There is a heavy scraping sound as the ‘man’ pulls the plane over the surface of the sandstone sculpture. Coarse shavings fall to the ground and I stare at him as he moves his leathery, gray arms back and forth, running the plane over the body of the unfinished sphinx over and over. The sharp scraping sound flows out in a consistent pattern, like the heaving of a heavy breast gasping for air, like the blow of a forge bellows fueling a smoldering inferno inside. The undead craftsman looks up at me for a moment, stopping his work, but then he looks back to his task and continues running the plane along the sandstone, as he refines the body of the unmade creature.
“What are you doing, stranger?” I ask excitedly, as I watch his motions unfold, as I watch bits of yellow rock fall to the ground like fresh spring pollen, drifting along in a weak breeze.
“Workin’,” says the strange, ghoulish creature rather plainly as he pulls the plane along again.
I nod approvingly. He looks like he’s working hard. I like that. “What’re you working on?” I ask curiously.
“Sphinx’,” says the man with a rather droll tone to his voice as he runs the tool down its back, shaving off more of the rock.
“That’s pretty cool!” I say excitedly. “How come?”
“S’my job,” says the ghoul, lifting the plane up to slap it a few times to knock a bit of rock loose from the blade, before he returns it back down to the body of the creature and I nod. That makes sense.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
The plane stops for a second as he looks up at me, before turning back to his work and continuing. “S’my job.” He bends down and starts slicing away at the side of the work-in-progress monster. See, not all trash-mobs are made by the dungeon-master, guy. Sometimes they ‘move in’ to the dungeon. Other times, they’re end products, created by other trash-mobs who make them for their own personal reasons. We’re all one big, happy family. Everyone gets to contribute somehow. It’s a good thing to have, a purpose, you know? Being part of a community can give you that, if you don’t have any goals of your own to work towards, then there is the opportunity to work towards a greater, shared goal instead. You’ve got to believe in something, you know? I really think it’s important.
“Didn’t the hero-party kill you?” I ask him curiously.
The undead man just shrugs, as he keeps on running the plane along the unfinished sculpture. “Just doing my job.”
I nod. The hero-party are an odd bunch. Sometimes they kill everything that they see, but other times they just kind of leave trash-mobs alone, if they leave them alone. I don’t get it. Maybe it’s a human thing?
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” I tell the craftsman, raising a hand to wave as I walk past him. “Keep up the good work!” He grunts, as he continues his work. What a great guy. I really like him! I bet he’s going to do a lot of good work down here. What an inspiration. Smiling, I continue on walking all on my lonesome, listening to the fading sound of the breath of the craftsman slowly vanish, as I leave him in the distance behind me.
Floor uh… floor…
Floor whatever this is is mostly made out of sandstone by the looks of things. I tilt my head, looking around at the soft stone walls around me. From what I can gather, it’s a series of square chambers, interconnected by long, straight hallways that appear to have, at one point in time, been filled with traps. I lift my leg, stepping high over an already burnt through blade-trap that juts out of the walls.
But there’s nothing here now. Nothing but some leftovers and empty hallways. What an exciting adventure, I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes.
Wait - No!
I crack the lance over my head again, breaking in the top part of my skull. I’m being bad again. The dungeon-master wouldn’t have sent me this way if I didn’t deserve it. So I shouldn’t complain. This is my fault, so I don’t get to complain.
Shaking my head, I listen to the broken bone fragments rattle around for a moment, before they are pulled back up into place by the dungeon-magic that sustains me. Thanks dungeon!
The dungeon doesn’t respond.
Anyways, I bet being a craftsman is also a fulfilling existence. You get to spend your days making all sorts of fun things. Imagine how nice it must be to make other trash-mobs and to see them running around and fighting the hero? Or making traps and seeing them slice through humans? Sure, there’s a beauty to being on the front-line, but there’s also something… nourishing about that idea as well. Ah, I’m a little envious of the craftsman. I bet he likes his job. It must be nice, having a place to live and a purpose to fulfill.
I mean, I guess I have something along those lines too. So it’s not so bad, right, guy?
Yeah!
Lifting my head and my spirits, I walk a little faster as I make my way through the empty, sand-filled chambers. I really do wish the hero-party would show up though. It makes me nervous, not having them around for this long. Is that a weird thing to say? Maybe. But I guess I’m a little clingy and needy, okay? Negative attention is still attention and sometimes its the best kind of attention you can get. People look at you when they’re mad. They glare at you with their eyes fully focused and unblinking.
Maybe… maybe that’s why I’m being punished? Maybe I did something bad so that people would look at me? That sounds like something I’d do. Ugh. I’m the worst.
I wish I could remember. Ah. Oh well. What’s left to do but to look on ahead and keep on walking? I’ll find the hero-party soon enough. I’ll make things right with the dungeon-master soon enough.
S’my job, you know?
Yeah, you know.
