“Murmur is not in the business of making crappy bargains.
“I would damn my soul again for a chance to rip the entrails away from those…those…Heroes,” Kael grumbled as his rage slowed. Only Kael’s two lieutenants were dear enough to him to be sure his rage wouldn’t shift towards them by the crime of proximity, so they stood by his side at his stone throne. Probably because he was a tower of a man-well over nine feet tall-with giant’s blood somewhere on his family tree and well known for his temper. What little remained of Kael’s followers had the presence of mind to take a step away from the maddened Dungeon Lord, and not one dared to take a coin from the floor. “Those dung-eaters! Look what they did to my dungeon!” He kicked a nearby treasure chest so hard that the ancient wood splintered against his armored boot and sent guts coins and gems and trinkets sprawling like guts all over the floor. “Dung-eaters!” Kael bellowed with such force he almost broke his voice. That he met sure death with stoic scorn and a grin, that he jumped at the idea of meeting his ancestors at the gloomy halls of the Dark god Murmur.
Later, the songs would claim that the last Dungeon Lord of the Arpadel dynasty faced his end with a glorious charge against impossible odds. Only the last line of defense yet stood: Kael himself and his closest lieutenants, a score of so of his remaining monsters, the ones loyal enough that were ready to die for him, or the ones stupid enough that they hadn’t managed to escape from the dungeon that was now a death trap. His brave monsters lay broken at every passage and corridor from the entrance to his own chamber, his traps were defeated, his magic was spent and dry.
Egan of Bookfly Design.ĭungeon Lord Kael watched as what remained of his legacy burned to ashes.