For the Record

“That was easier than I expected.”

Yeah, after Olive teleported me and my hangers-on to the dungeon entrance, I met up with the rest of my retainers and paid a visit to crime syndicate number two. This time I had Omorth do the talking, which… I might want to do more often, to be honest. Something about his grating metallic voice cows his listeners regardless of what he's actually saying.

In fact, this group folded so easily that I might even let them live, or possibly organize them into my own subsidiary to handle dungeon trade.

…

Yes. I’m going to do that.

(Not going to ask the others?) Nyx comments.

Won’t most of them just agree with me by default? What, do you want me to exclude Izahne, Omorth, and Olive? Does Rose get a vote? Is Rose one of you all now?

With a sigh she replies, (Why don’t you ask it that?)

Huh. She’s not wrong.

“Rose. Are you my retainer?” I ask.

The plant person tilts its head, rustling its leaves. “We serve our master.”

And that answers that, doesn’t it? I can feel there’s a bond there, and it feels confused.

Although I might be confused about something too, or at least curious.

Well, no time like the present. “Can you monitor the dungeon without being in it? What happens if some strong adventurer notices that the dungeon has been restored and fights their way down to my boss chamber and you don’t notice?”

“That is physically impossible. We are aware of all that happens in the dungeon as long as we are on the same plane,” it says. “However, we are unable to perform management duties unless our consciousness occupies our core itself.”

“I see.”

…

“Do you need to be there to respawn monsters or reset traps?”

“We do not.”

I nod. “How did you level balance it? Is anyone ever going to make it to my audience chamber?”

Rose rustles its vines in a way I can tell is irritation – though not with me. “The short one insisted that we reduce the difficulty curve, and to label recommended levels for a balanced five-person party in the transition point between each floor, as well as including a safe room after every boss or midboss room. We will reassert that these creature comforts are unnecessary.”

“And yet you implemented them anyway?”

Its vines rustle even more sharply, some of them exposing thorns. “Master… Nemesis insisted that the short one should be respected. We acted in a way that we perceive would please our master.”

“Good. I have no need for retainers or servants who fail to listen. So far you strike me as the useful type; let’s hope you remain that way.”

It sharply stills as though in the presence of a predator, but I don’t have anything more to say on the topic – for now.

Although.

“By the way, do remember to speak for yourself. Most of the humans on this plane are ‘short ones’ to me, as are you.”

(So which do you like more?) Nyx asks out of the blue.

Between what?

She grins smugly. (Terrifying the mortals, or terrifying your ‘retainers’?)

“Both,” slips out before I can catch myself, and my former Assistant doesn’t miss it.

(I thought so.)

Oh be still. I haven’t killed or otherwise disposed of them, even the mortal ones. I could be far more evil or whatever you’re thinking.

I ignore her sigh and continue… walking…

“Olive. Take me to the third whatever-it-is.”

***

“Hello Nerin.”

Of course my pet town head jumped, but considering we appeared in her office unannounced in a flare of blue flame I suppose it’s justified this time.

(An eldritch horror of an ash monster showing up and saying ‘hello’ to anyone would make anyone jump, you know?)

Quiet, you.

“Oh, it’s you. Hello Nemesis,” the rattled eldra exhales.

I sit on the edge of her desk so I can look over my shoulder at her, regardless of the stacks of paper built up across it. “Are you aware of the organized crime setting up shop across the street? Like, literally across the street?”

I’m not even joking. The third group of smugglers is literally across the street from Nerin’s town hall. It seems pretty brazen to me, considering how poor of a job they’re doing in concealing their activities.

“Hm? What organized crime?”

Or, maybe she’s not aware of it? Oh! And for once, Nyx sighs at someone other than me!

(Don’t get used to it. Idiot.)

I’m not going to, don’t worry.

“Yeah, so that mercantile across the street is a front for a group of smugglers who are also muscling other merchants into paying ‘protection fees’. Ah, but don’t worry about doing anything, I’m about to handle them myself. I’ve already resolved two other groups doing something similar. I guess I just wanted to know if you were allowing it or enabling them. Your face says those are both a no, so congratulations, you’re off the hook. Keep up the good work!”

With that, I slide off the desk – without disturbing the mountain of paperwork, I might add!

“Olive, let’s go. I can already sense there’s one person by themselves in that building, and I don’t feel like waiting to be lead there, so just take me straight there.

A flash of blue flames later and I’m standing in…

A cell?

Is this a containment cell of some kind?

From the look and smell of the place, it hasn’t been cleaned in quite some time, and its human contents are no different.

“Wha-wha-huh? Who?” stammers the cell’s only resident, a significantly unkempt human dressed in torn rags and showing signs of recent mistreatment – at least from the number of bruises.

“Greetings, oh foolish mortal. But, not as foolish as I expected, I suppose? After all, you certainly don’t look like the person in charge here.”

The human takes a step back, stumbling over the edge of their straw bedding and falling in a heap. I ignore their pronounced “Hwoof!” sound and instead lift them back to their feet with a handful of feelers. They flail uselessly against my grasp, so I lean them against the wall in case they try to backpedal any further.

“While your instinctual fear of me is both wise and warranted, be assured that you aren’t my goal in this building. But I won’t pretend I’m not curious, considering curiosity is about all the fuels me these days.” I dramatically flourish today’s set of Olive-arranged overly formal robes and say, “Rejoice, oh foolish mortal, for before you stands the all-devourer, the mistress of envy, night, and hunger. I am Nemesis, patron god of this plane and your queen, and I do not take kindly to those who openly flout my laws – such as the organization apparently holding you captive. So tell me then, mortal. Who are you, and why are you here?”

“A-alder!” they stammer. “Stephen Alder!”

I sigh, but promptly regather my ash. “At least you can speak, that’s the first step. Now, would you please answer the rest of the question? My patience is hardly infinite.”

They stare blankly at me for a moment until I again gesture for them to continue. “K-kidnapped!”

“Kidnapped? As in, you were?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Rapid nodding is my reply.

Fine.

“Olive, take this poor fool to Nerin. Instruct her to handle it. I will be waiting.”

The fox spirit deeply bows before spiriting away the bedraggled human, and a few moments later returns to find me already having reduced the bars and mechanisms to rust and dust. The Ravages of Time remains useful, and I doubt that will ever change.

Although I guess I could have just used Spellspeech or something.

Well, whatever. Onward! This time I decide to focus the room with the most wills in it – specifically, one of the rooms in the basement.

For flavor, I choose a different approach this time. Instead of Dominating the guards or politely asking for a meeting (I’m still not sure why Omorth suggested that), I wave off my guards to follow behind me as I plow aside every guard or human in front of me with my feelers, all without breaking my prim and proper stride. These humans, at least, will know that I’m outside of their realm of possibility from the second I enter.

Ah, how did Omorth word it? If I’m not mistaken, it was ‘overwhelming violence’?

And wouldn’t you know it, it’s effective. Maybe too effective, from the trail of broken bodies I’m leaving in my wake, but I find it hard to care. Besides, they can just have some healer patch them up, they’re not my problem.

Ignoring Nyx’s usual mental complaints about my cavalier attitude, I slap open the last door to find a nest of couches and sweet-smelling smoke, populated by a variety of humans of questionable nature.

And at the middle of them all, in what is clearly a seat of power, a familiar face.

Wouldn’t you know it.

“Hello, Boz,” I say, staring down the pooka as he suddenly shivers in recognition.