The Book of Dungeons - A weak to strong litRPG epic

After a few hours of work, we resurfaced with a hundred gold cylinders. “C-Belle is going to make me take another bath.”

Fabulosa snorted. “I’m overdue for one myself. Have you ever been skinny-dipping before, city boy?” When I gave her a nervous look, she burst into laughter.

Much to my relief, Fabulosa didn’t make it any weirder than it had to be. It grew dark by the time we reached the river and maintained a semblance of modesty under the black surface of the water. After scouring myself with silt and sand, I left the water first and dressed.

Without knowing what aquatic creatures lurked in the river, I couldn’t know the danger of bathing, but I didn’t want to chicken out in front of Fabulosa. Visions of leaping archaeodons still haunted me. I’d prioritize a bathtub after our blacksmith pounded out a plow.

We learned our camp sported a new well and charcoal mound. The mound of smoking dirt reached the size of a merry-go-round, and the dwarves who built it called themselves colliers.

Gunny and his team of colliers made charcoal when coal grew scarce. Beneath the dirt, a slow-burning stack of cordwood charred over the next ten days. The soil prevented the fire from burning fast and kept the rain off.

Some argued we could make a temporary plow out of wood, but we lacked the proper woodworking tools. The dwarves wanted sharper, better, and more specific chisels, axes, and hammers. Goblin tools were crude, weak, and clumsy, and the tools we brought from Belden weren’t enough to outfit a work crew. The dwarves argued about who got to use the new ones. The wish list included critical items like more saw blades and metal-working instruments. Even if Rory forged a plow, a bathtub might have to wait.

With the day’s lumber devoted to charcoal, the settlement made little progress on a smithy.

Charitybelle waved me over when I arrived at camp. She and Ally discussed something out of earshot of the rest of the camp. “Hey, Patchy! Ally and I were talking about the Dark Room. Would you mind if we invited a few dwarves to sleep inside? If we share a bunk and Fab takes one, that gives us about six empties. The lean-to got so crowded not everyone slept well.”

Without privacy, our prospects for romance waned, but communal living demanded such tradeoffs. “Sure, no problem. You want me to set it up now?” I unwound my rope, tossed it in the air, and let Charitybelle show Ally the space.

Ally admired the Dark Room. “Yer floor is drier than the grass and without bugs. There’s room for ten by my sight—which eases the tent’s crowding issues.”

When Ally left the Dark Room, I told Charitybelle about the worm lair. “Hey babe, guess what your man did today?”

“He washed up before dinner?”

“No. I mean, yeah—but today I brought home the bacon. And I’m not talking about the bacon-flavored worm meat we ate this morning—I’m talking about bacon.” I unveiled a gold and silver cylinder. “Fab and I pulled them from the walls of the ward worm’s lair. We found thousands of them. I’d say it’s enough to bankroll not just a magic item shopping spree but also stock whatever supplies our camp—”

Charitybelle jumped on me with hugs and kisses. “This is wonderful, Apache. Oh, thank you. This is exactly what we need!”

I told her the story about the weird white room and visions of water creatures as she examined the artifacts.

Charitybelle grinned while she listened. “Greenie and Ally will be relieved. They’ll know how to spend it best. Ally has a list of needed supplies and resources, and Greenie explained how start-up capital stabilizes a settlement.”

This operation wasn’t entirely under the control of players. Despite my misgivings, I didn’t object. Their input would be crucial. We talked about the hunters’ lodge employing a staff of tradesfolk, but Greenie and Ally fell into the category of non-player characters. I’d never put NPCs in decision-making positions in other games. I hoped it wasn’t a poor decision with prize money at stake.

Base-building in games usually embraced the spirit of a benevolent dictatorship. If players wanted a granary, a group of workers constructed a granary. If a player wished for something else, they’d build something else. Relying on the know-how of others established a new paradigm.

Fabulosa found thin daggers from the poison-wielding goblins. They helped scavenge the worm room of its precious metals when we returned the next day with Angus. Initially, we feared the dwarf might develop symptoms of onset gold fever, but the cliché proved unfounded. His reaction to the place showed undisguised amazement and curiosity—but no goldlust.

Mineral Communion eluded most dwarves because it required a research rank of 20. Angus didn’t possess it, so I explained what I saw in my visions, hoping he could shed some light on the worm’s origin.

“Dunno nuthin’ about magical cylinders, but it sounds like this room is a wee old. It’s a cinch, the soil washed down from the mountains. Erosion, ya know.”

Fabulosa blinked. “This room is older than the mountains?”

Angus furrowed his brow. “Bah! A few hundred feet of erosion is just the crust. Lass, this room is older than the continent—if what Patch is saying about the underwater beasties is true. Earth plates rise. Miros started in the sea.”

I caressed the smooth, curved wall. “I’m pretty sure it’s a resin or compound of some kind. Mineral Communion doesn’t work on it.”

Angus grunted. “Aragonite.”

We both looked at him.

“’Tis partly mineral. Wee critters, not the earth, put it together. Aragonite makes seashells, reefs, and sometimes sand.”

I once read the Appalachians used to be the highest mountains on Earth. Once jagged, like the Alps, they eroded into the low, smooth hills. Maybe the ranges around Hawkhurst used to be taller.

“And if the ward worm used to be aquatic, its age at least matched this room’s.”

Angus waved his hand. “I know nuthin’ about yer great green worm or water-critters, but I do know they wilnae be needin’ their shiny gold no more!”

Angus picked up a shovel and started piling dirt onto a canvas. When he filled the canvas with soil, he dumped it into a tunnel. Fabulosa and I pried out the elliptical cylinders.

The three of us rotated every hour to give the person clearing away dirt a break until dinnertime. The day’s effort tallied 600 liberated cylinders. We’d removed all the metal from the walls, but reaching the metal beneath the dirt and ceiling required more effort.

Fabulosa and I weren’t the only ones making progress. Rory finished chiseling his furnace. Another group used the chisels to quarry fireplace bricks for our first dwelling—a roundhouse. The dwarves didn’t use mortar to hold the bricks together. Their bricks locked the chimney together through friction and weight, doubling it to support a second story. The blueprints called for sleeping bunks on the top floor and the common rooms below—including dining tables encircling the hearth and cooking area. It amazed me that the dwarves considered this a temporary structure.

The work crew loaded the torodon carts with timber for the smithy. They carved the joints to fit together with such precision nails weren’t necessary. At first, I thought dwarves worked in all things mineral, but they disliked metal nails because wood and metal weathered differently. A wood-to-wood connection swells and contracts together, becoming tighter, not looser, over the years. While they explained the folly of metal nails, they exchanged knowing smiles as if my predictable human ignorance about construction amused them.

Angus impressed me by fashioning a tripod ladder for the ceiling cylinders. Knotted ropes held the contraption together, and he could work on irregular terrain by adjusting them.

These people knew their craft, whose quality made me feel out of my depths. The team had finished the blacksmith frame and stacked timber for the roundhouse columns, joists, and beams. It might be another day or two until they finish the components for both buildings.

When Charitybelle saw me admiring the handiwork, she ran into my arms. She asked me about my day in the way one asks when they would much rather talk about their own. I summarized the progress in the worm room.

“That’s great news! Guess what happened!”

I held out my arms with exaggerated excitement. “Babe, what did you do today?”

Charitybelle ignored my tease. “I talked to otters! Can you believe it? There is a family by the river, and I used Animal Communion to make friends! They were so cute!”

I waited for more. “Yeah? And? What did they say?”

“Oh, nothing much, but they’re so adorable. Their names are Mara and Poppy. And Mara is the alpha. She bosses Poppy around a lot, but he doesn’t mind. And one of their pups is Toby, but I forget the names of the others because Mara constantly tells Toby not to wander off.”

I waited for more big news, but the headline heralded only my girlfriend talking to river otters.

“You love your little animals, don’t you?”

She ignored my question. “Mara refused my invitation to become a Familiar since otters are pack animals and must stay together. I think otters are, by far, the most intelligent animal I’d ever talked to in Miros.”

“So, do the otters have any momentous news?”

“No. Mara patrols the river. She knows otter families along the lake and avoids their territory. I hope I have time to talk to all of them.”

With so many immediate priorities around the camp, I’m glad Charitybelle had time to talk to critters. “Did they say that they would spy for us? You know, keep an eye out for orcs or something?”

She frowned, furrowed her brow, and lowered her voice when I mentioned orcs. “They’re afraid of orcs. I’ll need to talk to Yula about hunting. The otters will have to be off-limits. You don’t think Yula would object, do you? She would never hurt the little dears, would she?”

“I’ll make sure she gets the memo.”

“Mara says the orcs sometimes paddle upriver in canoes but rarely come south. The otters avoid them, so I don’t think the orcs will hurt Mara or her family.”

“That’s a load off my mind.”

This time, Charitybelle rebuffed my teasing with a slap on the chest.

I kissed her. “It’s great we have water dogs doing recon. That’s wonderful news. Let’s go get some food.”

We ate on piles of timber arranged around the fire as benches. Rocky presented ward worm kebabs for the first time. They tasted delicious and juicy, and everyone complimented me on the meat—to which I joked that eating my enemies made me stronger.

After we filled our bellies, Charitybelle recounted the camp’s progress. Greenie performed logistics calculations for food consumption and goods. He spent most of his day tallying supplies consumed by our industrious companions. Ally supervised the workers and made sure they had what they needed. Whenever Charitybelle made a blueprint, she ran it past Greenie, Ally, and Rory. They suggested improvements and adjustments before she committed a plan to parchment.

I listened and nodded. “And what about security? We need more than Yula to patrol the territory. Fab is itching to hit the troglodytes, but we need to level up before fighting them.”

Charitybelle nodded. “I know. You two are almost double my level.” She thought for a second, then looked into my eyes. “I want you to be my lieutenant governor.”

Being a lieutenant sounded good to me. It had all the perks of being in charge, with none of the responsibility. I gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Babe, that’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

I grew comfortable playing second banana the way I helped tutor students at Belden’s academy. I enjoyed teaching and helping others, but taking or giving orders rubbed against my nature. Authority figures never impressed me. Charitybelle led out of necessity. People who enjoyed being in charge seemed flawed—like it filled an insecurity. And if someone needed to be led, they probably weren’t where they were supposed to be.

After dinner, I felt mischievous and whispered into Charitybelle’s ear. “You should tell Fab about the otters.”

“Really? Why?”

“She might need to know about them, and since she’s on patrol, she’ll need to know they’re friendly—otherwise, she’s liable to hunt them!”

Charitybelle’s smile disappeared, and her eyes narrowed. She darted a look at the unsuspecting Fabulosa, who stared into the fire, drowsy after her meal.

Without another word, Charitybelle rose and sat down next to her friend.

I spent the next half hour grinning, watching my girlfriend bend her ear while Fabulosa’s eyes glazed over.

We explored another northern route to Worm Meadow on our third day of cylinder salvaging. We found dinosaur footprints near the forest, but they looked old. Besides wandering tracks, the woods presented no evidence of immediate threats.

We spotted Yula walking the perimeter of Worm Meadow, or rather—she spotted us and changed her course toward our position.

Yula had no news about the goblins. She spent plenty of time creating a false trail and hiding ours and expressed confidence that goblins wouldn’t be a problem for quite a while.

We gave Yula our story about the troglodyte, the worm encounter, and the worm chamber. None of it seemed to impress or surprise her. She took news of Brodie’s death with a Stoic stare.

I plied her for information. “Did you know about the giant worm?”

“I do not know of such zings.”

I pressed the orc for further details. “We think this area might be off-limits for goblins if this is the ward worm’s territory.”

Comprehension dawned on Yula’s face. “Dees ees why green devil makes trail by water. Goblin cannot swim. Does not like water, but by reever ees safe from worm.”

If the goblins knew about the worm, they wouldn’t bother patrolling the area—especially after losing the iron mine. The insight further convinced me our green neighbors to the north would leave us alone.

Yula bid us farewell as we left for the tunnels. She departed for a two-day survey of Hawkhurst’s northern borders. It probably didn’t include a high-altitude tour of Iremont or anything else beyond the goblin mine. I doubted the Pentarch would receive her well.