Lugubrious

Unlikely Heroes

Slow moving right now, I'm guessing due two widespread end-of-instruction tests and the like. I expect a booming resurgence in the near future, though.

Dungeon Keepers

When the biomancer at last regained his consciousness, he found himself sprawled out on the floor of a dank, musty room. On second thought, 'room' was a bit of an overstatement—the place far more closely resembled a giant paper tent stuck to what he guessed was a tree trunk. Despite being decently-sized, this chamber, dominated by alien structures and contraptions that groaned and hissed, felt intensely claustrophobic. In fact, if not for the biomancer's years amid a huge variety of nature's most extraordinary smells, he may have been nauseous. A quick look around confirmed that, for the time being, he was alone in this place. After brushing some muck from his robe, he rose to his feet and, thinking to distract himself from the stomach-churning stench, took a few steps to the nearest large object to examine it. Though the lighting was none too good, made even more so by a thick vapor in the air, he swiftly discovered that the printing press-sized object was no conventional contraption.

It appeared to be a large, sludge-colored gumdrop, anchored to the floor by a net of tendrils. From its upper hemisphere sprouted an array of prongs, like a spiked turtle's shell. When the biomancer ran a hand along its surface, the whole thing shuddered and groaned, prompting him to reel back in equal parts surprise and disgust. As he watched, one of the prongs grew from the main body outward, extending around six feet, making a pole. Stunned by the ordeal, the biomancer's mouth hung open. He was forced to retreat another step when Clotho descended from the foggy darkness near the chamber's ceiling and landed by the producer. As her wings folded into their standard cloak-and-hood position, the biomancer adopted an air of confidence and indifference to the incredible oddity of his surroundings. “Lady -if you don't mind me callin' you that- you gotta stop droppin' in like that. This whole mess already got me on my toes, but this creepy flying business ain't helpin'.”

In response, Clotho gripped the pole and yanked, revealing the outcropping to be an organic spear, ready-made for use. She turned it over in her clawed hands as she advanced forward slowly. The biomancer held his ground. “This is my Living Foundry,” she decreed, ignoring what her guest previously said. “In here we grow and harvest weapons. Just shields and spears so far, but the potential is nearly endless. One day, I envision production of specialized chitins that can be manually remodeled into armor without parallel.” Though the biomancer obviously wanted to chip in his own two cents, Clotho encouraged his silence by flourishing the spear before jamming it into the ground with some force. “Why did you and your comrades come to my home and try to destroy it?”
All the humor vanished from the biomancer's voice. “You snuffed some of ours. Or so we think. But you match Tharisse's description pretty well.”
Clotho shrugged. Her guest continued, emboldened by her lack of aggressive response. He knew she wanted information from him, which made him valuable...at least for now. “I'm also guessin' you know somethin' 'bout the Biosphere Stone.”

The Swarm Keeper tilted her head slightly and held up her left forearm, where the viridian amber she had plucked from the lead biomancer's talisman pulsed with green light. “Guilty. And I think I'll be keeping this one. Gives me a special edge.” To enunciate her point, the Stinger slid out of its hole with a low-pitched click. “Now, tell me things I don't know.”

For this, the biomancer was already mentally prepared. A mocking undertone crept into his voice as he rattled off, “Let's see, my name is Jase and I'm from Virens. 'Stead of winter and summer, Virens goes through wet and dry seasons. There's no way in hell you're messin' with it again...” At this, Clotho smirked, but didn't interrupt, “you're creepy, but hey, maybe you already knew that, and the Biomancer's Guild also does marriages. And divorces. Got everything?”
“What makes you think I won't be able to do what I please with Virens? You lot weren't exactly a challenge.”
Jase folded his arms, bedecked with a deep frown. “That was just a posse, with no popular support or financial backin' and only rumors of a single organization to go off of. You've poked the hornet's nest, sister. Virens has over 200,000 people in the city proper, not the picnic your ant men had with our posse. Take a step toward Virens as anything more than a cat burlar and you're goin' down like a roach under my boot.”

Clotho's brow furrowed in response. “You're a brave one,” she spat. “Confidence in the face of danger can be admired, but you just made a mistake. Hold still...!” Faster than Jase could move to protect himself, Clotho buried her stinger in his chest. “This hasn't been tested a lot. I'm anxious to see what the stuff can do when I'm not meddling with it.” Jase reeled back, in substantial pain, clawing at the gash in his pectoral. Apparently he surmised that he had simply been poisoned, so when his body began to visibly change shape, he was truly horrified. Any dignity he held melted at the sight of his own skin turning into a rigid, crimson, pimpled leather. As his torso swelled up into a shapeless mass, his back erupted into a mess of thorny tendrils that rooted him to the nearest surface, which turned out to be the exposed trunk of the King Tree. Three of his limbs became thick, sinewy tentacles, studded with teeth, that lashed around wildly. His last, the right arm, grew larger, and the fingers hardened and separated into short, insectoid digits. Jase's screaming ceased as his head disfigured into a vertical maw, lined with thorns. Lastly, the center of his torso erupted into a nasty yellow flower with a giant, bloodshot eye at its center.

If Clotho had still been human, she might have vomited. The scene was gruesome and disturbing -even from her own twisted perspective- though fascinating nonetheless. What intrigued her even more was the fact that this abomination was still alive, judging by its lolling eye. In a flash she drew her rapier and punctured the eye, quickly bringing death to the mutant. After turning away from the nightmare-inducing corpse, she carefully retracted her Stinger. Perhaps there were better ways to corrupt a living being than reconstitution at random. Still, more pressing matter existed. Securing the Dungeon for defense against future attacks was a must, and the grisly creature she had created inspired her somewhat. She flew from the Living Foundry to the Heart.

Status

0/3 security measure
Location: Dungeon
Dungeon: Jungle north of Saploya River, N16°W12° An incomplete and unfurnished yet vast hive spanning the length, width, and height of a massive, ancient tree in the jungle. The hive itself is constructed of a magically-created liquid that expands and hardens into a stiff, paperlike substance upon exposure to air. The main body of the hive is suspended by countless support struts that reach for hundreds of feet in every direction. The Dungeon Heart is situated at the very top of the tree. Currently has: Dungeon Heart, Myrmidon Spawner. Living Foundry, Apothecary
Forces: 24 Drone Imps, 54 Myrmidons, imp construct Scutra

Dungeon Keepers

“Fight!”

The two men advanced toward one another across the densely-packed sand. Already, both were glossy with trace amounts of perspiration thanks to the merciless desert sun, but more sweat was to come—possibly blood, too. One of the brawlers was a veteran of the arena, six feet and three inches of brazen muscle, forty years old and a terrific pugilist. His hair, ratty and curly, hung down across his ears and stuck to his moist forehead. Beneath the toned skin was a mind possessed of utter confidence in victory, and for good reason; his opponent looked to be a total pushover. The challenger had the appearance of a northerner, with ragged red-brown hair loosely tied in a queue and wan, angular features. What totally discredited him, however, was his pitiable physique: though tall, he lacked any sort of body fat, instead displayed pale skin wrapped over very visible ribs like a drape. None of the onlookers expected the bout between the wimpy foreigner and the prized champion to last more than a few seconds.

The administrator of the pit, however, watched with some interest. The only woman amidst a throng of men, the administrator stood with an elderly, oriental, crimson-robed nobleman, in the VIP section of the spectators' stands. Though normally she would have never allowed such a match to take place, her aged companion had assured him that this seemingly worthless husk of man would make for a very intriguing fight. Naturally, she didn't believe him -not any more than she had when he and the northerner had shown up one day with outrageous claims, demanding that she join them on a quest- but for once she had decided to put up with a little nonsense. It was impressive enough that these men had approached her in the first place; she'd established herself as quite the authority in Anicetus. Before she'd arrived, there were no gladiatorial pits, just unused sections of ancient ruins not claimed by the city authority. No sooner had she come, however, than conflict erupted, and fighting became overnight Anicetus's most riveting sport. As things fell into place, this woman naturally emerged as the general manager. Stockily-built, quick of mind, and short of temper, she quickly proved herself both an admirable fighter and an able administrator. Any man who wanted to take control of the pits need only battle her and win, and despite a few challenges, she remained top dog still.

Down below, several seconds of circling and sizing up passed before the first blow was struck. One brawny fist crashed against the northerner's ear, and he teetered backward. The crowd's collective apathy transformed into excitement when the man they expected to fall in a single strike pivoted around, landing a ridgehand strike to the aggressor's temple, then following up with a double punch to the solar plexus. The spectators perked up. Maybe they'd have their match after all. Amazed and incensed that his anorexic enemy had actually hurt him, the veteran let loose a wrathful barrage of punches. Almost nonchalantly, the thin man dodged or blocked them all, letting the veteran exhaust himself in his attempt to end the fight early. After the outburst, the fight resumed, but with a marked change. Every time the veteran made contact with his opponent, his strikes grew feebler, while the northerner apparently got stronger. This continued for another minute, the duel devolving more and more into a comedic show on the part of the northerner, dancing around and mocking his foe to a surprised but thrilled crowd. At last, he sauntered up to the veteran and casually delivered an upper cut to his jaw, causing him to collapse into a heap. Pleased with the totally unexpected, unprecedented victory, the crowd went wild.

The administrator was also surprised. She beckoned to the old man beside her to follow and descended to the side of the sandy arena, where the northerner was toweling off. The old man took some time to appear, walking unsteadily with the aid of a cane; by the time he did, the next match was already starting. “Maybe you were right after all,” the administrator finally grunted.

“Of course.” Though the woman was taller, stronger, and overall far more intimidating than him, the old man addressed her with callousness. “All of our abilities are severely limited, but Moros retains the ability to drain the strength of others and add to his own.”
“Always hungry,” added Moros, brushing sand from his hair. “Now do you believe us?”
“I don't know,” replied the woman, a look of worry crossing her face. “You speak of a higher purpose. Of four brothers, of three sisters. Of angels and demons and the world ending. I don't remembering anything but being human. I don't remember any sisters. I'm Eris Contiello, Dutchess of the Sand Pits. I'm not who you think I am.”
Moros put his hand to his snowy, gaunt face, massaging his eyebrows. “Looks like Sophist must have wiped her memory. Clever old bastard.”
“Must be...” the old man murmured. A wrinkled hand descended to his side, touching a green crystal that protruded from his right hip. He winced. “Regardless, you must come with us.”

At that, Eris bristled. “I'll do no such thing. Though your words may have some grain of truth to them, there's a far greater chance they're still an old sod's delusions.” Frowning deeply, the old sod in question raised his cane and smacked Eris between the eyes before she could react. In the background, the crowd suddenly roared with hype over the current fight. The previously still crowd erupted into a frenzy of jumping, swinging arms, and hollering. Eris recoiled, and as she took aim at the old man to sock him squarely in the jaw, her eyes glowed deep red. Her left hook was caught by Moros before it could connect, which only heightened her rage. She turned on him, but he pointed out at the arena, shouting “Look!”

Though Eris wanted nothing more than to floor the red-haired beanpole, she sensed the urgency of his words and looked out onto the sand, and was taken aback. Dozens of civilians had leaped into the ring, and were beating each other savagely. The sand was already red with blood, and several bodies lay still in it. As she watched, entranced by the incredible violence, the old man whispered in her ear. “Your magic is at work, sister. I'll ask you again: are you ready to come with us and help us find our kin...Fury?”

Dungeon Keepers

For a moment Clotho stood totally still, her chitinous face frozen between an expression of contempt and one of shock. Indignation seized hold of her; how dare the foolish humans attempt to hurt her, a Keeper, in her own Dungeon! A second later, though, she recovered from her rush of pride and turned away from Scutra, mind racing. Though by now the Living Foundry was definitely in production, it couldn't have possibly produced arms enough for her entire Myrmidon battalion. Still, an organized assault upon the invaders would still be effective. With no telepathic abilities, she'd have to lead the defense from the front lines. Despite the answers her quick mind accumulated, there remained several questions How many foes were there? What weapons were they employing? How closely were they grouped? She opened her mouth to interview Scutra, who attentively perked up to respond. He was disappointed when Clotho's wings stretched out instead and she shot through the roof into the chilly, thin air.

Spurred on by suppressed anger, Clotho made haste to the base of the King Tree. Long before she arrived, however, a deep orange glow evoked in her a feeling of dread. Arriving on the scene, around a hundred feet above the nearest tree, she confirmed the worst: the invaders were burning her Dungeon. Unhelpful ideas of how to prevent future scenarios like this flitted through her mind as she mentally cobbled together a plan. From her birds-eye view she got a good look at her enemies. Two distinct themes stood out to her: the somber, green-tinged robes of the Biomancers, and the dark armor and orange trimmings of the Virens city guard. A few other individuals completed the group, which she estimated to be a couple dozen. At the moment the magicians were at the forefront, summoning the easiest of elemental magics to set the hive material and wood ablaze. With no foes yet to fight, the others more or less stood idly by, though some (a goatee-sporting young man in particular) took up the task of encouraging the firebrands with vehement words. Clotho knew she would have to act immediately to momentarily stall the posse and halt the spread of the fire. At the moment the inferno was containable, limited to a few bunches of plants and hive support strands, but given just a few moments more it would proliferate itself across the entire southern side of the hive. Clotho drew her rapier and zipped forward.

She targeted the biomancers first. Flying overhead, she performed a sort of bombing run, raining down gooey liquid hive material from above to ensnare the magicians. Guessing that those she didn't drench would rush to free those she did, the Swarm Keeper then concentrated on the support strands. Darting from one to another, she severed the strands above where the fire had spread with powerful kicks and broad swathes with her blade. She made quick work of it—in less than fifteen seconds, the burning supports were cut and lying limp upon the soggy, mud-rich leaf litter that blanketed the ground beneath the King Tree's shady canopy. With the fire contained for the moment, Clotho sped toward the tree, buzzing at high pitch and remarkable volume. The imps were too spread apart to be of much use, but the Myrmidons' nest lay conveniently close. Upon reaching the nest, her alarm buzz alerted the Myrmidons, who fairly exploded from the burrow's entrance to reach her as quickly as possible. Clotho took momentary pride in the spectacle: the Myrmidons were a fearsome, splendid bunch, especially for a level-one creature. Roughly a third of them had shields and about half wielded spears, some with both and some with one or the other. Clotho barked out her orders. “Form a defensive line. Split up those of you with shields and spears. Shields in the front, row of spears behind to poke through. Watch the air for fire magic and the ground for any unusual plant growth. Those without equipment, divide into two groups. One will support the others, hiding behind the shield line to break out when in melee range. The rest of our, circle through the undergrowth to cut off our enemies' escape.” By this time, six imps had appeared. Clotho spared a moment to give them a broad command as well. “Imps, use your goo to quench any fires that begin. If faced by an enemy, retreat. Attempt to slow them down with goo if feasible.” The Swarm Keeper tapped her rapier upon her own carapace twice, making a loud clicking noise. “Now move.”

It didn't take long for the humans to recover from the gooey barrage. The failed to identify where their attacker came from or was or even who it was thanks to Clotho's speed, so instead of spending time hunting the new threat down they immediately resumed setting fire to nearby foliage and Dungeon supports. When the defensive line of Myrmidons appeared, however, they quickly ceased their arson to form a strategy of their own. They had hardly come here expecting to engage an enemy like this. As the Myrmidons approached, the magicians hurled volley after volley of fireballs at them, which for the most part splattered harmlessly against the monsters' huge shields. Some biomancers attempted to conjure up magic-infused plants, giant thorny tendrils and carnivorous maws, but the Myrmidons were quick to cut down any sudden growth before it could take root. Given extra minutes to prepare, the supernatural flora of the biomancers would have given them an advantage, but faced with a surprise counterattack the best they could manage were tripping roots and spiny burrs that failed to penetrate the Myrmidons' shells. Slowly and steadily, the ant soldiers, like the inexorable rising tide, closed in on the humans. Two adept crossbowmen succeeded in bringing down one shield-holding Myrmidon and the spear-wielder that had been behind it, but most of their bolts simply lodged in the chitin shields. As they realized their motley crew stood little chance against the organized defenses, they broke into a disorderly retreat.

Their flight came to an end when the Myrmidons sent by Clotho to flank the troop burst from the dense underbrush, tearing into the men with brutal claws and mandibles. What had once been a courageous endeavor to exact revenge for lost property and lost comrades deteriorated into a bloodbath in the matter of minutes. Only one biomancer stood his ground, a tall and dignified man who brazenly wore cornrows and a pointed goatee rather than the stereotypical baldness and beard of a learned sorcerer. The man had hitched up his robe and deftly climbed into the crook of a tree, where even the reach of the Myrmidon's spears proved ineffective. His last stand came to an end, however, when Clotho alighted on a branch next to him, rapier drawn. Seeing that he was cornered, the man threw up his hands and issued an almost comical sigh. “Damn, thought I mighta gotten away for a sec' there.” Clotho exposed her pointy teeth in a ghastly grin and leveled her rapier at her opponent's chest.

“No survivors.”

The man cupped his goatee in a callused hand, scrutinizing his soon-to-be-killer thoroughly. “Y'know, you look kinda familiar. The whole bug deal's new, but still...anyhow, wouldja hurry up and kill me already?” Clotho froze; something stirred inside her. A memory. She knew this man too. Silent seconds ticked by as yellow eyes bored into black, until Clotho chambered her rapier in preparation to strike. The man didn't flinch, but did smile as Clotho put the weapon away.

“Looks like it might be my lucky day after...ah!” His jubilation was cut short as Clotho delivered a shelled right hook to his jaw, knocking him out in one punch. She shoved him from the tree down to the Myrmidons with a foot.

“Don't rough him up too badly. He might have something I need.”

Status

Location: Dungeon
Dungeon: Jungle north of Saploya River, N16°W12° An incomplete and unfurnished yet vast hive spanning the length, width, and height of a massive, ancient tree in the jungle. The hive itself is constructed of a magically-created liquid that expands and hardens into a stiff, paperlike substance upon exposure to air. The main body of the hive is suspended by countless support struts that reach for hundreds of feet in every direction. The Dungeon Heart is situated at the very top of the tree. Currently has: Dungeon Heart, Myrmidon Spawner. Living Foundry, Apothecary
Forces: 24 Drone Imps, 50 Myrmidons, imp construct Scutra

Dungeon Keepers

The leaf litter of the jungle after a ferocious downpour proved to be a loathsome thing for a band of men, however fueled they were by rage and a thirst for revenge. Damp, smelly, and clinging at the best of times, the litter had been transformed by the incredible rain into an intolerable waste, full of perilous hazards from leeches to pits. These gaps, masked by the mud that covered them, had already nearly killed one of the members of the vindictive troop. One innocent mistake left him wallowing in the mire, where he sank with frightening speed and would have asphyxiated beneath the choking muck had a watchful biomancer not stretched out a nearby root for him to grab a hold of. Though all of the magicians present presented a carefully restrained face to their guardsmen comrades, their impatience and burning anger could easily be sensed below the tranquil veil. Biomancer and soldier alike were in pursuit of a thief and murderer, described only by the haunting gasps of the dying crone.

With only cursory details surrounding the stolen amulet and the savage death inflicted upon those who had attempted to requisition it, there were seemingly no clues to be had. Luckily, even without the emerald amber that had been the guiding star of the biomancers' enterprise, they retained much of their own magic capabilities. One such spell was persequere vitae, Trace Life. Normally used to find certain species of animal or plant among the wild hubbub of the jungle, this the frenzied, panicking biomancers quickly discovered that this enchantment could track down the specific life force present in the leader's amber. Barely had the revelation been made than an expedition chartered and two dozen volunteers, from magician to Virens guardsman to cook to pathfinder.

Several hours later, after a tiresome trek through the sucking mud and sweltering humidity of the jungle, the posse spotted the King Tree, coated with some beige substance, looming above the canopy. With the feeling of the predator closing in on its prey, the band approached the colossal, despoiled plant, preparing for battle as it did so.

-=-=-

Scutra vented spittle as he clambered up the tree as fast as his four legs could carry him. He dimly heard the roar of fire from below, and sprinted all the faster. Weaving his way through branches, leaves, and hive material, the construct eventually ripped his way through the floor of the Dungeon Heart, evoking a death glare from the Swarm Keeper who rested there. Though instantly possessed of a foul mood due to her slumber being interrupted, Clotho managed to belay any outrage. Clawing her way from the soothing confines of her cocoon, she looked down upon Scutra from her full height, with a suppressed sneer of disdain. Scutra, however, seemed both terrified and nervous, and sputtered constantly, as if he couldn't find the right words. Or as if he was waiting for her go-ahead. Sighing, Clotho obliged him.“Well, spit it out already.”

“Mistress! You...we...we're under attack!”

Status

Location: Dungeon
Dungeon: Jungle north of Saploya River, N16°W12° An incomplete and unfurnished yet vast hive spanning the length, width, and height of a massive, ancient tree in the jungle. The hive itself is constructed of a magically-created liquid that expands and hardens into a stiff, paperlike substance upon exposure to air. The main body of the hive is suspended by countless support struts that reach for hundreds of feet in every direction. The Dungeon Heart is situated at the very top of the tree. Currently has: Dungeon Heart, Myrmidon Spawner. Living Foundry, Apothecary
Forces: 24 Drone Imps, 52 Myrmidons, imp construct Scutra

Dungeon Keepers

I'd pick green were my dungeon not situated in a green area. Instead, I'd prefer dark red.

Dungeon Keepers

I'd say that Clotho's dungeon is approximately 850 miles from yours, Dawnon.

Unlikely Heroes

If Adam hadn't been staring straight at the door to the midsection of the van in a vain attempt to avoid frightening Vida -who by now he was beginning to think of as a lost cause, poor girl-, he wouldn't have seen Garret enter. As it was, even though the door opened silently, Adam jumped in surprise. There he was, in a dark, claustrophobic space with a few other freaked-out people, and suddenly an intruder garbed in black enters through some unseen passage. Even if Garret sported the face of a cherub, the darkness would have still made him seem sinister. The sudden onset of fear caused Adam's muscles to seize up; he had absolutely no idea how to handle this dreadful person.

The person, however, seemed more interested in the hygiene of whatever compartment Adam and the others were shut in. Sandman? Oh Lord, he meant him. How did he know that the harmless-looking old man had carpeted the van in sand? Adam's lips fell open halfway and then froze, a whispered "uhhhh..." escaping from between them in a very insipid way. Before he could conjure up a coherent response, another prisoner unleashed a wrathful storm of words. For a moment, Adam was relieved; hopefully, his captor, as he guessed the man in black was, would blame the other old man if he decided to get upset about his 'cleaning duties'. Personally, Adam didn't think that Patrick's enraged outburst had any merit to it, as these people were clearly professionals and Adam felt pretty sure that no cop had been watching the little Tunkhannock library for kidnappers.

He felt more concerned for the solitary woman in the van. She truly looked like a basketcase, and evoked in Adam a powerful urge to comfort her as he would have his own child. The instinct never took hold, however. Adam's sense of propriety, as well as the current situation he found himself in, kept him from trying to make her feel better. Plus, in all likelihood, he was part of what terrified her so. Instead, Adam carefully watched Garret, trying to seem inconspicuous.

Dungeon Keepers

I must compliment your work on the Compendium, Bbeast. You're jotting down stuff I haven't even bothered to properly lay out for you. Keep it up!

In other news, I am considering making my own Rogue Being. Perhaps I'll even be original this time, but ol' Geon's just so much fun. I'm also open to Clotho adopting a Rogue Being of her own, but some of the candidates so far are unlikely. The only one currently available (if I haven't missed something) is Ifrit, and four-legged fiery skeleton in a dungeon made of paper in a tree doesn't seem like a good idea for some reason.

Can't wait for Antartic Termite's entrance, though.

Dungeon Keepers

“Hold still, you're making it worse,” snarled Clotho as she wrestled the soon-to-be construct. Without its master's physical or mental capabilities, the chosen imp was having a far harder time coping with the undeveloped reconstitution venom than Clotho did. Its body twisted agonizingly, changing constantly. Its entire outer layer convulsed, seeming more liquid to the naked eye than solid, pulsating in waves of alteration. Clotho attempted to keep the gruesome abomination from tearing apart the inside of her Heart, concerned with her own safety far more than the imp's. By this point she had practically given up on it; its body appeared too horrendously misshapen to indicate the slightest hope of reeling the changes back in to something acceptable. As the changes worsened, evoking an even louder, garbled, continuous shriek of pain from the imp, Clotho realized she would have to assume a greater role in guiding the transformation.

Letting go of what might have been an arm, she stepped back before lashing out with a devastating kick. The blow stunned the imp, momentarily halting both its movement and the progression of its cancerous growth. Clotho reached forward, grabbed a hold of the living mess, and flung it into the bottom of the cocoon in the chamber's center. She then climbed into it herself. From within her sanctum, her natural abilities as a Keeper -such as that which allowed her to make creatures- were awakened, and she could more clearly direct the change of the imp. Grasping an idea, Clotho attempted to pry her way into the ongoing magical phenomenon that was consuming her imp. Altering a magical process proved far more difficult than instigating a new one, so all Clotho could really do was gently steer the wretched reformation in the right direction.

A few minutes later, she fought her way out of the soothing binds of the Heart. Her legs were weak, as she found when she first stepped down onto the room's papery floor. In fact, all of her was weak; magic to her was a stab in the dark, unfamiliar, arduous, and tiresome. When she looked down at the pitiable wreck that had once been an imp, however, it was all worth it. The new construct was still disfigured, but was also beautiful, in a way. The imp had taken on characteristics of a mantis; its body was larger, longer, and slimmer, with two pairs of legs as well as two pairs of arms. Two of the new limbs, the back two were sickles, spiny blades made for snatching, holding, and cutting. The other two formed more conventional arms, with sleek, green-tinted shell and lithe, delicate hands for manipulation of objects. Its head was vaguely trapezoidal in shape, with tiny mandibles, three milky pea-like eyes on one side of its face, and a single huge bugeye on the other. It even had short wings, which would allow it very limited flight. Random spines projected from the carapace all over its body, and its coloration was anything but coherent. The new construct sputtered, dazed somewhat by the sudden and invasive reconstitution of its body, but recovered quickly.

“Master,” it finally slurred in a barely-understandable whine. Clotho smiled; while other imps sported only the crudest semblance of a guiding consciousness, this one had its own intelligence. A particular talent that Clotho had fought hard to imbue in it was an affinity for poisons. Though fervently loyal, even dependent, to Clotho, it would be able to serve as a leader to the other imps. And unlike them, this one had some fighting ability, though natural cowardice would prevent it from becoming an adept.

“Welcome back, Scutra. I'll bet you're pretty confused about what just happened to you, but it'd better if you just forget. I have an assignment for you.” The construct perked up a bit, possessed by an innate sense to obey. “By now there should by an Apothecary in the middle-to-upper levels of this tree. Go there, and make yourself at home. Soon I'll have orders for you to fulfill. Gather ingredients from the living things in and around my dungeon, starting with this.” Clotho winced as she tore out a short strand of fiber from her cocoon and slapped it into the more delicate hand of Scutra. It examined the fibers quizzically; with some experimentation, the construct would find the fiber to be a premier source of life energy. “Now go.”

Meanwhile, three imps remained in the newly-completed Living Foundry, overseeing the large, sessile organisms designed to grow the requisite weapons for Clotho's forces. This chamber's position on the tree meant it was accessible to non-flying minions with limited climbing ability, like the Myrmidons. Already the first spears and shields were being harvested from the bizarre polyps.

Status

3/3 Drone Imp Construct
3/3 Living Foundry
6/6 Apothecary
Location: Dungeon
Dungeon: Jungle north of Saploya River, N16°W12° An incomplete and unfurnished yet vast hive spanning the length, width, and height of a massive, ancient tree in the jungle. The hive itself is constructed of a magically-created liquid that expands and hardens into a stiff, paperlike substance upon exposure to air. The main body of the hive is suspended by countless support struts that reach for hundreds of feet in every direction. The Dungeon Heart is situated at the very top of the tree. Currently has: Dungeon Heart, Myrmidon Spawner. Living Foundry, Apothecary
Forces: 24 Drone Imps, 52 Myrmidons Scutra, an Imp construct, tasked with the concoction of useful substances.

Compendium
Scutra - first construct. An outstanding imp was remolded raw by Clotho's newly-acquired Stinger. By using her Heart as a means for controlling the otherwise cancerous transformation, Clotho created an imp with several traits of the mantis, including bladed sickles, sleek shell, bulging eye, and wings. Scutra's main tasks are to lead the relatively mindless drone imps in their projects and to concoct various toxins for use in Clotho's Stinger. Unerringly loyal, but also curious, smart, and a compulsive hoarder.