“Be my love, my turtle dove, you’re the very thing I’ve nightmares of...” the Dark Elf crooned as he massaged the gaoblin’s right foot before making a realization. “Oh my beautiful and magnificent slice of living darkness, your muscles in your foot are SO tense... can’t have that, can we?” his thumbs worked on the underside while fingers trailed over the topside of Crescens’ foot. “Is the wine to your liking my dear? I can EASILY get another bottle out...”
“It... it’s fi~iiiiine...” Crescens moaned as the Dark Elf continued to give her a foot rub. She had to admit, she had her reservations about all this... but to find out that behind The Tailor’s business was a sauna—of EVIL but still a sauna—of Five Star quality... well, a good sweat, treats, fine vintage, and massage were REALLY doing wonders to erase a lot of the hesitation she felt towards Lady Gia becoming a Dungeon Keeper. Hell, if she was lucky, mama was going to get her pipes cleaned for the first time in over ten-thousand years!
Besides, even when she had ruled Oblivion, she had never experienced this from the other Gaoblins...
Come to think of it, why hadn’t she? She had run the whole damned place, control over all its inhabitants... why hadn’t she...?
“Oooh, right... there!” she hissed out in joy as The Tailor started working on a new tense area, shooting all other trains of thought into the mental abyss.
A new train though, did emerge from the tunnel that was the Well of All Thoughts: should she and her Mistress ever leave here—not that she was for it one way or the other, thanks to the Dark Elf before her—she would have to ensure she spent many, many evenings, days, and afternoons in these ‘spa’ places... or at the very least, she was taking The Tailor with her. If Mistress could have the talking book, she could have this!
“Hey!” Britanny called out from the side as she lay on her stomach atop a table, clad in only a towel much like Crescens was. “When am I going to get MY turn? You’ve been treating Crescens for, what, two hours? I’m paying for all this, so the least I could get is a shoulder rub!”
Raising an eyebrow, The Tailor refused to take his attention off of the piece of devious perfection before him, working the dark beauty’s foot so that her arches would be eased and strong, powerful enough to snap the necks of gnomes and halflings beneath her heels. Instead, he merely replied, “Did I, or did I not place cucumber slices on your eyes?”
“...You did...” Britanny replied, features scrunching as she was pretty sure the cucumber had been one day if not HOURS away from spoiling if the stench was any indication.
“Then wait your turn...” he said calmly before gently placing the gaoblin’s right foot down into the warm rosewater basin. He then lifted her left foot up and began massaging that dainty yet beautifully toe-clawed foot as well; the man grinning at the coo’s and moans he elicited from the pointy-eared beauty.
Britanny’s now uncovered—and she hoped, not infected by plant bacteria—eye twitched. “I have to say, the service here is not very accommodating.”
“I do believe your servant would disagree,” The Mentor stated, now floating about the hidden sauna. “And I have to admit, I never knew you had such a thing down here, Tailor.”
“I am a very complicated man,” The Tailor purred, paying attention to what passed for the toe joints in Crescen’s foot. “And, alas, it is not often I invite clients down here.”
“As in never?” inquired The Mentor.
Grinning, the male nodded his head. “Right in one!” The Tailor chirped. “After all, there has not been a one deserving of the attentions of one such as I... until now...” he grinned wider up at the beautiful gaoblin. “Tell me, Lady Crescens...” he leaned forward, his head between her thighs. “You’ve heard my praise and sonnets; do you think I can be quite the Cunning Linguist? All you need to do is give me a chance...”
Eyes widening.... and then narrowing in anger—seriously, what did kitty have to do to get such admirations?—the only thing saving the Dark Elf from werecheetah claws to the back of the skull was the advising apparition calling for her attention. “Keeper, there is something important I wish to bring up. Why did you let the Horned Reaper leave? You will need protection besides Crescens and your own powers...”
That made the werecheetah huff in annoyance. “The reason for that is very simple, Mentor...” the female werecat cringed a little at the memory. “I sent him off because he was eyeing that crushed green velvet suit, and I will not support fashion suicide!”
“...What was that about my suit?" The Tailor huffed, taking his face out from between the gaoblin’s legs and making the woman gasp with disappointment.
Going through a facial motion that would have been raising an eyebrow if he had them, The Mentor pondered why he had to be the only mature one. “What about the people outside?” he asked, hoping to keep this conversation from devolving into whining between the Keeper and The Tailor.
Odd, how it was The Tailor who got the capital ‘T’ in his title and not his protégé...
“Well, Mentor, now he’s killing those of poor fashion, and that’s okay!” Britanny chirruped. Seriously, she'd seen all the rags and filthy clothes of the common-folk. They’d be better off being put out of their misery than having to spend another day without a washing machine and dryer!
“...So, you are willingly allowing your servant, a Horned Reaper, no less, to wander about Skid Row, slaughtering whomever he desires?”
“Yeah, surprised me too,” Britanny muttered. “I would have thought at the very least, I would care about the loss of innocent life... but then, I remembered you muttering something about how vile and evil this place was, so I figured, screw it!”
If The Mentor had been capable of it, he would have blinked in surprise, not knowing if this corruption of her spirit was his work, the work of the Dungeon Heart, or just general laziness...
“And why don’t you have whoever massaged you, out here, working?” the werecheetah demanded of the Dark Elf.
“Oh, my gimp is too untrained to work upon such perfection!” he stated with a flourish, kissing the insides of Crescen’s thighs. “Best to leave him in his box, contemplating prime numbers and what-not.”
The female werecat glared. “What about working on me!?” she yelled.
“Oh, you aren’t worthy of my gimp’s attention,” he waved off, his hands having raised higher to rub the gaoblin beauty’s abdomen.
Deciding that it was best to cut things off before needless slaughter took place—seriously, they were going to have future need of The Tailor—the specter of advisement spoke up, “As much as I’m sure you’d like a massage of your own Keeper, it will have to wait. I have been checking around Skid Row and believe me, and while I was surprised when I haven’t heard any blood curdling screams yet—so perhaps the locals have the common sense to stay he hell out of a Horned Reaper’s way—I did come across music...”
“Music?” Britanny asked curiously.
Nodding his head, The Mentor replied, “Yes. Further exploration proved that today is the day the local Slave Guild opens up for its public auction. Such is a chance for you to pick up a retinue of servants on the cheap...”
“...Servants?” the werecheetah asked, her curiosity piqued. Maybe she could FINALLY get someone to give her a massage! “But why should I get cheap help? I’m a Dungeon Keeper and have lots and lots of gold! Shouldn’t I be getting some GOOD servants?”
The Mentor grimaced. “You could... but...” he trailed off as he realized that while it would have been good to remain low-key until the Keeper had more Minions than a Reaper and a handful of Imps—including one which was a bastardization of the common mining creature—they REALLY needed to get some gold out of that place. Honestly, what Keeper let their entire Inner-Sanctum become overrun with coin? So obviously, she COULD afford it, and the more she paid, the more elbow room they had.
Finally, he continued with, “What I mean to say is you could but if you’re going to get in on the private auction reserved for the local Keepers, you’re going to need to leave now! As in, right now! You have less than an hour at this point and you do want to be presentable, do you not?”
Surprisingly, it was his Keeper’s lady in waiting that was the one to object. “But what about my date!?”
“Must I remind you, that it is the Keeper, your Lady, that must be our primary concern?” The Mentor asked.
“Alas, I cannot—in good, corrupted faith—allow this evening to end!” The Tailor pronounced. “Thus, I shall do something, something I had forsworn to never indulge in!”
“Violence?” Britanny asked, hope in her voice, the sound of popping knuckles, coming from her claws.
“No, something much viler to me,” he stated, reaching behind his back and producing... a small sign.
[We’re Closed. Back whenever, bitches!]
With a look if distress, the male Dark Eld stated, “I shall close my business for the day, so that I might accompany truest beauty, to her business!”
“...You’re not talking about me, are you?” Britanny asked.
“Hmm? You say something?” The Tailor asked, as he held out his hand to Crescens.
The werecheetah sighed. “Why do I even bother?”
“Because you care. And caring is a sign of overworld weakness,” The Mentor firmly told the spotted werecat. “But have no fear, for I will help purge you of such stupidity, even if it kills you; and believe me, that’s a risk I’m willing to take.”
Lowering her head, Britanny sighed. Where was Horny for random violence when she actually needed him for such?
“Hey! HEY!” Horned Reaper snarled at the goblin who threw himself into an open sewer-grate. “Come back here, you miniscule bastard! You walked in front of my path, so accept your destruction like a man!!”
His sneer enlarged as he heard the audible splash of a body hitting sewer water. Damn it, that now made eight goblins, ten orcs, three trolls, four rogues, two hell hound, and a black knight that had managed to evade his righteously infernal wrath! He’d been stuck in a small prison for five-hundred years! The least they could do would be to let him stab them a little!! Didn’t even have to let him kill them, just let them bleed a bit! REALLY!
“Now ho~o~o~ld on here!” came a high, whiny voice, that was music to Horny’s hidden ears. How sweet, fresh meat... and it announced itself too!
“Now, what’s going on here?” asked the newest victim, as the being hefted up its pants.
“Oh, you know,” Horny offered with a kind—hey, it was for him!—smile. “I’m just looking to make new friends, explore the town, satiate my abnormally large blood lusts, while my Keeper has let me walk off on my own for a bit.”
The being sniffed lightly, before nodding. “Yep, nothin’ wrong with that. You go have yourself a good day,” he said, hefting his pants again, as he walked forward...
...Only to be blocked by the blade of Horny’s scythe. “Can I help ya with something, young man?” the being asked.
“...Well, not necessary at this point,” Horny stated. “But a name?” he asked.
“Now, how would I know your name?”
The infernal warrior twitched. “...I meant yours.”
“But I have a name, why would you want to have my name?”
“Oh, just so I have something to write on your tombstone...” the Horned Reaper said with glee. Yes, glee! With this much body fat, the blood was going to go spraying EVERYWHERE!
“Oh! Well then, excuse me, Sir! I’m Sheriff Tumblebrook, I’m the one who looks after Skid Row when the local Keepers aren’t having a snot-fit and taking over to do whatever the hell they so damn place...” he looked Horny up and down for a moment. “Say, you look like an impressive force of mass destruction.”
“I am...” the Horned Reaper finally replied, wondering if she should slice horizontally or vertically for maximum spillage of intestines and blood. Maybe he should try for a horizontal upswing?
“Well then, how would you like to be Skid Row’s new deputy sheriff?” the overweight rogue offered. “We got a lot of people who ain’t payin’ taxes and Heroes looting and plundering our business and, put simply, we need the wrath of the dark gods instilled into them. Shoot, earlier today, someone just stole the front door to the West Gate of Skid Row!!”
The Horned Reaper kept a perfect poker face. “...The West Gate, you say?” he wondered if that had been the entrance his Mistress had used when they arrived.
Nodding his head, the portly individual explained, “It's the one next to the Starbucks.”
“THIS PLACE HAS A STARBUCKS!?” Horny Roared with excitement! At last! Espresso of the Damned, here he came!
Sighing, the Sheriff shook his head sadly. “Well, not anymore! Heroes came in through the open gate and pillaged it!”
“DAMN IT!” the infernal behemoth roared before coming to a decision. “Fine! I’ll be your deputy... but only if I get a badge!” After all, that little metal decoration looked rather cool in his opinion. And if he couldn't get a green crushed velvet suit than he was getting a badge of authority!
“A badge?” the sheriff asked. “Why would you need a stinking badge?”
“Want to be fully legal,” Horny offered with a smile... and it was true; it was kind of hard to extort in the name of the law without proof you represented such.
“Hmm, well... fine!” the overweight man said, tossing Horny a shiny piece of what may have been tin... or charred bone.
Here, probably a little of Column A, a little of Column B, and a majority of an Unknown C.
“Quick question,” Horny stated, putting thought not only into where to place the badge, but how to actually put it on himself. “What’s to stop me from advancing and taking your job?”
“Paperwork has to be filled out, or I just keep rising from the dead,” the portly rogue answered honestly. “Last I heard, it was over eight thousand pages, just to file to get the paperwork you need, and son, I ain’t got that sort of time no more!”
Horny considered that for a moment. “And who is in charge during the intermittent time between your death and raising?”
“Oh, that would be whoever is deputy sheriff,” the rotund lawman replied. “Raising is always done with a check-in at the end of the month, so if I’m killed in the line of duty, the deputy would be in charge from the point of my death to until I’m brought back up!”
Again, Horny considered that for a moment. “And what is today, may I ask?”
“Tuesday, the second. Why?”
Grinning, the infernal enforcer replied, “That’s an awfully nice shirt you’re wearing...”
Whistling a merry ditty as he pulled on the bloody garment, the Horned Reaper was oh-so-glad the overweight human had been a size Triple-X... he might not have been able to button the shirt closed thanks to the sheer girth of his pectoral muscles, but the sleeves were wide enough to get his arm through, and it gave him someplace to put the sheriff’s badge on while he placed the deputy badge on his green derby.
Once fully clothed, the Horned Reaper held his weapon high. “I am The Law!” The red-skinned demon declared. Hooves stomping firmly as he made his way into town, Horny decided it was best to start off his new reign of underworld justice by writing up some citations... yes, there was a lot of noise... it was best to get them to shut up. And nothing made people quiet down faster than impalement on a scythe!
Blinking for a moment, he realized that he didn’t have anything to actually ‘write’ citations on, and as he wanted to follow the dark code of Justice—at least, what was expected of it here—he would need some paper...
Seeing a drunk orc stumble out of a bar, Horry smiled. If it was good enough for the Necronomicon, it was good enough for The Law!
“Hmm,” hummed The Tailor, as the group made their way down the street. “I must admit that I am quite new to coming into the open like this during business hours, but alas, I would have waged good gold on it being busier than this.”
“...Is that tumbleweed... shivering?” asked Britanny.
“Not surprising,” The Mentor replied in an almost bored tone. “The Slave Auctions are today but the Slavers Guild opens up for the local Keepers first; no resident here has the gold to keep up with those fiends nor would they with to acquire their wrath,” he told the Dark Elf—and the others—seriously. “Which is why the majority will be waiting for the Keepers to finish up; whatever is left behind the locals can start auctioning for hundreds of gold rather than tens of thousands...”
“Yeah, but... do I have to be dressed like... THIS?” the werecheetah inquired as she motioned down at herself and the simple black slip she was wearing with high-heeled black leather boots. The only jewelry she had was a platinum choker! “I don’t feel very Keeper-like.”
Frowning, The Tailor demanded to know, “Are you insulting my work?”
“No, no, but...” the werecat MiLF pointed to Crescens, who was in gown and attire whose very presence practically proclaimed, ‘Dark Goddess of the Universe, Kneel Before Me’. “Between the two of us, Crescens looks more like a Keeper should!”
“...She just knows how to wear it better,” was the Dark Elf’s explanation.
The werecheetah blinked her eyes once, twice. “...But they're two completely different outfits!”
The Dark Elf scoffed. “Perhaps to the untrained eyes of one such as yourself, who I doubt truly understands fashion.”
“...Try me,” Britanny growled, wondering if his bleeding corpse would be fashionable.
And no, that thought was all her, no dark magic involved whatsoever!
“It is not just about the outfit, nor about the confidence one has when wearing such, but the sheer aura of all that and more, that truly defines the beauty!” so saying, The Tailor moved close to stand beside the gaoblin. “Take my lovely escort, the truest pearl within the black abyss,” he started, pointing as Crescens. “The outfit draws upon her natural grace, her dark exquisiteness, to allow for eyes to follow. Her stature allows you to see her refinement, her poise. Her gait shows her confidence, her power. Her eyes, show the sheer power at her luminescent fingertips, waiting to abolish any who she decides to the Pits.” The effeminate elven tailor grinned wide, showing off perfectly pearly-white teeth. “With the outfit, her natural splendor is magnified, and projected even farther than before!”
“And me?” the werecat Dungeon Keeper questioned.
Considering that for a moment, the male Dark Elf finally merely shrugged his shoulders. “...My talented skills can only do so much with so little.”
“...Why do you insist on pissing me off so?” Britanny growled irritably. “I’m a dark and powerful Keeper! I could destroy you with a flick of my wrist! Literally!” After all, didn’t that Dungeon Heart come with a giant hand to slap Minions?
Nodding his head in agreement, the stylish Dark Elf replied, “True, true... but I just feel too damn good right now to give a flying fuck... it’s just a good day... a jolly day...” he sighed happily as he turned his head to look at the green-skinned blunette. “With Lady Crescens...”
Suddenly, music started to flare as they got closer to the Auction House, the Dark Elf happily bursting out into SONG! “Oh, it’s a jolly horror day with Crescens... Crescens burns the world of light!”
A drunken orc looked up from the gutter he’d fallen down in. “When the overworld’s full of bright essence...”
“Crescens crushes them with might!” the Dark Elf still replied with a melodious tune. He smiled as he took one of her large Void Claws into both his hand. “When Crescens holds your hand, you feel so grand! Your heart starts sizzling like an iron brand! ”
“Oh, it’s a jolly horror day with Crescens!” many more of the Skid Row locals started to sing, people sticking their heads out of windows and doorways. “No wonder that it’s Crescens that we love!”
Smiling with wide eyes full of devotion to the gaoblin, the Dark Elf repeated, “No wonder that it’s Crescens that we love!”
“...A song! Crescens gets a SONG!” Britanny grumbled as people started coming out of the woodwork, holding the gaoblin up high and praising her in a most melodious fashion. “WHAT THE FUCK!? How come I never got a musical date!?”
“Offhand, dear Keeper, I would say it is likely due to you being tone-deaf,” offered The Mentor.
“I am not tone deaf!” she yelled back.
The apparition gave his feline protégé a blank stare—and not just because it was the only expression he could manage fully—as he argued, “On the contrary; I have heard you singing in the shower. It wasn’t pleasant.”
“...That was because I wanted to see what it was like to have gold coins rain down upon me,” she stated irritably in her defense.
“No; I recall those sounds,” the spirit stated with a ghostly smile. Ah, how he enjoyed the Keeper’s attempts to do with solid metals what many mortals were smart enough to only do with a liquid. “I believe you cracked a mirror when you started talking about topping something named ‘Old Smoky’.”
Britanny twitched. “Just... just lead me to the Slave Auction already...” honestly, a part of her was upset that she had no trouble with human trafficking... another part of her however, was more upset when the song ended and The Tailor went into ANOTHER musical score!
“Who can make the sun die? Crush her foes to goo?” The Tailor crooned to the masses.
“Destroys her enemies and their little doggies too!” sang a number of convicts lined up on the gallows... before the Executioner pulled on the lever, causing them all to crash down and hang there; those whose necks didn’t snap twitching as they were strangled.
“The Crescens can? Yes our Crescens can! Crescens sure damn can!”
“I find myself very curious,” mumbled The Mentor. “For one, how do the townsfolk know what lines to sing and when? Second, how do they produce a workable harmony? I didn’t even know a Bile Demon could single a passable tenor, let alone an alto.”
The Tailor smirked, looking at them. “When truest dark love is in the air, the citizens know when to care.”
A Dark Mistress nodded her head. “Or The Tailor will slit our throats and hang our severed heads...” she gulped as said Dark Elf glared at her. “By... our... HAIR!” she finished with a surprising—albeit nervous—melody.
“...You trained the entire domain of Skid Row to sing songs, involving a person who you had no knowledge or existence of not three hours ago?” asked The Mentor.
“What can I say? I’m VERY good at what I do...” The Tailor replied with a devious grin.
Sighing, Britanny lowered her head in defeat. Damn it! As soon as she got home, she was forcing her husband into his ballet tights and making him perform an interpretive mating dance! She needed to be fawned over just as much as the next woman!
“Excuse me, Keeper,” the ghostly apparition called to the neophyte Dungeon Keeper to not only get her attention, but hopefully break her out of her funk. “We’re here. You should look up and compose yourself as one of your station,” he told the werecheetah seriously.
Looking up, Britanny paused before the wide double-doors in the center of a lengthy wall that seemingly went on forever from either side. “What is this? A fortress?”
“Of sorts,” The Mentor replied. “When the Slave Guild brings in new slaves, they want to make sure no one can escape. It IS the city’s biggest—possibly only—source of considerably revenue. They depend on that capitol brought in here to keep Skid Row from being considered just another po-dunk underworld village like SkummPitt.”
Tilting her had towards the specter, Britanny inquired, “SkummPitt?”
Nodding his head, the ghost explained, “Well the village is mostly a pit and it’s full of scum...” he then visibly trembled as he added, “And don’t get me started on the village of Crotchfyre!”
“Seriously... don’t want to know,” she said with a resigned sigh. At least she could enter here and make a name for herself, really define herself as the true Dungeon Keeper!
“Ah, welcome, you, the greatest of all Tailors,” spoke another Dark Elf male, a black leather patch over his left eye as he approached the group. “Rare is it for us to find you here, but alas, we have no creatures that would even make half-desired clothing.”
“True good friend, but I am here for something even more important,” The Tailor purred, motioning towards Crescens.
“Ah, is this a new Keeper?” he asked, looking her over.
The female werecat twitched. “No, I am The Keeper!” yelled Britanny.
The male Dark Elf looked at the werecheetah for a brief moment before turning to Crescens. “...Sarcasm does not befit your servant in this moment,” The head of the Slaver’s Guild stated. “Shall we have her hide tanned? We have purchased some new... conditioning tools.”
The Tailor sighed as he shook his head. “No, no The Guildmaster...” yes, you could hear the capital ‘T’ in his voice. “As horribly as it may seem, she really, REALLY is a Dungeon Keeper...”
“...” the eye-patch adorned Dark Elf turned his attention back to Britanny once more and looked her up and down for a moment. “Damn. What in the nine hells are going on if the Dark Gods are letting overweight over-the-hill love slaves become Keepers?”
“...Love slave?” the werecheetah growled in irritation... a growl that then died on her lips and became a full out roar as she realized what ELSE he’d said. “OVERWEIGHT!? OVER THE HILL!?!?”
The one-eyed Dark Elf raised an eyebrow at the woman’s outburst. “Good thing she’s a Keeper. I’m sure her heart would burst from all the stress and her spine would snap from all the weight of her fake tits,” The Guildmaster said.
“THEY’RE NOT FAKE!!” the werecheetah screamed.
“Sadly, this is very true,” The Tailor stated. “I myself checked, there were no spells to explain why they have become such.”
“I HAD A CHILD! IT IS A NATURAL PART OF THE PROCESS!”
“Enough with these paltry excuses,” waved off The Guildmaster. Though it probably was a good thing the former love slave was a Keeper now—it didn’t look like her body would hold up for much longer, and she already seemed to be on the verge of having a stroke.
Odd how much that tended to happen around male Drow. “This way please, and do be forewarned, for we have had to increase security.”
“Oh?” asked The Tailor. “Replaced the aluminum daggers with copper, have we?”
“Not at all,” airily stated The Guildmaster. “But I will admit there was a spot of trouble at another of our branch offices when the tried to sell a Greater Vampire: lots of slaughter, burned to the foundation, and apparently cursed for even a rabid orc will not defecate on the ruins.”
The effeminate Dark Elf shook his head. “I swear, what is underworld civilization coming to when you cannot enjoy the nicer things in existence,” pitifully sighed The Tailor.
The quartet of people were lead into a room by The Guildmaster; the place that was something akin to a combination of a Sultan’s harem quarters, what with all the veils, throw-pillows and other soft furniture before a stage with pole and lights that would not have been out of place in a strip club. Four other people with minimal entourage were already settled... a roguish redhead in leather armor with a small entourage of goblins surrounding her, a petite Asian-seeming woman smoking from a hookah and laying across the back of a twenty-foot long DRAGON, an armored man who looked like he just stepped off the battle-field along with a pair of black knights flanking him... and a seemingly innocent bearded old man in colorful purple robes that was humming a merry little tune as he looked over what looked like term papers.
“Oh by the Dark Gods below... it’s these rejects...” The Mentor grumbled as he shook his head. “I was hoping you’d find out about them one at a time but now... they’re ALL here...”
“They?” Britanny asked as they remained towards the back of the cavernous room... the werecheetah twitching a bit as she witnessed The Tailor sit Crescens down before taking off the gaoblin’s shoe and continuing with the woman’s foot rub.
“Yes, them... or to be more specific, your rivals for eventual control of Skid Row...” The Mentor replied honestly. “First off, you should be aware of those two tarts,” The Mentor replied, motioning to tall and muscular redheaded buxom woman in darkened leather armor with black accents and the petite raven-haired Asian-seeming woman in black chang-ao formal wear, with wide-sleeves and side slit, revealing the red skirt worn underneath. “They are the half-sisters Keeper Pilfor and Keeper Xin, daughters of the late Keeper Apirana Maori, deceased lord of the lost undercity of Rarohenga. These two were born into power and their Dungeon Hearts gifted to them by their father in the hopes of having truly loyal subordinates to rule over his sprawling empire; each entrusted to lord over one of his lesser dungeons. After all, when one is seemingly immortal thanks to their Dungeon Heart, they’re in it for the long-haul and the only thing to do is expand. It was well known that he refused to surrender any of his holdings over Rarohenga, preventing rival Keepers from taking over... however, even Keeper Maori couldn’t fight the relentless armed forces of overworlders. Some so-called heroes eventually ransacked Rarohenga and sundered his Dungeon Heart, truly destroying him.”
“Understandably, his surviving kin are QUITE bitter; both wanting to retake their father’s realm and have revenge on the city of Buffy Oak—the kingdom topside of the Rarohenga ruins. After all, what’s to stop them? With their father’s death, their Dungeon Hearts were freed of their subordinate station and became Primary Hearts, allowing the girls to become the masters of their own fate. Both feel said destiny is to become the next great power of the underworld.” The Mentor chuckled at that thought. “Needless to say, those girls have a long road ahead of them... especially since they refuse to work together. Each believes themselves to be the proper successor to the late Keeper Maori and is trying their hardest to rise in rank and prestige. So although they are sisters, they are also rivals through-and-through”
“As for how the two intend to do this, they truly have opposite views and their tactics and preferences reflect that,” the advising ghost started, shifting gears. “To best simplify, it is the warring beliefs of ‘Quantity Versus Quality’...” his gaze went to the redheaded woman who was tapping her hand on the pommel of the sword sheathed on her belt as she impatiently awaited for the auction to begin. “Being of non-Eastern influence like the majority of Keeper Maori’s family and people, Keeper Pilfor is the proverbial and literal ‘redheaded stepchild’ and so feels she has something to prove. As impatient as she is, Keeper Pilfor is aiming to spread her influence as quickly as possible so Minions will look past her appearance and straight towards her power. She’s taking in any fighters she can while keeping her Imps mining for gold around the clock to keep them paid. So while her Acts of Infamy are minimal at the moment, she’s gaining resources so quickly, it’s come to the point where she’s down in Skid Row recruiting twice a month! Reputation-wise, Keeper Pilfor’s practically become synonymous with Goblins and spending lots and lots of gold!”
Britanny frowned. “Really? How come she can spend all kinds of gold and I can’t?”
“Because Keeper Pilfor has the forces to protect her interests and you do not, Keeper; she’s already enslaved three full goblin tribes. This, however, is a double-edged sword as while she tries to keep her coffers full, she is nearly always low on cash. Raising an army isn’t cheap, you know...” so saying, the ghost then turned his focus back to the long-haired brunette. “Now her sister Keeper Xin on the other hand has a considerably smaller Dungeon than the mini-empire her sister Keeper Pilfor keeps expanding upon... but because of her minimalistic Dungeon, Keeper Xin has been able to build up her treasury and focus on a force of Minions who are all individually noteworthy in some manner... she’s basically forming a reverse adventuring party; a contingent of ‘villains’. Not that these are her only Dungeon dwellers as she does have a few other minions—like that Dragon she’s resting on—but they’re not the focus of her power, oh no. Keeper Xin is all about accessing individual skills and knowledge. While her sister is forming an army, she’s unlocking her full potential as a Keeper. As such, when Keeper Xin does strike, it is precise and terrible. The atrocities she’s committed have gained her quite the infamy topside and admiration of many down here...” what could have been a smirk seemed to tug at the blurred features of his face. “Much to the ire of her half-sister, Keeper Pilfor.”
Allowing his protégé a chance to mentally digest that information, The Mentor awaited any questions. When none came, he merely floated about and turned towards the tall man with short and trimmed dark beard; angry reddish-brown eyes just staring out with anger as he stood aside from the rest of the Keepers, his black armor polished and reflecting the lights off of the stage. “The one over there is Keeper Raksasha; formerly Sir George Pureheart of Wishveil,” the ghost had a look of disgust. “He was one of the overworld’s noblest paladins and a true terror to the underworld. Together he and his wife maintained their land in a unity that could not be broken... by the forces of the underworld, anyway. For you see, Lady Catherine began to tire of the loneliness. With Lord Pureheart being a terror to the underworld, the good Baron’s wife was left at home more often than not. It was up to her to handle the day-to-day affairs of their kingdom. The last crusade Baron Pureheart took part in on behalf of King Reginald of Alecrest was the breaking point for the goodly Lady. The King entrusted the Baron and a regiment of five hundred of Wishveil’s knights—along with other assorted goodly forces—with the mission to rid the world of the dread Keeper Belial. Needless to say, they attacked Keeper Belial’s stronghold at the grand undercity of Duzahk in a war that lasted for six months. In the end, the paladin was successful... however, after such a great victory, fate turned its back on the man. For you see, when he returned home, the holy knight found he had lost everything. His wife, during his prolonged absence, had been in contact with the King... with a few well-placed words here and there, the right channels spoke through, and favors cashed in or granted, it was no surprise that eventually the Lady had the title of Baroness bestowed upon her, allowing the woman to ascend to Wishveil’s primary seat of governing power, effectively wresting control from her husband. Needless to say, their rage with each other was furious and their forces fought in a bloody battle that lasted for days... and would have gone for longer had Sir Pureheart’s remaining men not defected to Lady Catherine’s side. As one could guess, he was soundly defeated.”
Nodding her head slowly in understanding, the werecheetah beauty couldn’t help but quip, “That’s one hell of a divorce proceeding.” Although a part of her could understand what the Baroness went through. She still remembered how pissed and frightened SHE had been when Stryyp took off to protect Aebra from the Dynasty of Stars. That had only been a few weeks of separation or months if you got into that whole Time Warp debacle—really, Time Travel really did screw with your perception of time—and could not fathom how she’d have felt if she’d been separated from her Muffin for months while he fought the Dynasty!
A chuckle sounded from the specter. “Quite. But Lady Catherine could not bring herself to kill the man she once had affection for. So rather than execute him, she chose to merely cast him out into the wilds, exiling him from his homeland. Disheartened, alone, and without hope, he wandered, the once grand knight of the realm now a homeless vagabond. A life of destitution seemed to be his fate until during a great storm, the man came across an abandoned temple in his search for shelter, the likes of which he had never seen before in his life. With the bitterness in his heart overwhelming him, he vowed revenge in that temple... that dark temple. The Dark Gods heard his vow and upon seeing the chance to spread the seed of evil to the surface, along with a chance to steal a great hero from the Light, they bestowed a Dungeon Heart upon him, allowing Pureheart to transform himself into Keeper Raksasha.”
A flash seemed to shine within the ghost’s eye-sockets. “However, as with ANY deal with the Dark Gods, there was a catch. In return for his Dungeon Heart, he had to fulfill a mission for them: kill his former love and spread the word of darkness. Since then, Keeper Raksasha has been doing his best to keep to his word to the Dark Gods, but his wife had enhanced Wishveil’s defenses considerably—you’d think she had Troll Workshops working for her—and has been able to withstand the attacks of her former husband’s forces. For a solid year now, the two have been in a stalemate in a war of attrition, draining their realms and resources in what is becoming the bloodiest of divorces ever known.” he motioned back to the armored man. “Hence why you’ll find Keeper Raksasha in Skid Row. Even if he has Imps that can mine riches, he still has armies to pay and so has to stretch his coin as far as he can. He’s started buying slaves to fill out the ranks of his forces; at the very least, they make for cheaper cannon-fodder.”
“The elderly one over there is Keeper Dumbledore. Formerly Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—”
“That’s a hell of a long name!” the werecheetah interrupted.
Although he was tempted to snap at the Keeper for interrupting, he couldn’t fault her for that. “Quite; such was tradition for those who were of high rank within the overworld’s many Magic Guilds. Before coming down here, Keeper Dumbledore had been the founder and leader of the Order of the Phoenix—an organization dedicated to fighting Keeper Voldemort—before retiring to serve as a headmaster at one of the many wizarding schools of the Magicians Guild.”
“So, what happened?” asked Crescens, managing to pay attention to everything so far, despite how good the foot massage felt. She realized it would be best to also listen to this overview so she could aide Lady Gia... as she was certain the werecat would forget more than half of it.
“Oh, many rumors fly around about that very thing,” stated The Tailor. “Some say he was obsessed with a prophecy, to the point he committed dark acts which attracted the attention of the Dark Gods. Others say he was only great due to the machinations of those under him. They say when he first became great, he went a little mad in the head, and the Guild worked to keep him in check, until he sacrificed one too many of his charges for what he deemed, ‘The Greater Good Plan, Mark 7A’ or whatever...”
The ghostly apparition continued. “And yet still others say that when a young magic user learned that he was to be a ‘sacrifice’ of some sorts, he rebelled, and banished the old coot away. Distraught, he came down here, claiming to be searching for a new threat to banish, when that former Keeper Voldemort died—and you should hear some of those tales.”
“No kidding! Why, some even claimed that Love had defeated the bastard,” The Guildmaster proclaimed. “Never liked the guy—and not because of what he did. He just never paid properly, tried to have his minions kill you after every deal, instead of paying an agreed upon price.”
“Either way,” The Mentor spoke. “Keeper Dumbledore made his way down here, and for some reason, started a new magical school for all the young warlocks of the underworld.”
“...Then he purchases slaves to work in this school?” asked Crescens.
“...You could say some work goes on there, in a manner of speaking,” sighed The Tailor—he had no compunctions about the twinkling bastard—no one ordered those school clothes through his store. “I believe the rumors of what goes on at Pigpimples is the only thing that supersedes the rumors of how he ended up down here... to be honest, I dare even say he probably started half of them. For a Keeper that claims he wishes to stay out of the spotlight, he does nothing but somehow increase the talk about himself.”
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(Posted Wed, 20 Feb 2013 16:55)
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