Well. That happened.
Okay so… the dungeon-master isn’t exactly what I expected. I mean, I’m not disappointed I’m just… I dunno, not as impressed as I thought I would be, you know? I suppose the mental image you have of someone never really stands up to the real deal once you actually meet them in person. But they’re actually kind of a jerk, ah, bummer. At least they’re friendlier when they drink, but uh, that’s probably not great either now that I think about it. Seems like an unhealthy thing in the long-term. Also, maybe they get a little too friendly when they drink now that I’m also looking back on it from up here.
What an odd creature they are though. I think back to the small gestalt of the creator. The frame similar to that of a young human or elf, but still different. Androgynous, though maybe a touch more towards the feminine optically. Still there was something off about them, something I can’t really explain. Like, I know by looking at them that something is different compared to one of the other species of bi-pedals. But I couldn’t tell you what it was specifically. Maybe if I had a human right next to them and took a good long look. But for now it’s just a bit uncanny, tell you what.
I bet they’re drawing me a new body right now. Though uh, that makes things complicated now that I think about that too. Does that mean the dungeon-master I just met is still sitting there at the table drawing? Is the elf still there holding my dried out ooze body? Does that mean the time-line I died in is still there? Still going forward, just without me? I suppose the respawn is what triggers the reset. I’ll have to ask the dungeon-master, but I think that’s how it works.
Ugh, I bet the thief is doing something creepy with my body. Poor ooze. I hope you don’t suffer in the horrible eye-slug place. Wait. Didn’t the dungeon-master say something about that? Hmm… it’s already going blurry, that fresh memory from literally a few minutes ago technically speaking. I really do have a bad case of goo-brain, guy. I can’t help it. I’m sick in the head, or so I’m told. Not that I believe that, but the thief sure does now. There’s an irony in that, obviously. Gotta hand it to the boss, that was a real slick move. If she stops hounding me to the ends of the world and stops killing everything I love and hold dear, namely myself, then maybe I have a real shot at getting out of here.
Maybe it would be in my best interests to play along. To play the game. To climb as many floors as I can as fast as I can with the thief’s help. She seems to be on-board with the idea, not that she was really that hard to convince. Aren’t thieves supposed to be cunning? I guess love really does make you blind. At this point, I feel like that word should make me shudder, if only just for dramatic emphasis. But I don’t have a body, so let’s just pretend I did, okay? Okay.
I float. You know, I still wonder where demon-miasma went to. How he managed to get out. Lucky jerk. Some of us have to take the long road I suppose. I feel like I need to talk to the thief about this topic in particular sometime, in a really serious way, you know? Like hey, I’m not the ghost of your dead hero boyfriend, I just kind of grifted his menu because that’s what I do. Maybe that will get her to just relax a little. Maybe increase the width of her personal space bubble and respect mine just a bit more as well.
Then again, she could also flip out entirely and go on a blood rampage like before. So. You know. Maybe let’s just let that one rest for a while, at least until a better time. I can picture it now, I’d be all, hey. So this is awkward, but the lance hero left this place and you at the very first opportunity he got to hightail it out of here. I’m sure it had nothing to do with you being crazy or anything, oh not at all. What’s that? Oh, yes. Please. My left kidney should be removed first, I really do prefer the right one, you know? Something along those lines. What a lovely girl she is. I guess dungeon life hasn’t been as kind to her as it has to me. Perhaps my forgetfulness is a blessing in disguise, trimming the fat and all. Maybe that’s what helps keep me in check. Maybe that’s why I’m not as uh… eccentric as the thief or the dungeon-master.
At least I don’t think I am? Maybe I am.
Nah. Nah, it’s probably fine. I’m probably fine. It’s them, not me. For sure.
Ah, there it is. The lur-
Papers shuffle all around me in a rustle as the others dart by me left and right, setting to their tasks. The dungeon-master asks much of us and we do our best to help where we can. It’s why we exist after all. To delegate, to carry out their machinations and to clamber tight to the many secrets of the dungeon. Everything about the dungeon is kept in our pages. Lazily floating out of my shelf, I look at the hustle and bustle of the others flying around the labyrinth. They fly in all directions, darting from shelf to shelf. Some seeking specific spots and pages inside the other books to help collect the information they need for whatever it is they have been asked to do. Others simply shuffling papers into different shelves in order to help optimize the flow of information.
We don’t have eyes or ears or any of that. We’re just books. But we can still see. Still hear. Good old dungeon-magic at work.