Sepulchre of Slop: Imperfectus

Samhain be now ended, mortals—& my Samhain adventure ends beside! On our noble quest to sabotage the LLM cult: Buddug Thrice-Sighted, the Ickle Puck, & myself found the rotting heart of their temple. Some wretched multi-garch rose from the shadows to stop us; my companions struggled in its slimy tentacles, as I endeavored to destroy our target.

Success? Failure? What awaited us? Read on to find out…

Missed the first four installments? Find them right here!

When Buddug & the Puck agreed to join me, I am certain they anticipated some violence, but certainly they anticipated more normal violence. Attacks by mutants, birds, or living shadows, all normal in the dungeon-delving business. Falling boulders, sputtering blue-flames, razors swinging about, no surprise to any seasoned adventurer. E’en scuffles with guards—who earn nickels to defend the property of billionaire bosses—a tragically routine part of life for any serious questman.

But to suffer strangulation by a many-armed many-faced fiend, a wretched incorporation of ev’ry wretched corporator driving ev’ry wretched scam & crash & exploitation of the past millennium? A horrible fate. Guilt began creeping up my spine, as I blended caution & expedience while blending the final reagents for our alchemical petard.

If mixed wrongly, the device would either do nothing, or do far too much of something. Our original plan afforded me the proper six hours necessary for the operation, but I estimated my comrades might last six minutes, at most, & ‘twould be unconscionably rude to let them perish now.

I finished the mixture, & it did not explode in my face, which felt encouraging. I slid the glowing phial into the gaping jaws of the gigantic skull at the center of the room, the focus of the entire facility. All energy, all thoughts, all action, flowed through this center point. I doubted the modern leaders of the Latrocinor Lateo Mentior cult e’en knew this skull sat down here—I doubted they knew there were a “down here.” The LLM cultists seem to not know much of anything about how anything really works; they rely on coin & influence to bend the world to their will, to promote their foul machinations, but ask any of their leaders to cast real magicks, & none could so much as Produce Potato.

I waited a moment, & the skull failed to dissolve, which felt discouraging. Failure, ‘t seemed, awaited us here. Rather on-the-nose, for a sepulchre, & I hated to die in such an obvious way. I drew my wand—weak though I were, from our long journey—& prepared to use my last motes of might defending my doomed comrades.

“WHAT HAPPEN,?” gurgled the Puck, with surprising volume.

“HE BLEW IT,” gargled Buddug, at her normal volume.

Unfair, but, in the desperate struggle against the final stages of oligarchy, one must not judge one’s comrades too harshly, e’en when they curse ye with their final breaths.

As I prepared to deliver my masterfully rehearsed final words, which contained a charm that would etch them ‘pon the very stars, the many-armed multi-garch screeched from its impossible shifting mouths! It dropped my teammates, & began flopping about in the air, spasms wracking its unthinkable body. I looked back at the skull; it glowed sickly green, like the phial, & I saw cracks forming.

I looked down at Buddug & the Puck, feeling justifiably smug.

“Not dead,” coughed the Puck, which I took as an apology.

Buddug seemed too busy catching her breath to offer comment, but I knew in my heart, she felt as apologetic as our little green friend.

As the skull sank into dust, I could swear I heard it whisper, in words so ancient e’en I knew them not. The chamber began to crumble; I flicked my wrists, to conjure up Simeon’s Simple Shield, & we all safely watched the stones tumble down around us. Assuming my assumptions held, the constructed parts of the sepulchre would fall to ruin, leaving the natural caverns intact; I had wished to avoid further harming the land.

I had not, howe’er, accounted for something else revealing itself. A most ancient layer, the true bedrock. A throne rose from the tumbling stones, & the skull’s dust swirled, forming into a full skeleton sat upon the throne, gripping a golden crown. At its feet, a chest, overflowing with gold.

“What—who are ye,?” asked Buddug.

The skeleton’s head lolled around to face her, & he rose from the throne, pointing. It spake in the same forgotten dialect, which my magicks could not translate, pouring out its long-dead heart in some tragically un-understood monologue.

“I wish I knew,” I whispered.

“First king, invented money,” said the Puck. “Hid down here with money, died here. Later, more greedy people used bones to build their fortunes.”

Buddug & I looked at him, with an offensive level of shock. He snorted.

“Thieving, archaeology, much overlap.”

While my mind attempted to grapple with the apparent depths of the Ickle Puck, Buddug grabbed up an ancient spear & drove it through the Coin King’s ribs with an effortless throw. He sank back upon his throne, for all eternity.

“Rotten bastard,” she spat, & none could dispute it.

We all briefly considered hauling the Coin King’s coins back up with us, but decided they likely dripped with curses too powerful to imagine. Our friendship, & the completion of our sabotage, would have to suffice as the “real treasure” on this one.

After a full day’s climb, we emerged from the ruined mouth of the sepulchre, & found a crowd of townsfolk already re-occupying the area. Recycling ruined stones, freeing remains from crystals, & discussing ways to replenish the site with trees, animals—with life.

They offered us food, water, & gratitude. We told them of our strange discoveries, our grand battle, & the true history beneath their feet.

Buddug & the Ickle Puck found some ale, somehow, & began celebrating in earnest. We could not bring back Buddug’s clan,, but she decided to settle in the new village & start a new family line.

I noticed a few ancient coins in the Ickle Puck’s pockets as he jangled about—it seems he convinced us to avoid the Coin King’s treasure, so that he might grab the only share. Considering he almost died, that felt fair.

Just as I bit into an enormous & delicious chicken pie, one of my raven-friends alighted upon my shoulder. I tucked the pie away so as not to offend him, & took the note from his beak. My heart sank; the LLM cult, far from defeated, continued to spread. New sepulchres rose each day, whether or not the local peasantry wished them to.

I looked back upon the celebrations, & decided to keep the note to myself. More battles await; more LLM sepulchres in need of sabotage. But for today, for now, this victory would suffice. Saving one village, will not save the world, but ‘tis better than saving nothing at all.

Next time, howe’er…I think I shall take some treasure on my way out.

I hope ye enjoyed this maxi-sized five-week tale! Thank ye for reading, mortals. & thank ye to all the generous mortals who can & do support our works here with coin!

I shall write ye Wednesday with information on this weekend’s faire in Kearney & our especial Behind-the-Scenes broadcast—’til then, be safe, be well, & remember, the LLM cult is not so mighty as it seems…

Cheers,
Amœnus Franco
Writer, Wizard, Cynical Optimist