The woman in question mumbled untintelligibles which might have been gratitude as she shouldered her way past them. She zoomed off inside the keep, her cloak billowing behind her. Arthur caught sight of the large pack on her back and the Djy’velian equivalent of kukri’s sheathed under her cloak before she disappeared into the keep.

Arthur was surprised that she could fight but revised his assessment when he realised the dhampir was, in and of herself, a natural predator. He would not make the same mistake to underestimate her as he did with Aeskyre.

“ Haha. Would you look at that. Angustifolia has an admirer,” Kervir added, smacking Arthur in the back. If Arthur hadn’t caught himself, he would have staggered. Kervir really kept his strength contained, like a coiled spring. He was armed with a falchion at his hip and a glaive of wurmtooth as his primary weapon. A humpack sat on his spine.

“ Let us see what becomes of that, eh?” he said, a grin splitting cleft chinned face. The blue Djy’veli nodded to the rest of the party and passed into the fort with that insufferable man bun tousling in the breeze behind him. Arthur sighed at the impending amount of misunderstanding that would ensue.

He looked up just to see their defender, Arkilius, trudge by wearing the same garb. His main weapon was a warhammer with a hilt made from a femur bone. A falchion almost as large as a greatsword was sheathed at his back alongside a cylindrical carrying bag that could have housed a cannon.

“ Let’s go wolfish [Rogue],” Livierre beckoned, hefting her own pack. She was also no less armed with her artifices.

“ Very well then, into the dungeon,” Arthur sighed. There was no fanfare or send-off for the party. Celebrations were only reserved for after the return. Such was the Djy’veli way of life.

The entrance to the dungeon was in the cellar of the keep, buried beneath the unusable ground floor. There were a couple of rooms in the ground floor that looked to have seen use but Arthur didn't linger enough to see what for.

The entrance must have been a secret route during sieges because the dungeon and the fortress were most definitely from different time periods.

The passageways were dark and smelled of stale water and decay while the spiral stairs were slippery and missing steps. The torches threw long shadows and the party's passage roused skittering insects from cracks and gaping holes left by looted sconce fixtures.

There was no balustrade to catch anyone if they fell, so the party kept close to the wall. Kervir was ahead, followed by Arkilius, Arthur, and then Livierre. Nora brought up the rear carrying the aqertherite crystal on her back. She was filling up the overwatch role, which included healing and watching. The same role could also be filled with a [Mage] who had crowd control abilities.

Reaching the basement of the keep was without incident, and finally, they saw the entrance to the dungeon. It was an old door, metallic with studded bracing like it belonged in a vault. It was green and had some dents and scars, and was set behind a layer of bricks as thick as Arthur’s forearm.

Once, there had been a false wall covering it up, the remains of which lay around ankle deep in muddy water . A yawning abyss swallowed the rest of the light as load-bearing pillars faded in and out of the torches’ illumination. Arthur was tempted to send mage lights from his [Light] spells just to sate his morbid curiosity.

The echoes of water dripping were the only sound punctuating the gloam until Arkilius hefted off the large door bar with a grunt. The door sighed outwards, releasing a humid gust of air that smelt worse than the staleness of the cellar. The torches flickered.

Arthur hacked and gagged as the sweet and earthy reek fingered him in the nostrils. It smelled of garbage juice and old socks buried in the yard.

“ Never gets old,” Livierre snorted, voice muffled by her sch’magh.

Arthur glowered as he cycled the air around his face with [Aer Mastery] and materialised his own scarf from [Inventory chest]. He was sure there was a mask or two inside that duffel bag of his from the pandemic and all that, but the unusual material would garner lots of attention.

Were it not for the dwarven goggles he had on his eyes would have watered. Yet, even with that, he couldn’t see past the oppressive darkness in the doorway. It was like the torchlight hit a film of ink and just stopped.

”Why didn't you tell me it was that bad?” Arthur said, voice muffled by his scarf.

“ It’s fun that way,” Kervir guffawed. The sound came across as a honk because of his sch’magh . He walked to the side of the doorway and dropped the torch onto a holder on the wall. Nora did the same with hers.

“ Now then,” he announced, turning serious. “ From here on out, we stay in formation. There is a winding stair well with a yawning pit. There used to be a conveyance but eh, we cannibalised all the metal and the wood, “ he said unabashedly.

“ It shall be a long trudge below and something might fly up from the deep. Human, I understand you are a mage. We shall impose on you to take care of that for this part. Livierre, we’re not wasting bolt quarrels so soon,” he said, pointedly looking at the [Artificer].

“ Awh. I was raring to go. Me and Boney have not had fun in a while,” she said, patting the sides of the crossbow. Nora gave the Djy’veli a scandalised look.

The artificer had a gear-wound repeating crossbow with a long stock like a carbine rifle. Metal covered the largest winding gear on the side while the quarell drum tube was clipped at the bottom via a set of grooves. It was like a tommy gun's drum only longer to accomodate bolt quarells.

Arthur was unsure as to the reloading mechanism, but all the gears , cams, and springs had to count towards something. Half the bag on her back had to have been the weapons munitions.

‘Of course this world has springs,’ Arthur groaned. If dwarven arcanoclocks existed, then dwarves had already made springs. And with springs, they also had screws, bolts, maybe even propellers?

“ Will that not be agreeable?” Kervir called out, befuddled by Arthur’s reaction.

“ No, that’ll be fine,” Arthur assured him. ‘Who even calls their crossbow boney?’

“ Very well then. There is a landing, once we reach the bottom. Those who haven’t drunk their Xazhu should do so then. Off we go,” he said, drawing his glaive with a flourish. He walked into the entrance passing through the film which seemed to wobble and ripple like water and then he was gone.

Arkilius hefted his warhammer next and followed, then Arthur went next. The thin film clung to him and for a breath, he felt as if he was being watched.

The air at the back of his neck stood on end, as a vague feeling of claustrophobia assaulted him. He felt as though he'd undergone a sensory blackout before the feeling passed and he was on the other side. There was no sensation of transition—he just was. Arthur fought the roiling sensation of displacement as his sense of balance adjusted.

The change on the other side was palpable. The air was thick and electric with the buzz of ambient mana. He could feel it in his nose, his skin and taste it on his tongue. The feeling of ephemeral and then as though it never was, it was gone.

'Damn—that's some trip,' Arthur mused as he looked around. The proportions of the bell shaped dome chamber were larger than the keep they'd come and made his mind whirl. He might have said they'd been translocated somewhere else .

Kervir and Arkilius were standing at the lip of a ledge fading away into darkness. Beneath them was a pit with stairs spiralling along its walls, like an open-cast mine.

Colonies of bioluminescent moss and mycelia growing on scoria brick provided ambient light glowed above and without. The bricks were of staggering proportions but that was not what caught his eyes about them. It was the shimmering phenocrysts in the fuschite rocks that twinkled, amplifying the blue-green illumination.

Arthur followed the mycelial network to the dome shaped ceiling with his gaze, and there he found a ring hook. It was for the anchor of the missing conveyance; a lift.

“ First time?” Livierre said, nudging him from the side.

“ Ah, yes... maybe,” Arthur mumbled, as he felt for his dagger at his side. He looked askance Nora entered last.

’So spatial and lateral displacement?’ Arthur mulled.

“ You must have been sheltered, eh?” Lieverre said, almost in a whisper. The party started moving along the staircase. Though wide, the yawning pit was dizzying as the ambient glow grew distant. Rather than being entranced by the view, Arthur was on his guard. His spells were loaded, [Spark Bolt] for offence and [Gale] for defence.

Arthur couldn't help but think he was making a mistake hiding his true abilities. Besides, he was not going to show his ace unless he had to. Even his swordcraft would be kept under wraps.

The party didn't really ask but it was implicit in the way they regarded him. Knowing that he had obfuscation artefacts though, They expected him to pull his weight.

His trouble with the spells was the noise. [Spark Bolt] only made crackling sounds like a whip and had none of the boom that came with [Thunder Bolt]. At some point, he’d have to find a way of silencing that if he ever wanted to be stealthy.

There had to be a way of evacuating air but a vacuum just didn’t conduct lightning. Maybe a projectile weapon with an evacuated muzzle. He hadn't the vaguest idea of how to make a gun, let alone where to start. Perhaps if he ever got to study a dwarven cannon though that was easier said than done.

‘Oh well, learning never stops,’ he thought, watching his steps on the stairs. They were large.

Arthur and the party must have walked 10 floors' worth of stairs by the time they reached the bottom. It must have been the feeling of being underground or staring at a ceiling of indeterminate height that made his heart race, but Arthur could swear that the air had gotten harder to breathe.

It felt like breathing through water, chilled and filled with jagged chunks of ice. It burned his nose despite the scarf and scraped his throat raw. His breath came in fits and starts. It made his ribs ache as though something was trying to compress him from without and burst out of his chest from within.

“Dekara, breathe Master Arthur. It's just the mana in the air,” Livierre whispered. Arthur hadn't even realised he was bent over with hands on his knees. He closed his eyes and let out a shuddering breath. ‘In.out.in.out.’ he thought, finally recentering himself. He retrieved his flask of Xazhu and took a sniff.

The stuff cloyed at his nose, working like smelling salts and banished the feeling of drowning. The first sip was a soothing relief, the next gulp clarified his mind like crystal. He felt the energy thrum through his veins like a shot of adrenaline. Senses became sharper, hearing more alert sights clarified so much the shadows were muted despite the meagre light. Smells—

‘Yeah, not doing that,’ he thought, trying to tune out the sensory overload. Banishing his flask, he drew himself up to his full height. Nora was watching above. Kervir and Arkilius were watching the tunnel ahead. Nothing moved.

‘I am ready,’ Arthur mouthed, giving Livierre a thumbs up. Livierre scrunched her face in confusion but the meaning got across.

‘Great. World can invent magic steam engines doesn't have a thumbs up,’ Arthur thought as he formed up. “ What in the blue was that?” Arthur breathed.

“ Dungeon mana is denser—” Nora whispered from the back.

’The equivalent of altitude sickness then,’ Arthur thought.

Kervir caught the backline's gaze and motioned with his head forward. The world was a sepia hue through Arthur's dwarven goggles, almost dreamy. But the tension in the tunnel ahead was something else.

In another world someone would have said ’ Eyes ahead, watch your six’ and started shuffling as they made themselves as small of a target as possible. That is exactly what Livierre was doing.

The artificer had braced the buttstock of the crossbow against her shoulder, using primitive sights to spot ahead. Livierre's role was the ranger of the party—ordinarily that would either be an [Archer] or a [Mage]. From there on, all weapons were drawn and their senses were sharp.

Arthur thought it an opportunity to watch a seasoned hunter of all that dwelled in the Dust track their surroundings. He noted all the times he called for a halt to look at some obscure track on the ground, or a wad of mucosal fluid splattered against the walls, or even a shed claw.

At some point, the tension had gotten thicker the farther they went into the tunnels, the darkness felt encroaching, and the air inside was deathly still. Arthur found himself restless and angst started gnawing at his psyche. All the bends and curves had time and again blurred into one another, so much that the map in his head was rendered useless.

The walls of the dungeons were mostly brick, like the green fuschite scoria they’d left in the pit. Glimpses of it poked through the decades, even centuries, of solubles dissolved from the world above and deposited below to form speleothems. Most of them hung from the roof like melting glue dripping below. The fact that they were dry only added to the barrenness of the place. No plants grew save for the moss and mushrooms.

Unlike the wild, such a place would have been hard to keep track of things if you were not experienced as Kervir. He, like others of his clankin, occasionally delved into the crypts and catacombs beneath the sands of the Dust when times were lean. From a young age, they all learnt to sniff out traps and the telltale signs that something had passed somewhere .

Some of them tamed skarglith, desert beasts that looked like wolves but had pangolinoid plates on their bodies in place of fur. They lived in canyons, crevices, and caves around oases. Naturally, they were the first welcoming committee Arthur and his party encountered. The creatures hunted in packs of five or more, and their encounter was as sudden as a change in wind.

Sounds of claw on stone came echoing from the passage ahead. There were no growls, no red eyes in the gloam, only throaty breathing that sounded like basal vocalisation that came from their chests. They had slitted eyes like felines, a golden yellow that sat on lupine heads.

Digitigrade limbs ended not in paws but something vaguely saurian and mammalian with raptorial spurs at the back of the heel. They would be if velociraptors had evolved into wolves.

“ Skarglith!” Kervir hissed. The Djy’veli ran towards the left using his speed to intercept the front before the beasts massed on the party. Arkilius ran towards the right, but not so fast that he could keep an equal distance between the three at the back and Kervir. He taunted them with a growl. The middle was fair game. Making sure to keep the two men out of her line of fire, Livierre let loose.

Quarrels whistled past the two advancing men twice in quick succession. One to the right and another to the left. At first, Arthur thought her shots had gone wide, but once they were in position, there was an electric crackle as the first line went down paralysed. Three skarglith lay twitching at the front of the pack.

Their shaking motions put their necks in Kervir’s crosshairs. Kervir put two down in two moves. An upward slash cleaved the left then a pirouette following the same motion decapitated the right one.

A lot of centrifugal force went into those swings, crunching scale and vertebrae and splattering blood against the wall. Kervir made it look easy but Arthur knew it was anything but that.

Slashing through bone would not have been so simple unless the wurm tooth blades were exceedingly sharp. By the time the first carcasses slumped to the ground Kervir was wading into the oncoming throng.

At the same time, Arkilius had taken care of the third skarglith to get ensnared by paralysis by mashing its skull with the studded warhammer. There was a yelp, the crunching of bone and then it was still. Three skargliths down.

Ahead, Kervir encountered the main pack. One had peeled away, scrambling along speleothems that formed an incline to the wall proper. Raptorial claws found purchase on the rock as though they were an ice pick against the snow.

50 aums of scaly flesh, claws and teeth went soaring towards the Djy’veli. That was only 25 aums worth of mass less than the man. The blue Djy’veli blurred underneath the beast so fast Arthyr could have blinked and missed it. Two pieces of skarglith, blood and entrails landed right behind him. Four down.

Meanwhile, Livierre picked off another two of the creatures that passed by Kervir by driving quarrels through the centre of their foreheads. They barely even realised they were dead as their momentum carried them past Arkilius. On his side of the fray, Arkilius had met three more skarglith . An upswing of his hammer fetched one yowling against the wall. It was dead before it hit the ground.

One skarglith took that opening to pounce, but the red male met its teeth with a bracer. Its raptorial claws ineffectually tried to pierce the wurm hide but they barely even penetrated. Arkilius used the flailing beast to body its counterpart who decided on the same course of action, bowling it out of the air.

A swing of his warhammer did them in with the same motion as they fetched against the wall. The rest seemed to have a sense of self preservation and stole away with their tails between their legs. In less than a parquartz, nine skarglith, the smallest being the size of a grey wolf, had been flawlessly dispatched without injury. And thus began their race to the heart of the dungeon.