Darkest
Dungeon:
My ancestor's journals recollect his descent from public esteem into debauchery, obsession, and madness. His last letter to me, and any hallucinations of him I witnessed afterwards, are additional material I used in my quest to squelch the vile seepage from his estate.
I am not proud of the
bodies I piled about the grounds in my quest to redeem the family
name and save humanity from the nameless horror. But I record here
the effort of those valiant and desperate soldiers who overturned my
ancestor's horrid experiment.
The letter came to me,
calling for my swift return to the family mansion. The grandness of
it, which suffused the memories of my childhood, had vanished,
leaving it ravished and decaying. The hamlet nearby, in which I had
squandered my time with childish pursuits, seemed to cower away from
the manor as if it were a decrepit and dangerous monster.
I immediately set to work,
exhorting the villagers for aid, and they gave it (though not without
cost), knowing I sought to rescue their livelihood as well as my own.
Already one or two treasure hunters skulked about the town, sniffing
for opportunities in the rot.
I dispatched messengers to
the nearby towns, seeking further aid, and prepared my first four
recruits for their initial venture into the Ruins.
Plague Doctor Huxley,
Vestal Le Guin, Highwayman Heinlein, and Crusader Lewis ventured
first into its depths. All four of them would go onto great success,
though not all would survive the entire campaign.
The first to perish was
Plague Doctor Rhys, in the eighth week. Exploring the weald with Le
Guin, Abomination Poe, and Lewis, she died of a heart attack at the
feet of the Apprentice Necromancer, and the quest was abandoned. It
wasn't the first abandoned quest and it wasn't Rhys first failure.
She had already displayed weakness in week two when she forced the
party to abandon another quest. She was also the first to suffer
from affliction, becoming hopeless in week three.
After the week eight
failure, I didn't dare send anyone to challenge the Apprentice
Necromancer until the twelfth week. Le Guin, Heinlein, Grave Digger
Bronte, and Lewis volunteered, and they returned him to where he
belonged, the grave.
Bronte led a new group of
misfits into the weald in week 19 to slay the wizened Hag. Jester
Abbey and Occultist Pullman were nearly boiled alive in her massive
cauldron, but Leper London rescued them and defeated the witch.
Emboldened by their
success, enemy after enemy fell to the adventurers.
Arbalest McCaffery, Vestal
Rowling, Poe, and Leper Orwell diced the Swine Prince in week 22.
On their mission to
silence the Captivating Siren, McCaffery, Jester Lawrence, Pullman,
and Orwell fought off The Collector, a demon intent on adding their
souls to his stockpile. Lawrence was twice seduced to the side of
the Siren, but eventually his allies ended her song.
McCaffery, Vestal
Bronte, Houndmaster Twain, and Crusader Hardy obliterated the
Inchoate Flesh in week 25th.
In the 28th
week, Bronte, Lawrence, Hellion Shelley, and Hardy blew up the
Brigand 8 lb cannon, and the next week Bronte and Lawrence returned
to the dungeons with Twain and Farmer to quell a vision of the
Sonorous Prophet.
In the thirty-sixth week,
I discovered that the Apprentice Necromancer had been taught by a
master Necromancer who was still at large. The heroes discovered him
deep within the ruins, seeking vengeance for his pupil's death.
Daring a more deadly enemy, Le Guin, Huxley, Bronte, and Lewis
entered into his undead lair. Fortunately, they found him of little
consequence, and left only a pile of bones behind.
Two more enemies were
vanquished, the Swine King (defeated by Rowling, Lawrence, Heinlein,
and Lewis), and the Unstable Flesh who was destroyed by Bronte,
Abbey, Twain, and Farmer.
A party of novices
ventured into the Cove to defeat a new enemy, the Sodden Crew.
Vestal L'Engle, Highwayman Steinbeck, and Bounty Hunter Gaiman
defeated the drowned sailors, but in defeat they almost dragged
Gaiman under with them.
On the 48th
week a true threat appeared, and with it tragedy. A monstrous bird
known as the Callous
Shrieker built a nest on a nearby cliff, and began to oppress the village, stealing their most valuable heirlooms and artifacts. To put an end to its theft, a collection of veteran heroes, Bronte, Lawrence, Bronte, and Lewis volunteered to venture into the beast's den. Approaching the location they discovered that retreat would be impossible, as the cruel creature had built its home upon perilous cliffs. After a deadly duel, three of the brave adventurers returned with their prizes, but also a body, that of Vestal Bronte.
Shrieker built a nest on a nearby cliff, and began to oppress the village, stealing their most valuable heirlooms and artifacts. To put an end to its theft, a collection of veteran heroes, Bronte, Lawrence, Bronte, and Lewis volunteered to venture into the beast's den. Approaching the location they discovered that retreat would be impossible, as the cruel creature had built its home upon perilous cliffs. After a deadly duel, three of the brave adventurers returned with their prizes, but also a body, that of Vestal Bronte.
The first death since week
8 disturbed the troupe, which had expanded to thirty members. Each
success had spread word of glory and treasure to be won, but this
death dampened recruitment. Still, further attempts must be made.
McCaffery, Pullman,
Farmer, and Hardy killed the Hag, but Farmer was boiled alive.
Abbey was seduced by the
Alluring Siren, but was rescued by McCaffery, Pullman, and London.
Another
enemy threatened the peace of the hamlet. A brutal brigand, Vvulf,
drawn by a desire for treasure, destruction, or even more accursed
materials, attacked the hamlet and slaughtered the townsfolk. To
prevent future attacks, Rowling, Lawrence, Bronte, and Lewis invaded
their hideout, and defeated the wolf-men in combat.
With Vvulf's tail tucked
between his legs, I was able to refocus on the diabolical forces
spilling out from the Estate.
Just past the one year
anniversary of my arrival at the Hamlet, after witnessing enough
horrors in a week which would send mortal men into the insane asylum
for their life, I sensed it was time. The Darkest Dungeon awaited.
One would think it
difficult to find four willing souls to enter into such horrendous
peril for little more than a bit of gold. Certainly, some did it for
personal achievement, or because they knew it had to be done.
Veterans Rowling, Lawrence, Bronte, and Lewis agreed to go. What
they dared relate of their experience is almost unspeakable. The
deformed cultists, the monstrous effigies, and the blood, oh the
blood! Only Rowling and Lewis returned, swathed in bandages and
bemoaning the fate of their compatriots. They said Bronte died in a
billow of blood, while Lawrence they saw standing to defend their
retreat, a thousand gashes oozing his life onto the floor. But did
they really?
If the mood had been sour
in spite of the success against the Callous Shrieker, despair settled
upon the Hamlet like mist after the failure of the Darkest Dungeon.
Two of the most experienced agents were dead, their valuable
artifacts lost, and another crew needed. This hopelessness effected
all future endeavors.
Lowry died of a heart
attack and Twain was taken by the Collector two weeks later, while
Rowling succumbed to poison in week 66. The townspeople began to
mutter, “Had entering the Darkest Dungeon cursed the Hamlet?”
Recruits no longer approached the town. But failure was not an
option. And yet it failure continued.
L'Engle and London
fell in battle against the Swine God, but Abbey and Lewis returned
victorious with a hock of ham. Poe perished from a grievous wound
inflicted by a monster fish in the Cove, forcing an attempt against
the Hag Witch had to be abandoned. Morrison died the next
week, while Vestal White, Hound Master Asimov, and Bounty Hunter
Woolf found success against the Fulminating Prophet.
Eventually the tide turned, so the
strongest Necromancer, Hag, Prophet, and Siren fell to a newly
emboldened crew.
With these successes, a second attempt
was planned on the Darkest Dungeon. I decided Lewis would be the
best choice to lead the second attempt, as he had been the previous
one, and witnessed its perils. With his knowledge the chance of
success would increase. I had also picked White, and was searching
for other willing candidates when a strange event occurred. As I
stood in the center of town the night before the attempt, I heard a
terrible sound which seemed to originate at the beginning of the
universe and echo through my soul. Then, the ground began to shake
and from their graves emerged Poe and Lawrence. They bore the scars
of battle which had slain them, but the fire was relit in their eyes.
They spoke as if they knew everything which had happened since their
deaths, and immediately volunteered for the quest in the Darkest
Dungeon. Who was I to refuse their desire to seek death again?
Rather, I hoped these human and yet unnatural creatures would perish
in the attempt.
But I was overjoyed when all four
returned successfully. They had killed the shuffling horror, but
already Lewis spoke of a threat not fully vanquished. It was already
seeking to rebirth itself, to bring about universal madness.
I knew then that we had delayed too
long. If our first attempt had taken a year, our failure had caused
us to delay for forty-three weeks. We could wait no longer, for if
we did, the horror would venture forth and devour us all.
But I found that in that long time,
ninety-seven weeks of work, a strong but depleted gang had been
assembled. I begged Lewis to go in again with his allies, but he
refused to look at me, staring a the fire and mumbling words in a
language I couldn't understand. Fortunately, others were willing, or
least malleable. Only two weeks later McCaffery, Pullman, Asimov,
and Woolf returned to the Darkest Dungeon to defeat the cultists
attempting to reassemble their beast. When I asked them to go again,
they shied away from me as if I were the monster, and I knew then: no
hero would ever return to the Darkest Dungeon once they had won.
It may sound anti-climatic, our success
upon success, but I never felt victory was assured. Even when
everyone returned successfully, they told of the tenuousness of life,
how close they had come to madness, defeat, and death.
The next week, Le Guin was the second
hero taken by the Collector.
After defeating the Darkest Dungeon a
second time, a third exploration was prepared, to ensure the threat
was forever banished. What Rowling, Abbey, Heinlein, and Shelley saw
led them to believe otherwise. Something still dwelt in the
darkness. Yet they were unprepared for the grueling campaign, and
Rowling succumbed to corruption, while Shelley defended the retreat
of the others and perished in the attempt.
Their failure marked my two year
anniversary at he Hamlet, and what miserable one it was. How I
wished it was finished. But knowing the threat was arising again, we
sent another party, seven weeks later. Only Abbey had entered the
Darkest Dungeon before, but he led Vestal Potter, Abomination
Rushdie, and Bounty Hunter Salinger successfully.
And yet their report was the most
grievous, damning one yet. In spite of all our efforts, the
maddening fiend had arisen. They had contained it, but only so a
final attempt could be made. For now that it was manifest, in its
final form, it could be slain forever.
Yet the hamlet was running low on
skilled soldiers. Eventually, on the 111th week,
Occultist Dahl, Jester Fitzgerald, Highwayman Heinlein, and
Gravedigger Christie, agreed to meet their doom. The final report,
related by Heinlein (who it must be remembered had entered the Ruins
on the very first week) was nearly incomprehensible. He spoke of
visions, of the Ancestor, of space, and timelessness, of stars, and
of illusions. Of abomination and a Gestating Heart, of blood and
blight. But at the end he spoke of the Heart of Darkness. How Dahl
had healed them before giving himself so they might live. Of
Fitzgerald's songs, his solo, and his brutal finale before his final
curtain fell, and of the efforts of Christie and his (Heinlein) own
to make their companion's sacrifices matter.
Those brave, cowardly souls would not
return, but I sent others through the abandoned estate. They found
no remnants of the madness which had infected it like a sickness,
only the decay and destruction inflicted on it by malevolent forces
and abandonment, like scars. Yet I watch the men and women who
risked their sanity for the world's. I stepped lightly through the
twisting tunnels searching for clues. I know it is gone. But it has
only fled, and I will follow it. Though each battle may only delay
its victory, I will carry the torch as long as I can.
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