Shadowcroft Year 3 - Chapter Nine

A NEW SHADOWCROFT CHAPTER EVERY MONDAY!

Logan walked out onto the balcony of the Arena Suprema’s party room which overlooked the arena itself. He needed a break from the press of bodies and the unrelenting clamor of voices, which was loud even without the booming beat of the music.

The headmaster of Saudrian’s School of Guardians, turned out to be a sentient squid bard, named Vos Mynih, who played the drums with impeccable rhythm and impossibly good timing. No one made the SpongeBob SquarePants Squidward joke, which Logan had been expecting. If anything had permeated the consciousness of the multiverse, it should’ve been the underwater denizens of Bikini Bottom. Vos Mynih certainly would’ve been right at home.

The octo-limbed bard had created a variety of aquatic minions to accompany him, but Vos made sure that he was the loudest. It was like an EDM show meets Dante’s Inferno.

Apparently, Marko knew Vos Mynih because Saudrian’s was where his clown college was going to be hosted, and Vos had invited the satyr to play with his band. Luckily, Marko’s monstrous lute music was drowned out Vos’s nearly constant drum solo.

The mixer was in full swing, just as Professor Suresh had promised, but the Rakshasa had undersold the event just a little. This was the party of the year and the venue was packed with famous celebrity Dungeons, prominent Council members, illustrious staff, and the best and the brightest each school had to offer. One hundred-and-forty-four of the best and brightest to be exact, since there were twelve schools competing in this years’ games.

Shadowcroft himself was in attendance, of course. He was busy talking with Lolozi Webbs, the demonic spider queen who was the headmistress at Nightfall University. The same Nightfall University that had won the interschool tournament every year for the past decade. Evelyn Grimwyrm, headmistress at Crossworld Academy of the Arcane—a very respected school in its own right— lingered nearby, politely eavesdropping on their conversation. Not that she was particularly subtle in her efforts. It was hard to miss her since she was an enormous worm dungeon core with a manhole sized maw chockfull on undulating fangs.

Standing awkwardly to the side was the zombie headmaster of the Plaguebringer College of the Undead, which specialized in necrotic-style dungeon cores. Stygis Plaguebringer was the founder and the only headmaster the institution had ever known, which could explain why the school had a rotten reputation, ironic given the rot infecting the headmaster.

The competition judges were sequestered away from the participants, which was wise. They were various dignitaries from the Council of Dungeons, some smaller schools that weren’t competing, as well as a spattering of  famous guardians. Rumor had it that both Ji-Soo, from the Arcandor Initiative, and Kyvandry Spencer, a blade ghoul from Eritreus, were the celebrity judges this year. That was exciting since Logan had already had an opportunity to meet both during past fieldtrips.

From the balcony, Logan gazed down at the field itself, which was like twelve NASCAR stadiums surrounded by a hundred Marriott’s and a thousand dance clubs, restaurants, and swimming pools. It was resortsville, a strange kind of Las Vegas. The whole facility was probably the size of Beijing, or Belgium. Inga had informed him that there would be at least twelve dungeons being run simultaneously. Observation decks would be packed with fans. There were also magical screens which would capture the action. Those dungeon cores who could fly were free to float over the various dungeons because the ceiling would be transparent.

Suresh had warned him that they couldn’t get distracted by the spectators—many a dungeon core had frozen up completely under the scrutiny of the hundreds of thousands of fans both in person and watching through video crystals at home. Every magazine and newspaper would be full of news about the tournament.

Suresh was clearly jealous of the attention the students would receive. Marko couldn’t wait to give people the opportunity to love him—those were his words.

At the party, Logan saw spotted the venerable Threshing Tortoise, Zhen Ikgix, wholooked pretty good for being tens of thousands of years old. Logan had kept his true identity—the original onyx tortoise—a secret. According to Inga, Zhen Ikgix was helping manage the Apothos in the Arena Suprema, so they could create copies of Sir Rosencrantz Brandybutter and his team of raiders.

Twelve schools, twelve dungeon cores, twelve dungeons at a time. Even still, it would take four days for everyone to compete. Starting Friday morning, at 8:00 a.m., there was going to be twelve rounds, each lasting six hours, with an hour for the clean up and reset. The Crucible would run around the clock, and Marko was thrilled to be in the Sunday, 2:00 A.M. slot. Each dungeon would have three hours to create a single level, classic medieval stone-style dungeon, which was a level playing field. The simulated dungeoneers would have three hours to complete the run.

Logan was set to go last, in the Monday, 1:00 P.M. slot. That wasn’t going to help his anxiety any. Chadrigoth, in a dramatic turn events, would be going in the round immediately before him, starting at 6:00 A.M. that Monday.

Inga had been scheduled to go first, which definitely put some added pressure on her. She’d come to the pre-tournament mixer, but she swore she was going to leave early. Marko wasn’t helping her keep that promise, however. The last Logan had seen her, Tet was getting her a drink.

After Logan got his breather, he was going to head back into the action to make sure Inga went home early and got a proper night’s rest. Sure, Chadrigoth was probably going to win first place, but that didn’t mean the terrible Twelfth shouldn’t give it their all.

He inhaled and had to smile at his life. To think, just a couple short years earlier, he’d been running a landscaping business, building decks, and mowing lawns. Now here he was, being trained to help save the universe, with a mixture of monsters as his closet friends.

Speaking of which, Logan turned to see Chadrigoth toast him with a glass of cranberry juice. Unfortunately, he hadn’t advanced to A-Class, and yet, the abyss lord seemed to be as cheerful as ever.

Marko came out with his lute on his back, carrying a big mug of beer. With him was a towering white dragon, about as tall as Treacle, if you didn’t count the long serpentine tail dragging behind her.

Treacle and Inga were close behind.

“Hey, Logan, there’s someone here who wants to meet you,” Marko said, guiding the dragon over toward him. “She already met Treacle and Inga, but of course, you’re kind of famous. Not Sangretta royalty famous, but almost.”

Logan extended a hand and offered her a warm smile.

The dragon frowned and regarded the proffered limb as though it were diseased. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry, Mr. Murray, but I can’t shake your hand. I know about spores. They’re gross. But, on a brighter note, I’m so happy to meet you!” Her voice was very pleasant and soft, and yet, her ice-white eyes were as cold as a killing snow. Was that a light bit of makeup around her eyes? She definitely had some thick eyelashes.

Logan took a step back, suddenly self-conscious. “Hi. Any friend of Marko’s, is a… dubious prospect at best.”

Marko laughed. “It’s funny ‘cause it’s true.”

The dragon laughed politely. “No, no, no, you misunderstand me. I’m not friends with Marko. I value my liver too much.”

“Ouch.” The goat man sipped his beer.

“I’m Wintersylver,” the dragon continued. “From Nightfall University. That’s where Melvin went. You remember Melvin R. Chevalier, right? Sweet, funny, adorable Melvin?” Her gazed burned with cold fury. “Your little friend is wearing her hat.”

Inga took off the fedora and held it awkwardly.

Wintersylver didn’t even seem to notice. Her eyes bore into Logan. “I’m sure you remember Melvin and his cherry turnovers. They were as delicious as his personality—not that you really ever got to know the real him, right? No. Too busy saving the day and kicking ass, right Mr. Murray?”

Logan swallowed hard. “We… uh… it was complicated. But we feel bad, terrible, for what happened.”

The dragon snorted, a cloud freezing mist washing out from her nose. Ice crystals thickened her scales. “But it really wasn’t you, from what I understand.” She turned that gaze on Marko. “It was the moronic satyr with a drinking problem. He’s an outclassed dungeon core riding on your coattails. But he’s cute.” She paused and tapped at her muzzle with an icy talon. “I have to say, a lot more handsome than I would’ve thought.”

Marko sighed happily. “I love praise. It is my sweet mistress.”

Treacle spit his jawbreaker out into his hand. “Melvin our lost friend. A tragic plot point enduring. Cherry tart… sour taste.”

The dragon turned on him. “Oh, so someone has some class. Taking Runeic Haiku are we? You’re the Alchemic Machinist with the mood disorder. Sweetness Happybutt or something?”

“Treacle Glimmerhappy. The ice is so cold. Villainous first impressions. Frost on pink blossoms.”

“Whatever that means!” Wintersylver snorted. She then backed up, closed her eyes, and put her thumb claws to finger claws like in a yogic meditation pose. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The ambient temperature dropped by thirty degrees and hoarfrost raced across the ground. Treacle’s back popped opened and mechanical arms draped his huge coat over his shoulders.

Logan kinda enjoyed the wet chill.

Wintersylver opened her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I promised myself I wouldn’t attack you. I know the pre-tournament mixer could be used as a weapon, but I didn’t want to win like that. Can you forgive me?”

Inga was mystified. She glanced at Logan.

Logan found himself talking, not sure what to say. “It’s not a problem, Wintersylver. I mean, as long as you aren’t here to kill us, we’re fine. And for what its worth, we sincerely do feel bad about Melvin.”

“Kill you?” The white dragon rolled her eyes. “As if. We’re all here because we want to protect the Tree of Souls. Killing other dungeon cores would be terrible. Not productive in the least. Which makes me wonder what kind of dungeon Melvin would’ve had here. To think, he might’ve been at this party. It’s sad. But oh well, such is life. I hope you all do well. I would just love to destroy you in the finals. Just completely and utterly annihilate you.” She paused and canted her head to one side. “Like embarrass you, you know? Humiliated you so badly that you would never really recover. But I’m sure that probably won’t happen. Chadrigoth is the dungeon guardian to beat. He seems nice. Do you know if he’s seeing anyone? Maybe that pretty cat girl with the unfortunate skin condition?”

“He’s single,” Inga burst out. “But he was seeing Lady Elesiel for the last couple of years.”

“Is she dead elf woman with the off-putting laugh?” Wintersylver asked.

Inga nodded, looking extremely uncomfortable. She held Melvin’s hat behind her back with two of her arms. The other two hung at her side awkwardly.

Wintersylver shrugged. “Well, I suppose I should go say hi. Good luck tomorrow, moth girl. Good for you, being so confident. Otherwise, you’d be resting up. But you’re not. So you probably won’t be at your best tomorrow. Toodles!”

The white dragon slithered off, elegantly flying through the air like a ballet dancer.

Marko nodded. “Well, she seemed nice. Like a polite woodchipper.”

Inga exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “She’s in my head. Suresh warned us about not being intimidated. I am so intimated. And I don’t think I can wear Melvin’s hat ever again.”

Treacle gently took the hat from Inga and put it on her head. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you how to mourn. Especially strangers. You wear the hat out of respect. And I like it.”

Inga’s eyes filled with tears. She threw her arms around the minotaur and hugged him with all four of her arms. He grunted, unsure for a moment. But then he hugged her back.

Marko made the international gesture for drinking too much.

Inga stepped back and wiped a tear from her oversized, luminous eyes. “Mean dragon or not, Wintersylver is very powerful. She’s a high B-Class cultivator. She came in second at the dungeon games two years in a row. She’s favored to place first.”

“What are the dungeon games?” Logan asked.

Inga shrugged. “They’re an unsanctioned junior league of sorts—a proving ground for competitive dungeons with… well money. Mostly, it’s a way for underperforming dungeons from wealthy, well-connected families to earn participation trophies. Shadowcroft doesn’t talk much about the dungeon games, since they’re sponsored by Plaguebringer and Saudrian’s, but we’ve won them the last three years in a row. Still, I watched some of Wintersylver’s video crystals and she is… impressive.”

Logan remembered Rockheart talking about them his first year, but he’d been pretty overwhelmed back then. “Any idea when Wintersylver competes? If she’s our main competition I’d like to have an idea of what we’re up against.”

Inga nodded. “She has a prime spot on Sunday night—Round 9 at 4:00 PM. It’s kind of the sweet spot, though it can be hard to shine, which is one nice thing about going first, and also going last. However, she’ll have a good idea of what the judges are looking for, and she’ll have info on the competition.”

Marko took Inga’s hand. “Let’s get you to your room, Ms. Therian. You have to completely wow them tomorrow. You have your plan, right?”

The moth woman nodded, still looking quite unsure of herself. “I do, thanks to Gary & Wyatt’s fifth edition. That was surprisingly helpful. Chadrigoth and Tet also offered me some pointers. We’re really a team.”

Logan nodded. “Yeah, we really are.”

He was a little sad that he and Inga weren’t competing together. He’d gotten so used to working with her through the Symbiotic bond. However, he couldn’t help but feel the buzz of excitement hanging in the air. Sure, maybe he wouldn’t win, but he was going to give it his very best. Hopefully, his best would be enough.