There is no Epic Loot here, Only Puns. - 197: A Slippery Slope

Wyin felt her bark creak in the mirror dimension. Her ‘other’ body was currently breaking apart due to the force brought upon it.

She almost casually watched as the massive plated-armor man pulled back his warhammer for one more slam but honestly, Wyin didn’t need much more than a small gentle caress to topple.

But Wyin would always prefer the other to finish with sweat and effort.

“Is it over?” the ferrety-looking archer at the back called, already readying their thousandth arrow. Spatial Quivers were a lot like spatial bags; a lie in the fact they were not bigger on the inside, but just portals to some bank service.

Not that the little archer would admit it, Wyin suspected. They all enjoyed looking smug as they pulled out an arrow for any event or foe. Wyin suspected inadequacy in other parts of their life.

Mostly their love life.

Oh right, she was supposed to be dying.

“Curse your soft skins,” Wyin howled as she fell back slowly with the force of an ancient oak being toppled. “Curse your out of season shoes, your awkward group love pentagon of unspoken crushes!” she wailed.

“Pent.. there’s six of us?” the mage who wielded air like a sword.

“No one likes you!” Wyin continued in the same wail.

“We do,” the woman used guns of all things. The mage turned to her with a smile which made her backpedal fast.

“As friends!” she added hastily.

Wyin could see Nu drooling from the prime Dungeon, wanting to study the woman’s rifles hooked up to different elemental crystals or plugged into wyvern hearts of all things.

Wyin could appreciate looking good and using it to kill others.

“Silence, tree. Go quietly into the night,” the healer of the group said. He didn’t use magic but had three different belts of pre-made potions and ingredients on hand to make more on the fly.

Half his bags were filled with honey or flowers from the Secret Garden. They were lucky they were in the mirror Dungeon or Luna would have had their heads on pikes.

“I’LL GO QUIETLY AS YOU DID IN THE CAVE BEHIND THE WATERFALL WITH THE GUNSMITH!” Wyin was nearly 90 degrees in her topple now, barely hanging on by the bark.

“How did you even hear us?!” the gun user demanded.

“I PAY THE PYGMY MUSHROOMS FOR GOSSIP!” Wyin finally landed with a massive crash, her focus fading from this mirror version.

“You were a tough lass, but not a bad one,” the warhammer user said to Wyin. Wyin didn’t like him, he had the stench of landing the final blow on Sir Fran. It cast an instant debuff that shrunk his likeability by 90% and shrunk other things.

The debuff was still in the ‘waiting to be approved’ stack for Delta, but Wyin was optimistic for its chances.

“Sir Fran went easy on you,” Wyin said coldly.

“Aye?” the man mused, rubbing his dirty beard.

“If my knight deemed you worthy, you would have seen true power,” Wyin huffed, one of her eyes going dark as the energy used to maintain her rapidly depleted.

“So it only gets easier from here?” the last member of their group asked. Wyin eyed them and tried to be cordial. He hadn’t really done anything but Wyin was of life, passion, growth, coughalcoholcough, and nature.

The necromancer was on the other end of existence.

He was a man. Not many good ones around.

He was pale and skinny. A nerd.

He was also a necromancer. The least offensive thing about him, honestly. He didn’t use human skeletons but a lot of animals; dogs, cats, and even some snakes. With one look, Wyin saw they were indeed possessed beings, having the original spirit instead of being mindless animated servants, and weirder was that the animals liked their master.

“Easier?” Wyin laughed thickly.

“You’ve beaten the Knight and now the Lady, but you are still a few inches short before the King,” Wyin warned. They had been entertaining, so a little hint was what they deserved other than the loot she might drop.

Wyin was leaning towards the Wood Staff of the Bird. It had a lovely figurehead. Wyin turned to the Archer, the Alchemist, and the Gunsmith. She eyed the taken honey, the plundered stingers, the shards of a pot, and a few bottles lifted without Fera’s permission.

They had other small crimes to their name since arriving, but Wyin would suspect that a lot of small crimes rapidly outshone one large one.

She suspected he would be the King of Dark Justice, but Jellagon would be no gracious host to them.

Wyin closed her eyes with a smile.

Yes, she would have to ask Jellagon in the Prime to share his vision. She would enjoy the stream of violence.

—

“Uh what is this?” the Gunsmith said with a frown as she picked up one of the three items that dropped. The Dungeon had been weird with treasure but each item they found was undeniably powerful.

The Silkgloves she found after they took down that powerful Spider Queen was both beautiful and functional, letting her grip and handle her gun recoil so much better than her leather ones. The Gunsmith definitely preferred them over the webveil the Mage got. He wasn’t ‘hideous’ but he had an unfortunate case of acne in his youth that he tried to cure with a Troll solution.

The result was regenerating pimples for the rest of his life, but he more than made up with it by being smart as a whip and able to cut steel with the air and some finger gestures.

The Pig Knight, Sir Fran, had even dropped a new hammer for their Warrior and a Pig Cloak of Blending for their Archer.

The cloak smelled like fried food, but it made the archer very hard to spot in the mud.

The tree, the ‘Wyin, the Undeniable Beauty who you will never have a chance with’ as she introduced herself, had dropped three items.

One was a sort of pistol that the Gunsmith would have used, covered in lush vines and made out of wood. When she checked its chamber, the thing was powered by a green crystal that reeked of wet earth and booze. On the side of the gun, the name ‘Lady Wood’ was carved into the barrel.

She fired it experimentally, finding a massive problem. The gun was hard to handle, even with her new gloves, and it fired a wicked thorn instead of a bullet.

That wasn’t the problem.

“Your gun sounds in pain when you fire it,” the mage frowned in concern, trying to see the issue as the Gunsmith held it at arm’s length in horror.

“Lad, that isn’t pain…” the Warrior grinned at the Alchemist who flushed.

The next item was a single arrow that had a green shaft and a deep amber arrowhead. The Archer took it, trying it out.

“Only one?” he frowned as he fired it. The arrow sailed normally enough in the air.

“Look’s good, if nothing else,” the Warrior said and the Archer watched him speaking, focusing mostly on the man’s mouth. The Gunsmith didn’t go for lots of muscle, but the Gunsmith could see the appeal.

A second later, the arrow that was buried in the earth pulled itself out and flew towards the Warrior’s face.

“Some sort of tracker!” the Archer said and used it again, focusing hard. The arrow failed to move when it was fired again. Frowning, the Archer slowly looked to the Warrior and the arrow began to tremble in the earth.

He looked at the Gunsmith and the arrow went inert.

“Oh look, you have drake arrows, beast arrows, goblin arrows, fire arrows, and now love arrows,” the Alchemist said with delight.

The Archer glared at the Alchemist and to all their surprise, the arrow wobbled just a little.

“Shut up!” the Archer warned the arrow and stuffed it away with a flush.

“We can only hunt hot bounties and monsters now, our Archer’s needs must be accommodated,” the Necromancer said pleasantly.

“I hate this place,” the Archer groaned and they turned to the final item.

It was a rock.

If the thing hadn’t appeared in a flash of light, it would have just been a rock.

“Shame we don’t have that Druid we met awhile back. He was always looking for such smooth rocks,” the Mage said regretfully as he picked it up.

“It’s not magical beyond being from a Dungeon,” he reported.

“May I?” the Necromancer asked and he turned the thing over before he focused and cracked it half with some magic. In the core of the rock was a strange set of brown patterns ringed in the stone’s protective rock.

“An ore? Could be worth something,” the Warrior pointed out as they gathered around.

“Not an ore,” the Necromancer reported and his hands glowed green as the patterns became infused. Slowly, the complete skeleton of a small bird emerged, it looked like a normal creature until its mouth formed something akin to dragon fangs.

“What… is that?” the Archer asked as the thing clicked.

“It says ‘I’m a Fossil. A super mineral infused rock with a shape of life, you’-, no sorry, I won’t be translating that,” the Necromancer said to the skeleton bird with a small smile.

“Why does it have teeth?” the Gunsmith asked.

“Maybe it’s a swan-like being?” the Alchemist guessed.

“What does it do?” the Mage asked and poked it. The bird promptly bit the finger and as the Mage squealed, it clamped on harder.

“Bite people, I presume,” the Necromancer said calmly.

“A moaning gun, a love seeking arrow, and a biting rock. This is definitely some of the weirder loot we’ve ever gotten,” said the Warrior brightly, but his eyes were trailing back the way they came.

“You wanna fight that goblin at full power?” the Archer guessed. The Warrior smiled but merely began walking to the stairs to the Third Floor.

This was the deepest most people ever got sober.

They were going to be rich, not in coin or treasure, but information and that sort of thing could be traded for some very rare privileges.

“It’s a shame this place is light on the more lasting treasures. I wouldn’t mind a few books or art to be gained,” the Mage told the Alchemist who shrugged.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“I’ll take more rare ingredients,” he grinned.

“I’ll take a challenge,” the Warrior called back, urging them on.

“I just want a gun that doesn’t moan when I jostle it,” the Gunsmith muttered. She had wrapped the thing up in one of her socks and it was still audible. It was like it was being louder because she tried to gag it.

What a weird weapon.

—

The air changed from a hot humid jungle to a cold contained breeze of castle corridors.

The Mage felt his neck prickle as if they were stepping into someplace ancient which was not normal for a Dungeon that only had four floors. Many Dungeon’s could try to emulate the concepts of old, wild, dark, and other themes, but one would gradually see past it.

There were a dozen things that a Dungeon just didn’t account for when making their floors that could ruin the illusion eventually.

But, Not this floor! It was almost like the Dungeon had found some hollowed out husk of an ancient castle this far below ground and moved in. It was possible, but he didn’t announce it since he didn’t have any evidence.

Honestly, nothing about this Dungeon was normal. In an hour, maybe two, the Mage would have to announce that he would have to head back to the entrance, mainly because the Mana was so thick it was giving him Mana Poisoning.

He hadn’t had Mana Poisoning since they got stuck on the thirty-sixth floor of another Dungeon for three days.

“Any trouble?” the Warrior asked seriously to him and the Mage had to blink for a second to refocus. He was getting sloppy.

He held out his sword hand and dispersed the air sword into thousands of smaller air currents that roamed all over the floor and walls around him. To him, they were like gossamer strings that he could ‘feel’ with. It took hours of practice for him to sort out the feedback but eventually he could sniff out holes and indents where traps could be.

It was this trick that let him predict that strange signboard near the entrance.

But It still stole one of the Archer’s arrows…

The trick was to not be too forceful or he might activate the trap with careless fumbling. He had done that once in another Dungeon, that fumble had set off a cascade of boiling water to fill the room. The Mage had felt shame about that despite his team saying that there was no such thing as a perfect run.

“Clear, but the air is weird,” he announced.

“Weird like Alchemist’s concoctions or weird like ‘smells like a terrible monster about to eat us’?” the Archer asked, getting an annoyed look from the Alchemist.

The Mage smiled. If they were outside, he would use their names and tease the Archer about the arrow, but they were in Group. So, proper mental defenses like using codenames and other business-like demanours helped them handle some of the nastier tricks a Dungeon could pull.

The Ruby Dungeon had ensured they didn’t let their minds stray to family or friends.

The Twin Dungeon showed them how it would feel to murder each other in real time with copies.

The recently discovered snake Dungeon taught them that it didn’t matter if the person in danger was their lover or someone they were upset with outside. The Team was the Team until it disbanded.

The line between rookies and the experienced was not in their destructive power, but in the way they acted in a Dungeon.

Casual names and lax approach worked on Dungeon floors one to ten, and a moderate close knit group who let arguments and personality clashes affect their work might survive floors eleven thru twenty.

They normally didn’t survive beyond that due to the team member losses, making many groups break and fall apart.

Those who could be themselves on any floor?

Those were the monsters, the Knights, and the legends!

“Thick with fumes. Nothing poisonous or we’d all be dead by now,” the Mage promised.

“Smells familiar,” he added, confused. The scent was tingling something in his memory but nothing came forth. It was almost like he was too traumatized to get that memory back .

They approached the massive set of double doors where two gargoyle statues seemed carved out of the rockwall on either side.

They stopped as both statues started cracking and shaking off excess flakes of rock and dust.

“Visitors… sober ones,” one of the gargoyles mused with a thick rounded snout and jaw. He looked much bigger than the other one which had a more draconian inspiration in his making.

“They got past Wyin? We might have to be serious,” the dragon one pointed out.

“Do you guys do riddles?” Gunsmith called, her gun readied but no one was rushing as it let the Alchemist mix bottles discreetly behind his back. The crafty man had each of his bottles marked with different raised symbols so he didn’t need to see as much as feel to use them.

“Riddles? Eh, that’s more of Doc’s thing,” the dragon one admitted.

“Not riddles, you just can’t understand science jargon,” the bull one retorted. The dragon one went to say something then clicked his massive claws as if coming up with an idea.

“I’ve got a riddle. Guess my name,” he declared.

The group stared at him.

He looked like a dragon, but that was too obvious.

“That’s not really a fair riddle,” the Necromancer pointed out and the gargoyle deflated like they punctured his fun with a sharp needle.

“You can just pass if you want. But if you want a riddle how about this then,” the bullish one grinned as he leaned down off his perch.

“What is a question you can never answer if it’s true?” the bull asked and the dragon one looked surprised.

“Where’d you learn that?” he asked curiously.

“A book, they’re this small rectangular thing with paper,” the other retorted.

“Hah. Hah.”

“Do I look fat in this, partner?” the Alchemist offered first. The Gunsmith eyed him.

“You better answer with an emphatic ‘no’,” she warned.

“Do I exist?” the Warrior announced. The Mage thought that was a good one. The Gargoyles just looked at them, so he supposed that wasn’t the answer.

“Are you dead?” the Necromancer said and the Mage thought that was both clever and fitting for his teammate. But they could answer if the Necromancer wanted them to…

Still, no response from the watching monsters.

“Are you asleep?” the Archer answered slyly.

“Usually they say yes if you’re the one asking in bed,” the Alchemist muttered, causing the Gunsmith to shoot him with a withering look.

“Or ‘your time ran out an hour ago, get out’,” the Warrior added.

The Mage thought about it and decided on his answer.

“Do you hate yourself?” he said and the rest looked at him in surprise. He flushed, but pulled his pretty spider veil down over his face.

There was a long pause.

“Well?” the dragon gargoyle asked the other.

“Oh, I don’t know the answer. All the answers were at the back and I fell asleep on page two,” the bull one admitted.

“How can you ask a riddle that you don’t know the answer to?!” The Archer demanded.

“Yeah, it was riddles like those that put me to sleep. Glad you got a riddle of your own too!” The bull one beamed at them.

“The only riddle they have is riddled with a headache, let them pass!” the dragon one announced.

The Mage was sure to be just as confused as the rest of his group.

“Oh, and my name is Dragon. You’d never have gotten it,” the draconian gargoyle yelled as they moved through the doors, watching their backs for an ambush.

Before he could respond, the Mage felt a strange pulsing of energy and he turned to see the most powerful binding magic he had ever seen over something that looked like a rounded map.

Why was the map rounded on a stand?

The world was clearly flat.

The four protective pillars projecting the magic were made of such a tough material that not even the strongest hammer swing from the Warrior or the most acidic solution from the Alchemist could affect them.

“Only one reason someone guards something,” the Gunsmith said then looked at the doors leading left, right, and forward speculatively.

Oddly, the traumatizing smell came strongly from the right door and a little from the door leading forward.

The other door didn’t smell of anything the winds could carry except very new books-

“The winds of fate say this way,” he said quickly and headed to that door.

“The winds of fate?” the Necromancer asked dubiously as he petted his new bird.

“Like how Death’s gentle hand guided you to that pet store,” The Mage said and the Necromancer was suddenly distracted by a tapestry.

The Mage couldn’t wait to lift some books. Surely, no one would mind.

—

In a dark throne room, the small pudgy form rippled as it expanded slightly once more.

The skull it wore was now properly fitting and small arms flexed. King Jellagon exhaled, breathing out green fire in short bursts.

“Poi…” he rumbled.

“Oh, I think a cleaver would be dashing,” the nearby Mharia said as she looked over the dozens of weapons she got from the Demon Blacksmith.

The king thought about it then reached down for another weapon.

A firm leather shoe with an open back to allow one comfortable to slip into.

“That’s not a weapon, that’s just something for guests to wear when they’re in the library but have boots on-” Mharia began but Jellagon focused, causing runes of power to appear on the surface of his weapon.

The Runes were an inverted Delta Symbol. It invoked displeasure, uncomfortable attention, and disapproval.

Perfect for his weapon.

These intruders did not yet deserve the sword of arrogance to fall upon.

They deserve the slipper of punishment to slip up on.