Vraxious- Whispering Grotto -Dragons Lair

  The massive dragon descended from its perch amongst the cathedral's fine statuary stonework. It languidly stretched for a moment, its wings blotting out all light briefly. A deep, refined voice rumbled through the stonework as it spoke, “Ahhhhh…It has been some time since Malaketh sent me guests to be tested.” Its wings flared briefly as it dropped the last five strides to the floor, shaking the room even with its slowed descent.

  Oh my gods, it's beautiful. Not how I figured I would die, but so much better than alone in a haunted wood with a fucked-up spriggan. Vrax focused on his predator’s gaze for a moment; he knew he was colossally, utterly fucked, but he wasn’t going to just roll over and die. [Rorigar Starfall Tier-4] (lvl?) [Threat: Unparalleled]. Ha…Oh….

  The serpentine form of the creature was equal parts terrifying and sublimely perfect. Scales of a marbled white with hints of bronze around the edges armored its length. Jaws that could swallow Duchess nearly touched the ground as its tail lightly whipped against a column and its pure metallic bronze wings spread wide.

  “Glorious, aren’t I? I know you all wonder the same thing: Why, oh why would the dungeon send me to certain death….” Rorigar purred out.

  I mean, my first thought was how much mana to Adapt you, but that was a pretty close third after "Oh fuck, a dragon…"

  Vrax held his hand low towards his party to signal everyone to stay put and stepped forwards slightly towards the overpowering being. He used his most powerful skill, honeyed words: “Your resplendence! We must not be meant to fight you! What purpose would that serve, sending bugs under the mere thumb of a god?” Vrax said with a slight bow as he did his best to grovel without looking like he was grovelling.

  Rorigar’s chuckle vibrated through the room. “Good, flattery is a wise if predictable reaction to my presence, far preferable to screaming or suicidal charges. Malaketh told me to expect a special batch this time, a group that would either die ingloriously in the century or rise to become our peers in time.” He leaned in so close to Vrax that his massive breaths caused Vrax’s cloak to billow.

  Vrax as excited as he was to see a real-life dragon; they were far more myth than anything else at this point. The few that remained either kept to themselves or ruled small corners of the world. He was more focused on how to get out of this without dying. “My lord, are you the guardian to godsbane?”

  Rorigar snorted, nearly knocking Vrax over with a gust of breath that smelled of iron and electricity. “Depends on my mood. Some groups I will test in combat to see if they are worthy.” He let that sink in for a moment, an arc of lightning impossibly dancing along his fangs.

  “I get to fight a dragon?” Torvald whispered in awed excitement to Jonathan.

  “If your stupid obsession with your legend gets us killed, I will haunt your ass!” Jonathan angrily whispered back. The dragon's eyes crinkled slightly in bemusement.

  “You are all a bit fresh for that kind of test. Now...you are the Forsaken paladin that has Malaketh all in a twitter about the new toys you have been giving him?” The dragon asked, obviously already knowing the answer. Vrax started trying to formulate an appropriate answer but was promptly interrupted by a fucking dragon, so he shut the hell back up.

  “You know I can conduct these tests however I want wherever I want. Last year one party sank a pirate ship for me; the year before that someone proved they deserved to get into Godsbane by camping out in one of my many foyers for nearly a month and designing a new spell…that one was rather boring, but I did pass him.” Rorigar sat back thoughtfully, bringing claws nearly as tall as Vrax towards his chin thoughtfully. He tapped on a fang, making the most ominous bone-on-bone sound imaginable as he considered what to do with them.

  As overwhelming as all this is, I certainly wasn’t expecting the dragon to be trying to pick the most amusing way he could think of to test us.

  Rorigar tapped the ground resoundingly. “Ahh, I have the perfect options. Yes, you heard correctly; in all my benevolence, I am going to let you choose. One of the fun parts of working with Maleketh is his frankly absurd network of teleportation anchors. So pick; I can get you quite close to either, and I will observe from afar to make my judgment.” He gestured dramatically with a wing and swish of his tail.

  Everyone stood awkwardly in silence for a moment. Pick what? Are you just doing this for dramatic effect, or does every damn creature that lives for too long just start losing their marbles? Vrax wisely chose to patiently wait for the dragon to continue.

  Rorigar’s eyes flickered unkindly as he began, “You have started a kingdom and a war in the shadows. Your name is whispered in fear, and the allies you surround yourself with have all dedicated themselves to combat and carnage.” Rorigar's tone had gone from almost an amused benevolence to something darker, the tone of one predator to another. “I will send you to either foes that disguise themselves in the dishonest shawl of righteousness or those who expose their depravity to all who wish to bear witness. My task to you is either to free a town of Rembrand’s overreach or to close a splinter rift of Hellmaw.”

  Those are both awful fucking options. Where is the hunt a monster or solve a puzzle option, goddammit? And at this point I have to be missing something between the dungeon, or Maleketh, whatever he wants to call himself, and Rembrand. I feel like I'm more of an excuse for escalation.

  “May I ask a question?” Rorigar gestured for Vrax to continue. “Where is the town?” Rorigar smiled; it was a terrifying expression on him, exposing strides of immaculate white fangs that promised certain death.

  “It’s a village in the far north on the edges of the Empire of Strands and the Frost Lords’ domain. But belonging to neither of the lords Currently they are examining the villagers one by one for illegal classes.” Vrax’’s expression darkened.

  “And the splinter rift?” he asked cautiously.

  “Not near any major populations but a terrible eyesore from one of my favorite dimensional palaces.” Rorigar said while swishing his tail in annoyance. Alright, that answers absolutely no questions. I don’t even know what the hell is really in those portals other than rumors and tales. I'll take the human opponents might throw em off something fierce if I'm suddenly weeks travel north too.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  Vrax staggered sideways as a wall of unshaped mana so dense it was a psychical wave of pressure crashed down over Stereos, shattering a previously unseen crimson sigil and driving him to his knees. Rorigar moved deceptively fast, snaking his head past Vrax so he was eye-to-eye with Stereos. “While I do respect the sheer hubris it took to try that and the fact that you managed to craft a hidden casting talent. It would have taken you days to weasel deep enough into my blood to take hold, and even then that wouldn’t have been more than a nosebleed.” Vrax looked at Stereos in shock. That psycho was preparing a spell against the fucking dragon?

  “Ahh yes, I have severely underestimated your magical aptitude. My apologies…” Stereos, said meekly as the rest of his party stared daggers at him.

  “Frozen north, please!” Vrax squeaked out before anyone else could do anything and get them all killed.

  Rorigar spoke without moving from his place a hand span from Stereos. “Touch the pillar.” His tail slammed against the nearest one, and it flared into life with a white glow. Vrax nodded and grabbed Stereos by his baggy robe, practically running straight into the pillar and hoping everyone else was smart enough to be right behind them.

  The cold instantly bit into Vrax’s skin even through his armor as he rocked on his feet, briefly buffeted by a swirling white slush. Hollllyy..why do people live here?! Vrax looked down from the small cave he was in, down the side of a rocky, treacherous mountain slope covered in bladed protrusions of obsidian that might as well have been traps. Below that, at the base of a valley blanketed in snow, sat a small village glimmering with light in the misty night.

  Torvald made a few trips and flew everyone to the base of the slope, skipping the very dangerous climb from the cave. The village was just ahead, dusted in snow through a thin stand of pines. A slow, sad, haunting melody was whispering throughout the trees as they approached. Someone within the village was playing a violin for all they were worth.

  There's something really wrong here. The homes ahead had still cold chimneys on top of lovingly crafted shingle roofs. The hard-packed road winding through the few rows of homes showed almost no signs of footsteps in the snow for a village this size. And the only sounds they picked up as they crept along the edge of a home was faint laughter from the inn in the center of town and gentle crying from a stable set right next to it. What the fuck is going on here? I was expecting them going home to home, forcing people to submit to class inspections.

  Vrax peeked into the window of the nearest home. Inside he saw a comforting, lovingly tended living room. Decorated with hand-knitted green blankets and a number of children’s paintings proudly hung on walls. Well, I hope those were done by a kid because they are terrible. Vrax stopped as they rounded the corner into the plain town square. It was a square of tight brickwork with scattered snow-covered merchants' tents, all of them tightly tied shut against the weather.

  All around the square, cozy homes lay equidistant from each other, and a large town garden was placed right off the square, adding a pleasant open feeling to the street. The largest building was a four-story tavern that utterly dominated the skyline along the square. Directly in front of the tavern, a woman was bound to a stake by her hands and feet. A pair of men in gold-trimmed winter wear were piling logs around it in between taking gulps of ale.

  No, there is no fucking way they have been taking it that far.. Vrax settled his predator's gaze across the woman and then the men. [Blair Hurish Tier-1](lvl48) [Mountain Steps Witch]. What the fuck! That isn't even a banned class. Stereos behind him had gone rigid and started weaving his hands in a complex, almost wrathful pattern. Both of the slightly drunk warriors had jolted upright as if stabbed by a needle. looking around for the source of the sudden invasive feeling of a blood mage's magic worming its way into them

  “Stereos? The hell, man, we need to scout first!” Vrax whispered.

  “These ignorant, vile men are beyond diplomacy or being given a chance.” He said with pure hate in his eyes. Vrax looked to the others for support. Torvald shrugged; Jonathan looked like he agreed with Stereos.

  “Ahh, fuck, fine, just do it quietly! Then get her a mark; Torvald, stay here with Mr. "dealing with personal issues." Neutralize any paladins that might discover us; I don’t care how, just don’t be loud. Jonathan, you are sort of quiet. Come with me; I feel like the town has to be stuffed into that fucking stable.” Stereos nodded seriously and twisted his hands to the side in a ripping motion. Both of the men clutched at their chests in panic, scraping at their clothes desperately.

  “Lungs are stilled; they will be quiet,” Stereos said dispassionately as the men’s struggles slowed. They were both low-level and didn’t have the physical stats to resist the attack for long. Jonathan and Vrax quietly circled back into the homes and through the shadows, darting from low stone fences to buildings and finally crawling the last dozen strides through the snow to approach the stables, hopefully completely unnoticed.

  It was a rectangular building made of near-black planks and tarred very thoroughly to help keep the animals inside warm. Vrax shaped smite into a short blade that extended from his vambrace and, as silently as he could manage rotted a circular hole near the bottom of the wall big enough to crawl through comfortably. Inside they found a row of three large carts, each with a large prisoner transport-style cage taking up the majority of the rear. They noticeably buzzed with enchantments that nearly drowned out the quiet conversations and crying from the prisoners.

  The carts were filled with what looked like most of the town. Many held wounds that looked like they had fought back and lost badly. Bloodstains were noticeably everywhere across the straw floor. Two armored men were laughing to themselves at a table in the middle of the circle of carts. They were deep into their cups, playing a game of cards, utterly unbothered by the suffering happening inches from them.

  Jonathan’s breath hitched as a nearby mother tried to soothe a child crying in her arms. “I know, sweety, I know. Don’t worry, it will be warmer soon. It’s okay, they will bring food soon, I’m sure.” She cooed quietly, sounding more like she was trying to convince herself than the child.

  “This is fucking wrong. What are they doing? Have they completely lost their senses?” Jonathan asked in disbelief.

  Rorigar wanted us to see this. I don’t know why, but there is no way this is the first time this has happened. Burning people at the stake and kidnapping villagers—these are tales from the dark times. Rembrand has been doing something worse than power grabs behind the scenes. The dungeon and the dragon obviously aren’t fans, or else they wouldn’t have pointed me of all people straight at it.

  Vrax turned towards him, trying to keep his own spiraling anger from escaping and giving them away. “I don’t know, but we are about to find out. Then we are going to get these people to safety and make a fucking example of these zealots. Gag the one on the right.” Jonathan nodded, breaking off as they circled to opposite sides of the guards.

  Townsfolk noticed them gliding through the darkness, but none of them gave them away, simply looking at Vrax’s armored form with a mix of fear and hope. Vrax stepped past the cart's edge and lunged for the first warrior, grabbing him by the back of the neck with one hand and covering his mouth with the other. He lanced a smite downward like a plunging spear into the warrior's spine. He struggled for only a few heartbeats before his resistances were overwhelmed and his spine was severed.

  Vrax looked up from the pooling organs of the man in the chair before him to the other guard, who was struggling futilely in Jonathan’s grasp. Jonathan had both vine whips wrapped around the man's throat and was pushing his face into the table with the haft of his halberd so hard the table threatened to break.

  “You have some fucking explaining to do…” Vrax growled from his helm. The guard went still in fear as the realization that the forsaken paladin had come for him pierced through his mead-addled mind.