Book 7, Chapter Volteeg + Toronto Comic Con (Patreon)

Yo, yo everyone. Normally these interlude chapters don't get their own post, but this one is the longest by far, and I thought it deserved its own little section.  Plus I wanted to get something out before I headed off to Canada for a couple of days. ~

Volteeg

Volteeg did not consider himself worthy of love.

Mistress Henspar had loved him, of course. She’d loved him, and he’d failed her.

Before the dungeon, they were the best of friends. She’d kept his cage clean. She’d allow him to perch on her shoulder while she went to the market. Volteeg had limited memories of these times before the pet biscuit. But he remembered biting the shopkeeper’s finger one day when he’d tried to feed him a berry. It’d been an accident. The shopkeeper had been angry. He’d bled. Mistress Henspar had been mad, too.

But that night, she’d still patted him on the head and scritched under his wing and turned up the fire in the hearth just how he liked it. She’d said it was okay. That it wasn’t his fault, and that Volteeg loved berries so much, he’d bitten the shopkeeper in his enthusiasm. Which was true. Mistress Henspar had understood him. She loved him. And because she loved him, she would protect him, even when he made mistakes.

In fact, the next time they entered the shop, she hid Volteeg within her jacket. She whispered to him, “Quiet now. It’ll be our little secret. They won’t see you, but I’ll know you’re here.” Then she gently put the fabric of her jacket over Volteeg’s head while he crouched on her shoulder. She gave him a pat, and went into the market, secretly stealing a berry or two and transferring them under the jacket, and Volteeg would try so, so hard not to peep in excitement. He felt so loved, so protected he could just burst.

When he felt that love, he would sing. He knew not to sing in the market, because that was a secret, and he was protecting her just as much as she was protecting him. But later, when they were back outside and his belly was full, he would sing for Mistress Henspar. He would sit on her shoulder and sing, and she would have salty-tasting tears spring down her cheeks.

It wasn’t until later, his body transformed as he stood over her, screaming, trying to protect her from the scags, did he finally realize he never deserved that affection.

You’re supposed to protect those you love.

The pet biscuit had been a curse, but changing his race had been the worst decision of all. The biscuit had given him some intelligence and the ability to speak, but not much else. It wasn’t until the third floor, when he chose to turn into a gargoyle, did his brain finally start to churn. Did the images start to make sense in his mind. Did the strategies coalesce, and his sense of self finally take form.

He’d chosen a race that could not sing. Not like before, and that was such a terrible, terrible mistake.

The world, which had been so simple, so black and white, had slowly, slowly turned into something bigger, scarier, and much more complicated than his old brain could possibly comprehend. That was the price of the pet biscuit and of changing his race. It was one of those things you just couldn’t take back. You can’t unknow the universe any more than you can unbite the shopkeeper or you can turn back time and stop a crossbow bolt from shattering everything you’ve ever held dear.

Mistress Henspar had died on the seventh floor. That’s when the anger at their situation had really taken hold. Before that, while she was still alive, Volteeg had still been young. Immature. The range of emotions he’d felt had been mostly fear and bewilderment at how big the world suddenly was.

And then, she’d died, and he was all alone. He wasn’t scared any more after that.

The rage.

The rage.

The cookbook came to him, then.

He hadn’t been thinking correctly at the time. He hadn’t even noticed the hidden words on the seemingly-useless prayer cast projection. It wasn’t until the very first days of the 9th did he finally see the messages hidden within.

He’d spent most of Faction Wars in hiding, like the rest. What could one do? But he read the notes in the projection. And the rage grew, along with his sense of impotence. It was too late. It was the ninth floor, and he couldn’t even pop his head up, lest he get hit by the Conscription spell.

So, he hid. And in his hiding place, as he read the words of those who came before him, he felt nothing but shame. He’d failed her. And after, he’d been given this powerful tool, but still, he’d done nothing with it. He told himself it had come to him too late. It was only then, at the very end of the ninth floor, as the orc armies roared in victory did he finally make his one and only entry into the book.

~

He’d taken the first deal they’d offered him on the 10th floor. Unprotected NPC guard in a combat-based, external guild for 26 seasons. Low chance of survival, they’d said. He’d taken the NPC role, and despite the odds, he’d managed to survive without ever having to fight, let alone kill, a single crawler. One of the few good things about being a gargoyle was that nobody actually wanted to fight you.

These were the numb times. This was another good thing about his race. He could sleep for long periods, and nobody would ever know. On the rare occasion he did dream, he only dreamt of berries and fire and the warmth of the hearth back when it was all so simple.

~

Upon exit, he’d found the Outreach guild. Suddenly, the magical properties of his adopted race didn’t work anymore. Not outside the dungeon. That was something they didn’t tell you when you changed your body. They changed you, and they couldn’t change you back. He could no longer sleep for long periods of time. He could no longer turn his skin to stone and just disappear. If he spent too much time in a place with gravity heavier than half of his original planet, he would start to collapse in on himself. Not without a brace

So they’d helped him get a job where he never had to go down a gravity well ever again: Security working on the Auditor General’s compliance barge, moving from system to system, watching the Operatics fart and gurgle with glee as they bombed settlements back to oblivion if they couldn’t pay their mortgages.

Most of his co-workers were like himself. They called themselves the One-Offs. Unique, former crawlers who had no home and had physical issues outside the dungeon. His two partners and only real friends were a wheelchair-bound djinn and a former-human “cave fairy” who couldn’t fly and would get severe burns if she was exposed too long to most UV light.

Volteeg was glad neither of them had come to the Earth system. That they hadn’t been dragged down to the surface to fight against the crawlers. Especially if what Princess Formidable had said was true. That they were all going to die anyway.

Volteeg was here now, on the surface. Weeper Commander Volteeg for the Operatic Society. His racial abilities had, thankfully, been returned to him. He hadn’t been dragged away to the Bone Clan like all the other former-crawler-turned-mercenaries. That was Porthus’ doing. Volteeg had entered the dungeon as a pet. That gave him a slightly-different designation on the form, and someone working for the Pacifist Network, someone imbedded deep, deep in the bureaucratic quagmire of the Syndicate had changed the code on that designation to make it appear as if he was something else. They thought he was a former indentured, like the bopcas and so many others. Not a crawler. Just another refugee.

He didn’t know for certain what had happened to the segregated former crawlers who’d been stupid enough to get themselves back in the dungeon on the wrong side of the fight, but Volteeg thought it was pretty damn obvious. King Rust had suddenly jumped several levels. The purpose of the Ring of Divine Suffering was to raise stats, not levels, but that’s what happened when you fed it anyway.

You have to help, but you have to do it in a way where nobody will ever know it was you. Any research into your past, and they’ll know. If they suspect a former crawler is involved, they’ll purge the mercenaries of the few former crawlers amongst them.

For all his brilliance, Porthus had underestimated the brutality of the trapped warlords. You were wrong, Porthus, Volteeg thought to himself. The former crawlers were dead before Volteeg was ever discovered. It was too late for them.

Much good the extra levels did for King Rust, he thought bitterly as he watched Rosetta appear out of nowhere and behead the orc.

Volteeg was positioned just east of the center of the Bloc force. They only had two Weepers in the advance army. The rest were waylaid several kilometers back, and on Rust’s orders, they’d stopped their advance. What was the point? Rust had announced in light of his own daughter’s lunacy, he was going to sue for peace, whatever that meant.

Warlord Stalwart (Skull Clan. Bloc Leader): What’s happening? What’s happening?

Warlord Hortense Leadership Unit (The Operatics): Your father is dead. If you hadn’t stayed behind, you would’ve seen this yourself. That newswoman did us all a favor and decapitated him.

Stalwart didn’t answer.

Volteeg chuckled. The various Bloc factions had all been getting along until Princess Formidable made her announcement. Not only are you all going to die, but guess what? My family has been spying on you this whole time. Also, you know all that military hardware you’ve been buying from us for thousands of years? We have a button that can turn it all off with a flick of a switch. We can even make it turn against you.

Those hadn’t been her exact words, of course. But that’s what it boiled down to. If by some miracle someone managed to stop Princess Formidable from blowing the failsafe, the Bloc was done after this.

Hells, it would be war outside the dungeon as well no matter what happened next.

Here, their only hope was to break the Princess Posse now while they still had some semblance of unity. That was the only way they might live.

And they’d been so confident, too. Even cowardly Hortense himself had come along, being pulled on a long, flat litter, mixed in with the correct combination of other admin personnel that made him appear to be “strong.” They’d likely done a cost benefit analysis and saw they’d achieve a .01% profit if he came in person, so that’s what they did.

Bloc Message: Warlord Hortense Leadership Unit of the Operatics has declared himself the new leader of the Bloc.

This title is being disputed by Warlord Stalwart of the Skull Clan. Voting enabled amongst the warlords.

Warlord Hortense Leadership Unit (The Operatics. Bloc Leader—Disputed.): I guess we attack.

The few soldiers of the Bone Empire already were attacking. They’d charged the moment their king lost his head. Rosetta, plus the king’s corpse, plus his mount, Carl, Princess Donut, and the mount she was riding on all disappeared in a puff of smoke moments after the charge.

Major Vee (The Operatics): Weepers, push forward! Target their bunkers!

Huggles (The Operatics): Are we really doing this bullshit? Can’t we, you know, just go back and wait to die?

Major Vee (The Operatics): You have your goddamned orders. Now move.

Volteeg popped his head out the top of the tank, looked around to assess the placement of the others, including the other tank and the litter carrying the fat pile of goo that was Hortense. The strange creature had a dozen plus shields around him. Volteeg returned to his seat and sealed the port over his head. He pushed forward, angling his vehicle toward the center of the force just as everyone else reluctantly surged forward.

He pressed a button on his console. Music started to play. It was “classical piano” music from Earth. He’d recently become obsessed with it. This was by someone named Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. It made Volteeg’s heart swell. It made salty tears run down his own cheeks. He wondered if it was similar to the music Prepotente’s owner, Miram Dom, would’ve played for the goat before he’d taken his pet biscuit.

Porthus hadn’t known Volteeg was a cookbook author when they’d first briefly met. Usually, it’s obvious. This season, Carl might as well have been screaming from the rooftops that he had the book. But since Volteeg hadn’t actually used any the recipes, Porthus had no idea. It wasn’t until recently when one who’d come later—Rosetta—had recognized his strange name. She’d told Porthus of her suspicions, and he’d asked Volteeg to his face if he was the same crawler who’d left that single entry in the book. Volteeg had told him the truth.

Why didn’t you tell me? Porthus had asked.

Because I am ashamed at my inaction, Volteeg had replied. And it was true.

Porthus had put his hand on Volteeg’s shoulder, looked him right in the eye, and said, It’s not too late to do something about it.

The Weepers had a flaw in their fire control systems. Because they didn’t want them to use magic, or a firing system that was easily exploitable by a nearby mage, each Weeper tank had a charger that would infuse a ball with energy before it was loaded into the turret and blasted out. The chargers worked fast so the volatile energy balls would only exist for mere moments before they were fired from the turret. This system allowed the tanks to pack a serious punch without being too susceptible to turning into mini atom bombs when they were hit by enemy fire...

...As long as the driver of the Weeper didn’t deliberately remove the fire control chamber which stored the round energy balls just before they’re shot out.

Each ball was about the size of Volteeg’s ugly, misshapen head. Each one hummed loudly. Now that his tank was filled with dozens of them, the sound was like that of a vesper hive. Volteeg turned the music even louder. He took one of the humming balls and put it on his lap. It vibrated, colors swirling within.

The heat of it reminded him of home.

He sang along, using his voice. He could not whistle like he used to, and his voice was like rocks being dragged against one another, but he sang the melody as he turned the tank again and picked up speed.

Major Vee (The Operatics): Volteeg, did you blow a tread? You’re off course!

Warlord Hortense Leadership Unit (The Operatics. Bloc Leader—Disputed.): Weeper Commander! What are you doing? You’re getting too close to my caravan!

Weeper Commander Volteeg (The Operatics): I know. That’s the point.

Volteeg reached down and picked up a blitz stick. He popped it into his mouth, lit it, and said to himself, “Show me Mistress Henspar.”

It would be a long time before someone figured out what had happened. Odds were good nobody would ever even remember Volteeg’s name. That was okay. He didn’t want to be remembered. He didn’t deserve love, or admiration.

But, vengeance? Yeah. He was due a little bit of vengeance.

He took a long drag, and then shoved the lit stick directly into the energy ball sitting on his lap.

Class: Tank Buttress

Race: Gargoyle

Birth Race: Sturnus

Top Level: 71

Dungeon Exit: took a deal on the tenth floor. Worked as guard at the Bulwark Guild. Exited after 26 seasons and took job as a guard for the Operatic Banker’s Federation. Eventually returned to the dungeon during Faction Wars as a mercenary working for the Operatic Society.

Author of the seventh edition of the Dungeon Anarchist’s Cookbook.

Current status: Died after deliberately filling a Weeper-class tank with explosives and detonating it in the center of the Bloc force, killing over 10,000 of his fellow soldiers with a single blast, including Warlord Hortense Leadership Unit, thus eliminating Team Two, the Operatic Society, from winning Faction Wars.~~Hey everyone! Thanks again for your continued support. I will be at Toronto Comic Con this weekend with the folks from Soundbooth Theater. Unfortunately, they don't have a table and we don't have any events except a single panel on Friday at 3 PM called "Meet the minds behind Dungeon Crawler Carl" So if you're in the area, please come and say hello! This particular chapter has been in my head for a while. There's another interlude that I wrote a long time ago I need to toss out there, but I'm still not certain where, exactly, it should come. I'm actually debating putting it up before the previous chapter I posted, which will kinda pull the punch of that chapter, so we'll see. I suspect what's going to happen is another major overhaul of the timeline. Sometimes it all feels like putting a puzzle together. Thanks again, everyone.