Neck-Deep In It: A LitRPG and GameLit Series. Read online

  As the old Dwarf was completing the ritual, to his horror, Zeven saw shadowy monsters begin flooding into the town’s square from out of nowhere as Warptooth the Thunderstrike roared in fear. The misshapen dark creatures made the fur on Zeven’s nape stand on end as they leaped upon the ghostly form of Warptooth the Thunderstrike with an otherworldly hunger and began ravenously ripping out chunks of its soul. The Elite Beithir tried to escape but was brought to a stop by a massive tentacle nightmare that suddenly appeared out of thin air.

  The terror-filled shrieks of the massive serpent nearly drowned out the old Dwarf’s exclamation of agony as one of the smaller shadow beasts turned to latch onto his wrist. Zeven watched in horror as Hammertoe’s spirit seemed to be trapped before it could completely fade away. While he didn’t exactly understand what all of this meant, in that split-moment, something deep inside him seemed to innately understand that the old Dwarf’s hesitation on accepting death had somehow allowed for his spirit to be captured by the shadowy horror. Without pausing to think of the consequences of his actions, Zeven did the first thing that came to his mind.

  “Let him go!” Zeven bellowed, slashing out with the partial blade of his broken polearm that still glowed with the white of his Soul Biter enchantment.

  The shriek that the shadowy monster let out seemed to echo from everywhere and nowhere all at once as all of the dark creatures in the town’s square instantly stopped what they were doing to stare in Zeven’s direction. In the back of his mind, he instantly compared the eerie cry to something like the Fell Beasts that the Nazgûl rode from the Lord of the Ring movies but only a hundred times worse. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the rest of the dark pack threw their misshapen heads back and let out a cacophony of soul-rending cries that filled Zeven’s heart and mind with an uncontrollable gibbering terror as the old Dwarf’s voice came to his ears one last time.

  “Thank you, now run you furry fool,” Hammertoe said, his ghostly soul fading away to nothing just as Zeven’s Spirit Seeker buff suddenly expired.

  The loss of his spirit sight sent Zeven anxiously staggering backward in an absolute panic as the monstrous shadow horde surrounding him immediately disappeared from view. Before he could even think of recasting the new spell, shadowy tentacles began flashing into existence seemingly from out of midair and lashing at the spot that he’d just been standing in a second earlier. Zeven didn’t know if he had to worry about physically running into the unseen monsters around him or not. At least, that was until his glowing white claws and the broken blades of his polearm suddenly caught on something massive rushing past him.

  “Gah!” Zeven grunted out as the broken pieces of his Spirit Lochaber were instantly sent flying across the cobblestones as he was yanked into the air by his glowing clawed hands. For a horrifying moment, he didn’t know what to do. It felt as if his arms had just been yanked out of their sockets by an invisible giant as he helplessly struggled to break free of the unseen force that was inevitably carrying him back to where he’d just been standing. Seeing the mass of enormous black tentacles that were blindly reaching out for him, Zeven couldn’t help the scream of absolute terror that ripped from his lungs, when suddenly the Soul Biter enchantment on his claws expired and he was sent tumbling to the ground underneath the otherworldly appendages.

  “Must … move … now!” Zeven uncontrollably chanted over and over again as he urgently crab-walked backwards as fast as he could. To his horror, all around the town square, more and more of the disembodied tentacles began ripping through reality to blindly search for him. It was like he was living through his own private Lovecraftian Cthulhu nightmare. Flipping over onto his hands and knees, Zeven let out a blood-curdling scream as he raced for the burning buildings.

  It took every ounce of willpower that Zeven had to stop at the edge of town and look back behind him to see if he was being followed. He had no doubt that his Navy mates would’ve ridiculed him to no end for being so afraid from a virtual reality game but they could all go fuck themselves as far as Zeven was concerned. There was just something about shadowy disembodied tentacles that consumed souls that creeped him the fuck out.

  “Where in the fuck did they all go?” Zeven anxiously asked out loud as he saw that the town square was now empty of the nightmarish creatures. Looking everywhere around like a crazed cat that had eaten too much catnip and was tracking invisible flies, he urgently began to recast his Spirit Seeker buff while he prepared to race away at a moment’s notice.

  “Still nothing,” Zeven nervously muttered under his breath as he once again looked around with his enhanced vision. There was really nothing that let him know the spell was truly active unless there were spirits around to see or by glancing at the icon on his HUD that showed him that the buff was cast. “Fucking one-hour long buffs!”

  While he complained about the obvious, Zeven wasn’t really upset at the fact that The World used time-limited buffs. Though frustrating at times, that was also part of the strategic fun of playing MMO style games. It also made a certain kind of sense if you thought of spells as being powered by magic. What sucked the big one was that Zeven had just happened to be surrounded by a pack of invisible monstrosities that were slavering for his life when his buff had suddenly ended. A truly exhilarating and terrifying experience as glimpsed by the fact his heart was pounding out of his chest. Especially when Zeven didn’t have anything more than the Dirk of Torrac Tor’Narc or his natural claws and fangs to defend himself with against the horrifying shadow creatures.

  Creeping around the outer edge of the burning buildings, Zeven’s enchanted eyes searched everywhere for the shadowy monsters that had filled the town square just a few moments earlier. Though, no matter how hard he looked, there was nothing but the crackling sound of burning wood and the left-over bodies of the dead scattered across the town’s square for him to see or hear. Not that any of that made Zeven feel better about the situation. After what had to have been a solid half hour of fruitless searching, he finally made his way around the edge of the town to approach the old Dwarf’s smithy.

  Making it to the front of the sturdy building, Zeven entered through the open doorway and looked around the deserted-looking smithy. There was a number of damaged pickaxes and other tools laying around to be worked on along with a few half-finished pieces of basic armor. Seeing a sectioned off alcove towards the back that looked to be some sort of storage room, he slowly made his way over to the darkened room on padded feet.

  “BC, are you in here,” Zeven asked, starting to get a little nervous that something had happened to the Grizhawk and the children while he’d been fleeing the shadow monsters.

  “Bbwwwa grba,” Bright Claw’s familiar voice asked, as the cub’s face suddenly appeared from behind a pile of bags in the back of the room.

  “Yes, it’s okay to come out. The Beithir is dead,” Zeven said in exasperation as he let out a sigh of relief, “Hurry up, we need to find that old Dwarf’s granddaughter and the other kids to take them back to Aeroch Nor.”

  “Bbbwaaa,” the Grizhawk said to Zeven’s surprise.

  “What do you mean they’re here and that you’re guarding them,” Zeven asked, ducking his head to step into the small room as the cub loudly complained. “Yes, I know I asked you to watch over the children. No, I didn’t think they’d exactly come to you for protection. Come on, move your big ass so they can come out.”

  Slowly waddling out from behind the sacks, Bright Claw moved out of the way for Zeven to see into the small hole in the sacks of supplies the Dwarven children had climbed behind for safety. Before squatting down in front of the opening, Zeven took a moment to consider his current condition. It unfortunately wasn’t good. He was basically naked except for the heavy leather harness holding his gear, a partly disintegrating leather belt with a few leftover bits of his kilt, and the rucksack strapped to his back. Even the leather bracers around his ankles were gone.

  “Ugh, give me a second BC, I’ll be right back,” Zeven said to the
cub as he hurriedly backed out of the storage room to look for something to wear. As the Grizhawk loudly complained, he began searching for something to wear. Finding another small room at the other end of the smithy, Zeven entered the old Dwarf’s modest living quarters that consisted of a wooden bedframe with rumpled blankets, a simple desk with a stool, a basic wooden chest, and a simple lantern were all there was in the way of comforts.

  Though, what caught Zeven’s eye was the piece of rumpled wool-Tartan blanket that was haphazardly thrown across the end of the bed. It was about the only article of anything that was large enough for him to use as a wrap for his much larger frame. All that the chest had in it was an ornate breast plate, a heater-sized shield, and a matching set of metal greaves and pauldrons with a few spare sets of leather clothing sized for a Dwarf. Grabbing up the blanket, Zeven wrapped it around his waist like a kilt, using his ruined belt to keep it in place. Not that he wouldn’t probably lose both if he were forced to fight in such a getup.

  “I’m back,” Zeven announced as he hurried back into the store room. Though his fur was still a sticky mess from the blood bath he’d taken and full of questionable chunks of viscera and other smegma from his dive into the Elite Beithir skull, at least his junk wasn’t hanging out. Trying to school his features into something a little less threatening, Zeven did his best to hide his fangs behind his thick black lips as he rechecked the old Dwarf’s granddaughter’s name on the quest, before squatting down in front of the hole the children had crammed themselves into.

  “Mutoline Hammertoe,” Zeven asked, trying to soften his gruff voice as his eyes easily adjusted to the darkness. Inside he saw three young Dwarven children fearfully huddled together as far back as they could crawl in the hole, “Your grandfather asked me to escort you and your friends to Aeroch Nor.”

  “It’s a Badger Kin,” the young male Dwarf warningly hissed to the older looking female of the group.

  “Why are Beast Kin in Kragrock?” the younger female Dwarf demanded of the same older looking female.

  “How do I know that my grandfather sent you here to escort us to Aeroch Nor, Badger Kin,” the slightly older female Dwarf distrustfully asked as she met his silver-blue eyes without flinching. To his surprise, Zeven saw she clutched a simple dagger to her breast, “And that you’re not the one that slaughtered my kin?”

  “Because he made me an honorary member of the Clan of Hammertoe,” Zeven simply said, as he confirmed the female Dwarf’s name with a quick Identify. It was as he thought, she was Mutoline Hammertoe. With a slight bow of his head, he showed them the Celtic rune that was seared into the inner side of his wrist as three sharp gasps of breath came from the children. There was a hissed argument amongst them, before the slightly older girl pushed her way in front of the two smaller children and began crawling out to Zeven.

  “My apologies-” Mutoline uncomfortably paused as she realized she didn’t know his name and was hesitant to simply call him a Beast or Badger Kin.

  “My name is Zeven,” he said, unconsciously showing a tip of his fangs as he held out a clawed hand, “Zeven Al'Zaric, Chieftain of the House of Bruic Diongmhalta.”

  “I am Mutoline Hammertoe,” the simple looking female Dwarf said, as she gave him a polite curtsy, “of the Clan of Hammertoe.”

  Zeven would’ve guessed her age to be around ten years old. Though, it was hard to accurately judge with such a diminutive child, especially with her long brown hair being made up into multiple braids that were tucked into a brown leather cap. The rest of her clothing was just as simple, dark green buckskin pants topped by a brown leather tunic with Celtic-like designs woven into the sleeves and cuffs. The only true ornamentation to her outfit was a plaid tartan sash that hung diagonally across her chest which Zeven knew signified the colors of her Clan.

  As the old Dwarf’s granddaughter finished her introduction, she called for the other two children to come crawling out of their hidey-hole. Standing up behind her, Zeven saw their cute little faces curiously peering out from around her back to look him over. Both children were noticeably younger than Mutoline and were similarly garbed in simple leathers with the Clan’s matching tartan sashes. The blonde-haired girl introduced herself as Doufalynn Flintgrog with a shy curtesy, while the red-headed boy brusquely gave his name as Lokuth Kegflayer and only grudgingly bowed after Mutoline elbowed him in the ribs. With the introductions done, Mutoline gravely turned to Zeven.

  “Why did my grandfather send for you to get us? Is he being healed in the town’s square, or-” Mutoline’s high-pitched voice momentarily caught in her throat, “I mean, he asked you to take us to Aeroch Nor, so that means he’s okay,” she stuttered, “r-right?”

  “Mutoline,” Zeven said as kindly as he could while squatting down to look directly into her dark-brown eyes, “I did talk to your grandfather before and after the battle,” he paused not seeing an easier way to tell her about the loss of her grandfather, “but that’s because I have the ability to speak with the spirits of those that are passing.” Seeing the Dwarf’s girls dusty-cheeks suddenly turn splotchy red, he gently continued. “We bravely fought the Beithir together,” he nodded to the two hopeful faces behind Mutoline, “along with all of the Dwarven defenders, but I was the only one to survive the final battle.”

  “No, that can’t be,” Doufalynn cried out with a stricken look on her face.

  “You lie,” Lokuth angrily shouted as hot tears ran down his face, “they were just here a moment earlier!” Jerking away from Mutoline and Doufalynn, he raced for the doorway as the two girls desperately ran after him.

  Zeven half-heartedly tried to stop them, but what could he say? It was a brutal world and their parents had been savagely slaughtered by an evil monster that was nearly impossible to fight. While a part of him wished he could’ve cleaned up the dead first and laid them to rest before the children saw them, a part of him understood that they needed to see this for themselves. How would you feel if a stranger that you just met for the first time and which was of a totally different species than you, suddenly showed up and said you have to go with them because your family had been slaughtered in cold blood, but they wouldn’t let you see them before being buried? It was simply a no-win situation.

  “Waaa brraaa?” Bright Claw mournfully asked as Zeven stood up.

  “Yeah, they lost their family too,” Zeven said, giving the cub a comforting pat on the flank, “Come on, I’m going to need you to keep a watch over them while I … gather up the dead.”

  “Are we all that’s left of the entire town?” Mutoline asked in a hoarse voice, as Zeven walked out of the smithy with Bright Claw at his side.

  The younger children had obviously collapsed on the edge of the town’s square and were quietly crying and holding on to Mutoline as she soothingly rocked them back and forth. The small lake of bloody digestive fluids was all that was left of most of the Dwarves except for the partly dissolved empty meatsack-like corpses that were strewn about the town square. Definitely not a sight for the faint of heart.

  “I think it’s better said that the town gave their lives to protect you,” Zeven sagely said, as he squatted down next to Mutoline to look her in the eyes. Sometimes, it helped to put tragedy in the proper perspective for those that survived. “I’m going collect up the dead to give them a proper burial.”

  “Burial?” Mutoline asked in confusion.

  “Burial or cremation?” Zeven asked, not seeing any recognition in the Dwarf girl’s eyes. Rubbing a hand through the fur of his head, he tried again. “Hmm, how does the Clan of the Hammertoe respectfully dispose of those that have died honorably?”

  “Oh, we entomb the dead in the Clan’s sepulcher if a clan member dies in Aeroch Nor,” Mutoline solemnly said, before catching on to what he was truly asking, “or burn them on pyres in a situation such as Kragrock.”

  Zeven wasn’t exactly sure what to say to children in a situation such as this. It wasn’t like there were children on a Navy ship. All that Zeven could do
was think back to how he’d felt upon seeing the slaughter of Blaidd Ogof Hold. In truth, collecting up the dead and undoing the horror of what had happened to his people had mentally helped him put things in order and given him a mission. Zeven hoped that helping with the burial ceremony would do the same for these Dwarven children. Besides, as far as he was concerned, anything was better than just sitting around feeling helpless in the face of such tragedy.

  “If the three of you could help gather up the wood for the pyre,” Zeven gently said, nodding to the bundles of wood next the smithy, “I’ll work on gathering up the fallen so that we can lay them to rest before heading to Aeroch Nor.”

  For a moment, Zeven thought that he’d guessed wrong as the children began emotionally whispering together in hushed tones. He didn’t strain his ears to hear what they were saying, giving them at least that much respect. While a part of him was worried about upsetting them to the point of losing the quest, the more humane side of his soul decided it was the least he could do. Partly, that came from his own struggles with survival guilt in the past. Though, as their private discussion went on and on, Zeven was going to simply excuse himself and do what he felt was right, when the Dwarven children stood up together to face him.

  “Zeven Al'Zaric, we thank you for honoring the dead of the Clan of Hammertoe,” Mutoline said in an almost ritualistic tone, as the children bowed to him before continuing, “and would be proud to assist in the ceremony of passing.”

  “Umm, right,” Zeven hesitantly said, hoping there wasn’t a ritual response he was supposed to give as he returned their bows, “I thought we could set the pyre beside the mine’s entrance …,” he paused for a reaction before continuing, “if that’s considered appropriate.”