Dowmy the Imp LV 7
-Health: Almost full.
-Ether: 13/13
-Strength: Minimal.
-Agility: Average.
-Endurance: Minimal.
-Status: Slightly sore. Excited.
"[Minor Flare]!" the creature with the squeaky voice exclaims.
Beads of sweat dampen Dowmy's bangs due to the sudden expenditure of ether; her lips go dry, she loses her breath, and a small yellow flame of concentrated power appears at the tip of the finger pointing at the target: the undead summoned by Jim.
The imp licks her lips in anticipation, but suffers a moment of doubt and looks at the crystal seeking reassurance. Jimbo asks what's wrong.
"I don't want to hurt him. He is like me."
«He's just a skeleton, Dowmy. He's not like you, and I'm sure he doesn't feel a thing.»
"Really...?"
«Yeah. Tell her, skeleton.»
The undead nods, though it's hard to tell to what extent the being has consciousness, or if it's just the Dungeon Core pulling the puppet's strings.
Dowmy fills with confidence and fires. The point of heat strikes the skeleton, and a sudden coat of fire covers it like a biting blanket. The fire lasts a couple of seconds, and upon disappearing, leaves a blackened undead still standing and capable of fighting.
Even though the spell is weak in her hands, Dowmy opens her mouth in a wide grin and quickly turns her face back to the crystal with eyes full of hope.
«For your first spell, you made it work really well, Dowmy.»
Dowmy's cheeks begin to ache from smiling so much, but she just can't help it. Jimbo dismisses the skeleton.
"Can I ask you a favor, master?" the imp asks while massaging her face.
«If it's more food, sorry, they took the mage away.»
"It's not food... Can I have a hug?"
Jimbo remains silent for several seconds, an attitude that makes the imp nervous.
«Dowmy, I don't know if you noticed, but I'm lacking limbs.»
Jimbo doesn't want to sound obnoxious; he is telling the truth and even tries to make it sound like a joke. Besides, physical affection is a sensation he isn't used to...
On the rare occasions Jim was able to form bonds with other people—whether at the orphanage, or when he won his scholarship and became independent—he shied away due to bad past experiences and took refuge in the comfortable fortress of his bedroom and PC. Such an attitude wasn't all that strange either; in the world he came from, people like him were becoming the majority. Jimbo couldn't say if that was good or bad compared to past generations, it was simply something different. He once considered renting an artificial womb to have offspring, but if he didn't have time to care for a dog or a cat, he certainly didn't have time to raise a child.
Dowmy's good spirits aren't diminished by the Dungeon Core's cynicism; she jumps, flutters, and clings to the crystal, pressing her cheek against the surface. Jimbo's sharp edges hurt her skin, but the imp insists on staying wrapped around it for a while longer.
Jim feels nothing on the outside; the crystal lacks a sense of touch. But deep inside, a strange, warm comfort blossoms.
Dowmy pulls away, returns to her spot, and thanks the Dungeon Core for everything.
«Uh, you're welcome, Dowmy. Anyway, let's get to work. A dungeon doesn't build itself!»
Jimbo decides to keep his mind busy, while at the same time telling his non-existent heart to shut up.
...
The oracle wing in the castle is located below ground level, on the opposite end from Arrax's laboratory. They also have cells, or rather interrogation rooms; they aren't meant for prisoners to stay long or be comfortable. Under the feeble light of two torches on the wall, the only furniture consists of a thick table made of dark wood and two stools of the same material. The wood's surface has splinters and the occasional stain darkened by time; the same goes for the stone of the walls and the floor. According to Laikara, those gloomy details help put visitors in context without the need to say a single word. Sometimes, just bringing a suspect into that dark corner is enough to make them start singing like a canary.
Arrax's body is laid out on the table with the head positioned near the neck. The cut dividing them was clean and expert, and Laikara is tempted to ask the stoic Hilda if she was ever an executioner. Both know she wasn't, but it's those annoying questions that sometimes reveal a person's true colors. Next to the witch stands King Marc and two hooded oracles attending the gathering, while next to Hilda stands a Marnie who can't stop fiddling with her fingers or staring at the walls as if tracking invisible cockroaches.
Laikara asks to repeat the testimonies for the fifth time. Hilda maintains her version and her composure, sometimes restructuring her sentences, but insisting on the same thing: Arrax went mad, attempted to destroy the Dungeon Core even knowing the king's decision, and on top of that, wallowed in ambitions that even led him to compare himself to the Sorcerer King.
Marnie was the weaker link of the two, but despite her constant stuttering and nervousness, her version of events remained firm: Arrax got upset when he found out the Dungeon Core was acting without his supervision, he tried to discipline the crystal, but the imp got angry and tried to attack him, escalating the situation.
"The Dungeon Core seems to hold affection for that creature," Hilda interjects. "And knowing the utter disregard Arrax felt for his test subjects, a situation like this would have been inevitable. By chance or by the blessing of the gods, I was present when it occurred and acted in response."
"You murdered a subject of the king," Laikara says, her slanted eyes fixed on Hilda, evaluating every minor facial twitch.
"I defended the interests of our majesty."
"Or perhaps you just seized the moment to rid yourself of an individual you loathed."
"Hatred leads to madness, to error, and to so many other monstrosities that I reject. I stand by my statement."
"Are you claiming you are immune to hatred, Hilda?"
"I never said that. Hatred might even be my greatest flaw. But I recognize a red line when I see one, and I stop. Arrax gleefully leaped over red lines as if it were his true calling."
Throughout the sharp argument, the king's eyes never leave Arrax's decapitated head. One of the oracles took the trouble of closing his eyelids; he almost looks asleep... if it weren't for the fact that his neck is separated from his torso and dried blood soils him. Marc closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets out a long snort. Looking back up, he faces Laikara and asks if Arrax can be revived.
"A thousand apologies, Your Majesty, but decapitation remains an insurmountable breaking point for resurrection magic," she says, casting a sidelong glance at Hilda, adding a barb. "A detail our captain here knows quite well."
Hilda remains silent. Marc slowly shakes his head.
"Hundreds of years of study and learning, and magic still has the same limits my grandfathers and great-grandfathers knew," the king murmurs, speaking more to himself than to the others in the room. "And to think it was once believed all the world's problems would be solved with a pinch of ether."
Laikara offers to use necromancy to bring back Arrax's soul, but Marc dismisses the idea with a wave of his hand.
"Arrax has suffered enough," the king says.
The monarch's words give way to a heavy silence that Hilda decides to break. She steps forward until she is one pace away from Marc. The oracles exchange uneasy glances, and Laikara whispers, preparing a word of power.
"Your Majesty, if you doubt my judgment, there is no reason for me to remain here," the captain says without a shred of hesitation, maintaining ironclad eye contact that the king returns. "I swore loyalty and accepted working for you because I recognize you as an honorable man who places responsibility above all else. I also assumed that here, on the edge of the entrance to the Underdark, I would make the best use of my skills and it would help me grow as a knight. Self-control, my ability to differentiate right from wrong, to act when the situation demands it... If all of that and my performance are deemed untrustworthy, I beg you to please dispense with my services here and now."
The captain takes a knee and bows her head.
Marc looks at Arrax's corpse again and sighs.
"First Claus, now Arrax... I do not wish to lose anyone else. Rise, Hilda," he requests, his face shadowed. Hilda stands up again, and Marc places a hand on her shoulder. "You acted with foresight and certainty, just as a knight of the order should. You and the young woman accompanying you may leave."
The captain nods and turns her back on him; however, Laikara has one final question to drop:
"What happened to Arrax's fingers?"
Hilda looks over her shoulder and sees the witch, then observes the corpse and notices the crude stumps on the left hand where the index finger and thumb should be. The captain asks Marnie about it, but the girl shrugs; she was too scared to notice two missing fingers.
"In the heat of battle, wounds happen," Hilda deduces.
The captain and the disciple leave the interrogation room. The rusted iron door creaks and shuts.