Darkest Dungeon: Notes of An Expedition

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.
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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