The guards had provided them with horses, allowing the weary adventurers to return to the temple of Lieselotte just in time for supper.
Crossing the city limits, Selvara felt a faint connection to the dungeon heart. Malvorik felt busy, likely doing alchemy or building several things at once. She could have reached out, but didn't want to disturb him. He'd know she was back. Communicating outside the dungeon took effort and mana. There would be time enough later to ask about the disturbance that got them both xp.
As they approached the gate, the stationed guard took one look at the battered priestesses, torn clothing, barely healed wounds, and the unmistakable signs of magical exhaustion, and immediately sent for the high priestess.
Moments later, High Priestess Marianna stormed down the temple stairs just as they stepped through the entrance. Her sharp intake of breath echoed through the hall as she took in their ragged state. The sight of frayed robes and half-healed cuts, clear evidence that their healing magic had been completely exhausted, sent a flicker of outrage across her usually composed features. Her expression changed into something between fury and horror. Her lips parted, and for a brief moment, Weylan was certain she was about to unleash a tirade loud enough to shake the temple walls. Then, her gaze flicked over the team again. The exhaustion lining their faces, the dried blood on their hands, the way the priestesses leaned on each other for support.
She exhaled sharply. Her fingers twitched at her sides, but instead of in an outburst, her voice was steady and firm. “You were at the heart of the scourge outbreak.” It wasn’t a question.
Weylan nodded. “From start to finish.”
Marianna made the hearth fire gesture before her chest with her right hand and offered a silent prayer to her goddess. Finally composed she asked. “And the girls? How did they do?”
Trulda straightened, despite the fatigue in her limbs. “They fought well,” she said, her voice carrying something like maternal pride. “Held their own when it counted and never once faltered in their courage.”
She glanced at the priestesses and added with a smirk, “They all leveled twice in a single night, what need I say more.”
Marianna let out a slow whistle, her expression softening. “Then you have done Lieselotte’s work well.” Her voice lifted as she turned to a nearby acolyte. “Fetch fresh robes for them all. And send for the senior healers. I want our heroes healed, cleaned, and clothed.” She gave Weylan, Ulmenglanz, and Trulda a pointed look. “That includes you.”
“But we really need to go home…” Weylan started, only to stop when Marianna raised a finger.
“I see the way you’re standing,” she interrupted. “Don’t try to pretend you don’t ache or are in desperate need of a good hearty meal. You will not collapse in my temple.”
Trulda let out a short bark of laughter and clapped Weylan on the back. “You heard her, shepherd. Time to be patient.”
The priestesses were swiftly ushered away by a flock of bustling acolytes, their exhaustion clear in every step. As Weylan and Trulda followed, they caught snippets of hushed whispers. Murmurs of "heroes" and "scourge slayers" drifting through the halls.
A quick bath and a change into fresh clothes awaited them while the temple novices worked diligently to clean and mend their battle-worn garments. The high priestess wasted no time, hurrying the process along, fully aware that they were barely staying on their feet. She even provided them with a mild stamina potion, just enough to keep them going until they reached home.
Though visibly displeased when they declined the temple’s hospitality for the night, she accepted their decision with a resigned nod. She understood. They longed for their own beds, their own space, after such a grueling ordeal.
Their freshly cleaned clothes and equipment were bundled in neat packages they carried to the bathhouse.
Weylan, Skorr, and Ulmenglanz stepped through the hidden portal in the bathhouse cellar, expecting a quiet return to the dungeon. After all, the last time they had left, things had been relatively calm. Just some new traps being planned, a few minor adjustments to the lower dungeon levels, but nothing urgent. Malvorik’s main plans had been to create some more houses in the duskgnome village.
The familiar shimmer of teleportation magic washed over them, and they emerged into the dimly lit corridors of the dungeon’s upper level. The scent of damp stone greeted them.
As well as the smell of blood.
Weylan frowned. Something was off.
Ahead, the muffled sounds of movement reached them. Low murmurs and the occasional groan of pain. As they rounded the bend into the main hall, the sight before them froze them in place.
The usually orderly dungeon was in disarray.
Duskgnomes lined the walls, tending to wounds, their usual precision hindered by fatigue. Torn cloaks, dented armor, and bandaged limbs made it clear that they had just survived something brutal.
A trio of lurkers sat in a corner, sharpening their daggers with slow, methodical strokes, their hands wrapped in bloodstained bandages. Disturbingly the dungeon seemed not to have had the time or mana to heal them yet. A small group of shrill-rats huddled together, chittering anxiously as a duskgnome tried to bind a torn ear. Even the normally skittish besps buzzed sluggishly, some missing legs, others struggling to fly.
Ulmenglanz’s eyes darkened as she stepped forward. “What happened here?”
A duskgnome looked up from where he was helping another secure a splint on an injured arm. His face was smeared with grime and blood, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders.
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“An attack,” he grunted, pushing himself up. “Krigesti raiders came down through the underground river. We barely fought them off.”
Weylan exchanged a glance with Skorr, who was already scanning the damage. “I assume you won?”
“We did.” The duskgnome cracked a weary grin. “Barely.”
A familiar, exasperated voice rang in their heads.
Skorr sighed and rubbed his face. “We’ve been gone what? Two days? And my clan looks like they’ve been in a war zone. This dungeon was supposed to be safe haven. A sanctuary.”
They had left, expecting nothing eventful. And now they had returned to find the dungeon had fought a major battle without them.
Weylan stumbled slightly, the stamina potion’s effects wearing off. He sighed. “Anything we can do?”
Weylan nodded but set down the bag of loot he had been carrying. “While we do that, have a look at our spoils. I brought back a few hoarderscale heads. Their cheek pouches…”
Weylan had to get directions from Malvorik more than once before he found the new duskgnome village house that had been built for him. It was simple, just two rooms. A study and a bedroom. The door had no lock but Malvorik assured him that no one but him could open the door.
The moment his head hit the pillow, he fell into deep, dreamless sleep.
When he woke, the exhaustion of the previous day was gone. Before even standing up, he pulled up his notifications, only now realizing he hadn’t checked them since the hoarderscale fight.
You have encountered the first recorded scourge outbreak of this century, opposed it, and survived. This is classified as a very rare achievement.
Increased skill improvements granted for the duration of the event.
XP gain increased (already calculated).
Skill Increases:
Acrobatic Dodge (Apprentice V)
Resist Pain (Layman VII)
Short Sword (Apprentice IX)
Sneak Attack (Apprentice IX)
Sword Staff (Journeyman VIII)
Minor Selectable Skill Upgrade granted. You may choose one skill at the Layman tier to advance, even if not used during the event. Amount of advancement decreases with higher current stat of skill.
Weylan blinked. Sword Staff was already at Journeyman tier? When had that happened?
He vaguely remembered reaching Journeyman tier during the Dungeon of Alchemy, but it had slipped his mind. He should have checked his notifications earlier. He’d completely forgotten to choose a skill feat. He called up his options for Journeyman Sword Staff feats:
Flowing Strikes: Gain the ability to chain movement and attacks seamlessly, making it hard for your opponent to regain the initiative.
Shadow Feint: While feinting, shadowy illusions of your weapon deviate from its actual course to confuse your target, making harder to parry your strikes.
Whirling Double Strike: Increases the speed you turn the Sword Staff, enabling you to make a second attack with the other end much faster.
Poisoned Strike: You can use poison on your weapon with no risk of poisoning yourself on accident.
There were also the usual feats that increased attack speed or damage or made it easier to pierce armor. His master had told him how to unlock the feat for underwater fighting, but he didn’t think he’d need that one.
He read every option again. He still didn’t like to use poison, but every other feat would be useful. He sighed. Who was he kidding. He couldn’t resist a feat using a shadow theme. Shadow Feint it was.
The moment he selected it, he felt the knowledge settle into his muscles, like a new instinct unlocked.
That only left the skill upgrade. An easy choice. There was one skill that was literally painful to train. He chose Resist Pain and the skill instantly went up from Layman VII to Apprentice I.
He felt like he was just at the edge for level 7, but he had no idea where to get some xp quickly.
When he joined the others, they were seated in the small tavern Malvorik had built in the duskgnome village center.
Trulda smirked at him over a steaming mug of coffee. “Finally up, shepherd?” She winked and gestured for a waitress to bring him a cup.
As Weylan sat, Trulda leaned back and stretched. “We were just talking about Wildeguard Academy. Malvorik’s been there before.”
Weylan sipped his coffee and smirked. “Any tips?”
Trulda raised an eyebrow. “Will there be revenant students?”
Weylan set his mug down, glancing at Trulda and Skorr. “So, are you two coming along, or do we part ways for a while?”
Trulda stretched, letting out a satisfied sigh before shaking her head. “Nah, the academy's got nothing for me. No magic to train, no fancy spells to learn. I’d rather stick around and keep an eye on things here. Someone has to make sure Malvorik doesn’t get caught up in another surprise attack.”
Skorr grunted his agreement, arms crossed. “Same here. I don’t have an invitation, and I doubt they’d want a brawler sitting in on their magic lessons. Besides, if the Krigesti come sniffing around again, I’d rather be here to deal with them than playing student.”
Weylan gave them a nod. He’d expected as much. “Makes sense. I’ll make sure to keep you updated whenever I get a chance.”
Trulda smirked. “You better. And if you get caught up in something ridiculous, I expect a full report. Preferably with all of the exaggerated details.”
Skorr scoffed. “Like he needs to exaggerate. You’re going to a school where magic students regularly duel each other for fun.”
Trulda chuckled. “Good point.”
Weylan felt a flutter of wings against his shoulder as Selvara, perched in raven form, ruffled her feathers. “I, on the other hand, will be accompanying my dear assassin. Someone has to make sure he doesn’t trip into a teleportation circle and end up in the middle of a volcano.”
Weylan gave her a dry look. “That’s oddly specific.”
“Stranger things have happened,” she replied smugly.
Trulda leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “So, what’s the plan, then? You just heading straight to Wildeguard?”
Weylan nodded. “Yeah, we’ve got teleportation tokens. We’ll use one at a spawn point and land right at the academy.”
Skorr raised an eyebrow. “Just like that? No long perilous journey? No weeks of travel?”
Weylan shrugged. “Nope. Instant travel. Just like when we went to the Dungeon of Alchemy. The one good thing that came with the plague and the reactivation of the spawn points.”
Skorr leaned back in his chair, nodding approvingly. “Saves a lot of trouble, at least.”
Trulda frowned. “It also means there’s no way for us to help you if you get in trouble. Which you will.”
Weylan chuckled. “Knowing my luck? Definitely.” He held up his half empty cup. “To the next adventure!”