Forgotten Dungeon

Mechanicus

the first Butcher

It was time.

The Holy Creator, the Grand Master of the Butcher-Chirurgeons, ordered them to use their skills to the fullest. The fate of their world hanged on the tips of their claws. It was a great undertaking and even a greater honor to be allowed to make their mark on the future.

And Mechanicus was… not ready.

His soul was full of shame as he sighed, glaring at his trembling flesh and the pathetic machines supporting its continuous existence.

He was not going to be enough. And the price for failure would be too much to bear for him and his kin.

His brothers hummed in the room's background, their deep voices and the smell of incense filling the air with visions. He sacrificed a moment to think about those who provided these rare items, their lesser thief-kin, the Ratlings. The Firstborn of their Creator, skilled in subterfuge, diplomacy, and caked in blood of both their own and the relentless invaders.

Ratlings.

The unrelenting. The monstrous. The discoverers of the Warpstone.

Mechanicus dipped his head in silent prayer before returning to his ruminations.

The place he chose was a small but cozy nook located on the fourth floor of the Dungeon. It has been co-opted by his kin as a one-of-a-kind chapel and a place of reflection.

With the help of the silent Drones, they built up the walls and decorated the remaining space with the short history of spider-walkers.

Despite their constant duties a pair of Butchers was always stationed near the entrance, guarding their heritage. The delvers never managed to penetrate this deep into the Dungeon’s bowels but discretion was a better part of valor.

Mechanicus’ form was taking up most of the room, his mechanical carrier's leg curled up under the metal surface, not dissimilar to how a dead spider looked. Around him, the few off-duty Butchers prayed, their reptilian heads bowed in supplication, eyes closed.

The first of the Chirurgeons scoffed. Their Pale Tribe kobold ancestry was a weakness, their flesh twisted and atrophied, forced to rely on machines to barely meet the standard of usefulness. This was of course not their Creator's fault but a trial given to the faithful to grow more powerful and weed out those lacking the required resolve.

Still, because of these inherent traits, their pilgrimage to the top stung hard with each step.

But they would be rewarded once it was finished.

This line of thought turned Mechanicus’ gaze toward the nearby syringe, full of the brightly glowing green goo. The item was kept upright by two-pronged metal poles, begging to be used. The container was a specialized thing, longer and sharper than its counterparts, and, as he gazed at its sleek form the words adrenaline needle appeared in his mind unbidden.

He shook the thoughts away.

Normally such bestowal of the Creator’s knowledge would be a boon worth celebrating, and most certainly worthy to be added to their repository, but right now he was focused on his task. Ready to fulfill his destiny or die trying.

And if he somehow failed the task his successor would try again.

And so would one that came after him.

Until nothing remained of the Butchers but ashes.

Such was their dedication. A timeless promise to their Creator - to do better, to achieve new heights.

After all a subpar creation was bound to be abandoned… and it would be better to perish than to suffer such fate.

The liquid bubbled menacingly and Mechanicus sighed, lifting the syringe to the level of his eyes. The mechanical arms clacked and clicked as they worked, tenderly clasping on the ticket to their bright future.

Or death.

That was always an option in the Creator Uno's Dungeon.

The green solution was of the purest variety, without any additional filthy DNA thrown into the mix with a 90% saturation content. Internally it was called Compound F1 90% and was one of the potions with the highest failure rate, not counting the experiments focusing on combining living humans with locally sourced undead.

Those tended to end… explosively.

Cleaning up blood, viscera and meat chunks was always such a chore.

Mechanicus squinted as the humming took more of an impatient tone. It seemed like his brothers were growing weary of the hesitation shown by their leader. With a solemn nod, the Butcher straightened up, his mechanical parts whirling as the spider legs scrambled frantically to raise the pale-faced lizard controlling them.

He scoffed at the twisted reflection of his snout visible in the glass part of the syringe.

“May the Creator bless us, brothers.”

“““May he bless us.””” The countless voices repeated.

“For we are his children, his scalpel and his spear. We are the light in the darkness of ignorance and a way forward in the labyrinth of despair.”

“We are his chosen kin and those who will evolve from the base form, showing the world wisdom of our Creator.”

The hot, heavy silence surrounded both Mechanicus and his fellow Butchers. The smoke and smell of incense filled every corner of the room, slowly surrounding everyone present.

“We are Butcher-Chirurgeons, and…”

“WE”

“WILL”

“BE”

“MORE!”

With a last roar, Mechanicus lifted the syringe in the air, before plunging it deep into his chest - deep enough to reach his heart… and reach it did.

There was a sting of pain when the flesh parted under a forceful iron, and then a hot sensation as the liquid was deposited near and into the life-giving organ. Ignoring his aching body Mechanicus squeezed, letting the rest of the solution flow inside.

Another alien word flashed before his eyes, seppuku, with a connotation of death, honor, and solemnity condensed into one.

He bowed his head for this gift of knowledge, before removing the syringe from his quaking flesh. The blood that followed was red, thick, and viscous, but the bleeding stopped moments later when the solution’s healing properties were activated.

The seconds passed during a tense wait, interrupted only by the humming of his peers. Those too tired to continue the ceremony left their places, only for them to be immediately replaced by bright-eyed newcomers observing Mechanicus’ trial.

The weight of their expectations continued to keep him focused, even as the first signs of change tore through his body. The Butcher’s gut churned with unease, which soon turned into pain. It was a sharp, cruel thing, poking holes in his facade, the spikes of torture tearing bones, tendons, and organs from their usual places.

And then the slithering started.

The usually passive metal comprising large parts of his body started to flow like water, before twisting into fluid tentacles dissolving more and more of the delicate parts of his carrier. Soon the spider-like legs bucked under the pressure, as the complicated system of pulleys and clockwork turned liquid.

It was however only when the metal started to bore into his body that Mechanicus started to scream. The earlier inconveniences were just an appetizer before the real transformation. His howls turned more and more animalistic as the cold, unfeeling metal tried to replace his bones and even skin.

The screams turned into gurgling when the fluid metal came up to his face and then covered it whole, with a few last sputters being the only remembrance of the one who led the Butcher-Chirurgeons.

What remained was only a slick, azure cocoon made out of metal. It trembled from time to time, slowly growing more and more still. Around it, the Butchers continued their humming, not willing to believe that the proudest of them all was so easily felled.

The situation continued for hours, as the light of hope in their eyes was slowly glowing dimmer.

It was about ten hours later that the cocoon started trembling, its still form regaining earlier passion, before the noise peaked and the shell cracked in half. From the tear, a slick and thin leg emerged, one made completely from metal, yet showing a shockingly organic build.

No clockwork or pulleys were hidden inside. It was just muscle, bone, and blood - all of them constructed of intricately connected iron and flesh.

A moment later four metal tentacles followed the hesitant leg, tearing the cocoon wider and allowing the creature hidden inside to fully emerge before the hushed whispers of the Butcher-kin.

The form that their leader took was breathtaking.

Instead of the earlier palanquin-like structure, where atrophied flesh was being carried by a metal machine, now the Pale Tribe body had been fully integrated, sticking out from the front, like some kind of an iron centaur.

Its chest, arms, and legs were muscular and coated in blue skin, while its head had been covered by something that Uno would recognize as a gas mask, complete with two glass eye-holes and a filtration unit located on the lower portion of the face.

From the creature’s back four tentacles sprung to life, each ending in claw-like three-fingered appendages, easily able to both tear down its enemies and perform more delicate tasks. The lower part of the being was that of a spider, with an oval shape, metallic sheen, a center of gravity close to the ground, and eight spindly legs.

The being hesitated, before coming out into the full view of its kin.

Yet this shyness didn’t last long, as two of the surrounding Butchers carried a red cloak in their appendages and cautiously lifted it on their leader's shoulders. After a moment his own tentacles did the job of covering the blue but bare body with a modest garb.

Mechanicus grinned at his new, improved form (even if no one could tell, with the changes to his physique) and yelled into the Dungeon’s ceiling, all the while raising his hands in triumph.

“I!”

“AM!”

“REBORN!”

The screams of his kin followed.

If Uno had noticed the commotion he would be surprised by his follower's newest evolution.

Butcher-kin Drider

called Mechanicus

Unlike their lesser kin, the Butcher-Drider is a being of magic, bathed in metal mana and shaped by it. Its earlier tenuous grasp on iron augmentation changes into a more intuitive, sleek, and powerful form.

While retaining its spider-like look, a Drider's main avenues of attack change to four dexterous tentacles and two powerful arms. It is however not a frontline fighter, but a supporter and a mage of metal, intuitively using the new form to serve its chosen Master.

Driders are a combination monster between a spider and another race, often an effect of otherwordly rituals, turning willing or unwilling victims into one. Drider race doesn’t exist anymore, as the magic required to create them is no longer in the hands of mortals.

Threat level: C

The celebrations lasted longer than expected but soon turned into a solemn feeling shared by all of the servants present. The Butcher-Chirurgeons were ready to finish the quest given to them by the Dungeon Core and their only Master - Uno.

To save a life using their considerable healing skills.

Earlier he was full of doubts but now Mechanicus felt more than ready and eager to test the limits of his new flesh. Yet there was something amiss. The ascension he had performed shredded the connection between him and his Master, leaving a gaping wound. It was something that could heal, given time, but for now, he was alone, no longer immortal, and connected to the soothing certainty of Dungeon Core.

The world said he was on his own but the greatest servant of the Dungeon simply scoffed at the poisoned fruit of freedom. To serve was a choice. One that he made up his mind about a long time ago.

The procession they formed was an instinctual thing - nobody needed to tell the monsters what to do and where to stand. A few Lebirs walked in the front, followed by Mechanicus and a few of his closest aides. Behind them, an orderly group of Spider-Walker Soldiers, Generals, and Butchers followed, as both defensive force and spectators.

It took only a few minutes to arrive at the operating theater. The doors were flanked by human soldiers, despite their mere presence being a blasphemy to the Creator. A few of the Butcher leader aides twisted their snouts in displeasure but a simple gesture calmed down their nerves.

After all the newly born Drider could easily smell how terrified the soldiers were. Under their professional facade, a thick stench of fear covered the entrance and Mechanicus drank deep from its well.

The procession fractured, as only a few Butchers and Generals were allowed inside the room. It was a concession towards assuaging the surfacers' nervousness, but this deep into Dungeon it didn’t matter. Even the walls were claimed by their Master, and both humans and monsters knew that.

Still, some decorum had to be expected.

Mechanicus strode into the room taking in a collection of sharp implements hung on a nearby rack. From butcher knives, carving implements, scalpels, and other instruments needed to shape flesh or bone - there was something for everyone, just waiting to be used.

And, in the middle, a large slab-like operating table was visible, with leather restraints prepared to keep the head, legs, and arms in place.

The humans scoffed at such preparations but Butcher-kin insisted on them for safety - both their own and their charge. The parasite removal was a tricky business and none of the responsible wanted to fail. The procedures had to be observed and precautions taken.

Such was the way of Butcher-Chirurgeons.

Apart from these items, the room was filled with a pair of jury-rigged machines and two glass containers - the first of them, a bigger one, was reinforced to the limit, and the second one was filled with solution B1 60%, or “rejuvenation tonic”, as their patients called it.

The most important pieces were however two banged-up machines. Their looks didn’t gather any confidence but it didn’t matter. What was important were the abilities they bestowed upon their users. The first one was a simple thing - it just displayed the amount and type of mana available in the air or the patient’s flesh. Well, for humans it could be revolutionary, but dungeon monsters did not need such technology. Right now it was helpful to know when to not overwhelm their patient with the magic.

The second machine allowed its operator to diagnose the level of cellular destruction in the patient. It was a technology made possible by countless sacrifices of their test subjects, especially the ones fed with undead-spiked solution.

Both pieces were flanked by the Ratlings - as they were the only ones capable of working them. Additionally, a Secret Council rat was overseeing the technicians, being in charge of both keeping the machines running and communicating - which meant talking to humans and monsters alike.

The rat in question had a curious look, not dissimilar to Mechanicus’ own, with mechanical arms located on his back constantly twitching and clasping at invisible foes.

Locating the tools he needed was enough and the Drider decided to start his preparations. He dredged through required meditations, straightening the control over his additional appendages, and his mental defences. As expected, the new body he was granted was agile, strong, and easy to control.

The humans didn’t hurry at all, and it was hours before the patient had been brought down, into the Dungeon’s deepest rooms. Surprisingly the person accompanying the girl wasn’t the red-haired and red-souled mage always seen bantering with their Creator, but rather an older, bald man, suffused with scholarly aura. Mechanicus remembered that his name was Vincent, but his followers mostly called him Master Vincent, denoting some degree of skill.

Skill in what?

The Drider wasn’t privy to that information.

And neither did he care.

All his senses were instead focused on the trial before him - an unconscious girl called Agnes. Her blonde, boyish hair gave her an aura of innocence and liveness, barely broken by the expression of pain visible on her face.

The monster, however, wasn’t distracted by her cuteness but instead focused on the movement of limbs, her breathing, and similar tells, trying to discern the level of the parasite’s control.

The first analysis was not good.

Even though the girl was asleep her arms and legs were moving, grasping. As if something under her skin tried to understand why its host was being moved. Agnes’ eyes, while closed, constantly moved too, just like one would do in a deep dream.

Except she wasn’t dreaming but had been sedated.

As Mechanicus focused on the patient being secured to the table a monstrous intent slammed into his very being. The attention of his Dungeon Core.

The attention of his God.

[Are you ready?] Came the not-speech and every dungeon creature in the room stilled. Then, as one they responded - Ratlings with chattering, Butchers with clicking, and Lebirs - the brainless mass that they were - with grunts. These sounds all translated into one sentence.

“““We’re ready, Master.”””

[Proceed, then. Make me proud.]

“Your will be done.” Mechanicus clicked. Then he turned towards the rat. “Translate, friend.” Seeing the creature bow in acceptance, he continued. “We’re going to operate on your friend. It may be bloody, but we’re not going to hurt her. Do not interrupt us, or you’ll incur not only our wrath but also the wrath of our Master.”

The human nodded, clearly unimpressed, but had questions of his own. “Yes, yes, understood. Now, tell me… what are you? I’ve only seen something similar to your kind in books of lore. Old ones, too.”

When the monster hesitated, another voice joined the conversation.

“He’s a Drider! A first of his kind! Aren’t they cool?” His Master's joyous tone sent chills of happiness crawling up Mechanicus’ spine. The mechanical wonder he called meghahone served as a tool to speak with the outsiders. “An evolution of the Butchers you see all around you!”

“I see. Thank you for the explanation, Uno.” The old man’s eyes shined with curiosity. “I’ve only heard about Driders when Dark Elves were mentioned and it’s hard to gather any credible information about them.”

“Oh, and why is that?”

“Most of their cities were destroyed by both elven Theocracy and their half-elven brethren. Their royalty, nobility, and soldiers were slaughtered without mercy. Their circles of magi burned to the ground. Their practices - forgotten.”

“And without their protection, the Dark Elves, or drow, as they called themselves, were no more.” Master Vincent mused for a long while, before continuing. “This turned out to be a mistake, since without their reluctant help dwarven Kingdoms had fallen one by one to the monster invasions. Their sun-blessed allies were useless in the deep tunnels, after all.” He chucked darkly.

“Interesting! Thank you for sharing.” The happy-go-lucky tone of his Master didn’t change despite the revelations. Honestly, it was sometimes terrifying how easily their Creator could ignore things. “We have work to do, though. Mechanicus, please continue!”

“Yes, Master!” The Drider clicked with happiness ignoring the mage’s grumblings about ‘another Named monster’.

It was time to start.

“The parasite is hidden under the right part of her skull.“ Mechanicus intoned. ”Disinfect the flesh. Shave the excess hair.” The lesser Butchers instantly moved to fulfill his demands. The observing human clenched his fists but let the monsters do their job.

“Prepare for cutting.”

“Ready!” The lesser Butchers chittered, their scalpels flitting in the air like flies.

“Cut!”

“Done!”

“Done!”

“Detach skin!” A strange, electric noise spread through the air.

“Skin detached!”

“Preparing for bone cutting.” Mechanicus's own appendages appeared in appropriate places, ready to saw through the right half of the bone plate. Their magic churned, twisting the shape of metal into whatever the mage desired.

“Cutting, first phase.” There was a clack as the iron went through organic matter. “Cleaning needed!”

“Cleaning… done.” An answer came and went.

“Cutting, second phase.” After a moment the bone faltered and came off cleanly. Mechanicus cautiously lifted the remaining piece and turned it over to his assistant. “Put it in the solution to soak. We should be able to save or regrow her nerves.”

He was trying to continue when a sharp gasp disrupted his concentration. “What in the Brighton’s name is that?!”

The human mage pointed to a parasite curled near the patient’s brain. It looked like a long worm, with a segmented body and a flower-like head filled with teeth. The thing twisted, undulating as if slowly coming out of the stasis.

“It’s a gift from your precious Geinard Kingdom.” The Dungeon Core gloated. “Isn’t it beautiful?” Uno asked sweetly. Not waiting for an answer his attention turned toward the surgeon. “Get rid of it.”

“At once!”

Using his many appendages Mechanicus untangled the beast from the girl’s trachea and then yanked it off the brain. Agnes sighed with relief as soon as the pressure on her eye was relieved, her form growing more relaxed.

“Put it in the container.” The Drider ordered his assistants, and soon the flower-spawn had been secured nearby.

And so it was time for the hardest part.

“Reseal the wound.” Monsters moved, cautiously returning the skull-bones to their rightful place.

“Bones ready!”

“Stitching skin!”

“Saturate patient wounds with B1 30%. Pure.”

“Saturating.”

“Continuing saturation. Reconstruction is progressing.”

“Attach the bone plate.”

“Attaching. Procedure complete. Beginning mending.”

Everything was going fine… until the machine in the corner started beeping, its frantic rhythm informing everyone about a problem.

“Cell adaptability failing!” The rat elder roared. “30 seconds until catastrophic failure!”

“Saturate patient with D1 15%. Pure.” Mechanicus ordered calmly. His palms were sweating. He didn’t know he could sweat!

“Saturating.”

“Saturating.”

“Rejection continues.” Another roar. “20 seconds!”

“Raise saturation to D1 90%. Pure.”

“Raising… saturation raised!”

“Effect?” Mechanicus roared. The rat elder stared at the machine’s dials with blood-red eyes.

“No change.”

“What are mixing predictions? Give me numbers for prime mixing - rat, snake, kobold!”

“Compatibility to Ratling genus 21%, Snake genus 82%, Kobold genus 37%!”

“Change saturation to F1 90%. Snake.”

“Modifying the input.”

“Changing saturation.”

“Raising saturation.”

“Adding Snake DNA.”

“Changes?” Mechanicus screamed once again.

“N-no changes! No changes!”

“Wait…”

“Acceptance threshold reached!”

“Mutation occurring!”

“Which type?”

“Naga, minor! W-wait, the mutation isn’t stopping!”

“Iron mana levels are off the charts!” The Ratling wheezed. “Subject acquired Nightvision, Reinforced Skin, and Coldblooded abilities!”

“What are her mutagen levels?”

“Off the charts still!”

The chaos continued, as dungeon monsters were trying to understand what exactly happened to their charge, and preferably stop it.

The human mage went surprisingly quiet, observing the freshly saved girl who - now awake - easily ripped away the leather restraints and looked around in confusion. She sported never-before-seen golden pupils with vertical irises, and her inhuman traits were easily noticeable in the lustrous green scales decorating her body and face.

“Uno?”

“Yeeees?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but did your servants just turn the Geinard Kingdom royalty into a demihuman?”

“Te-he. Oopsie?”

“Charles is going to be so pissed.” Master Vincent sighed, cradling his growing headache.