So I wanted to do something for this, but I feel as if the "obvious" variant of what I would write here would just end up being very similar to Rey's version, which you can seek out in Rey's vanity faire channel. So let's ask a different question. what if, God forbid, I was wrong?
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You look up from the map, confused. You look back down. Your location marker is right over the dungeon marker. You look up again. Nothing. You're in a low-level area. in front of you is a single tree upon a hill. The sky is blue. Birds are singing. Scarcely the magma and doom you expected. You furl your brow. Did Florence make a mistake? You don't know them to be one to make mistakes. Every map you've purchased from that dragon has been flawless. It must be you, rather than them. You close the map, deciding to investigate further. You climb the hill, not at all a difficult climb, it's only slightly taller than you from its foot. You're now standing under the shade of the tree, leaves rustling in the wind. To the west, you see the town in which you started your journey. Florence just barely visible, locking their store in an intent to head home, humming a tune. Various villagers go about their early-evening routine. Hunters returning from the forests, children playing with rolling hoops or various mundane magical toys, some practicing their child-level spells. You watch, admiring how your adventure seems to have come, more or less, full circle. Refocusing back on finding the entrance to the dungeon, you search around the tree, inside the tree. There are no doors, no indicators of anything out of the ordinary. No other dungeon was this difficult to find. You check the map again. Yep, it's here. your gaze shifts, focusing not at the content, but at the map itself. For a moment, something drifts over you. The paper feels unfamiliar, yet something about the writing... The wear too great for this map to have been recently produced... but if its not made by them...? Something feels wrong about this map, something you feel you should recognize. Did Florence make this? Or did they just find it? And if they found it, then where did it come from? You look back towards the village. Florence is out of your sight now. you stare at their shop before the thought passes as quickly as it came. Silly to be worrying about this in the final hours, one simple stretch between you and the end. It is simply, deeply, irrelevant. You smile at yourself, before realizing you still haven't found the dungeon entrance. Your face immediately shifts, letting out a consigned sigh before getting on your hands and knees.
Finally.
It's been multiple hours. The sun has set and the moon is now overhead. Enough light to work under, thankfully. You've managed to unearth a small hatch after hours of digging. It seems to ooze a sort of anticipation. This is what you've been looking for, you're sure of it.
You stand and step back, your back aching. You really regret not heeding that idea to go grab a shovel an hour and a half ago. The hatch seems to be made entirely out of metal. Not exactly common practice in recent times and in these parts of the world, though it does remind you of long ago, times now considered ancient. Those memories are hazy, but you still remember the feelings. Great metallic networks of steel and copper, places and people, connections now distant. You smile a bit, recalling what feels lile a hundred lifetimes ago. The prospect of what could be awaiting you within fills you with an anxious sort of excitement. What could be awaiting you? What could you find? Memories, perhaps?
You open the hatch to find... Nothing. A void, as if the moonlight refused to enter the hole. This doesn't surprise you in the slightest. Any two-bit villain can cast a True Darkness space enchantment, of course the big bad can as well. You cast True Light on a stone you keep on you for precisely this purpose and drop it in. The light is swallowed entirely. You hear the stone clatter to the ground after a second. That's not how True Darkness works, you think. It can't work like that, that's not physically possible. True light defeats true darkness. If true light didn't defeat this darkness, then...
That feeling of unease wells up within you again You're unsure as to what to make of this. You stare deeply into the pit, trying in vain to see the light. It's a brief drop, sounded like about fifteen feet judging from the time in between your lightstone being released and clattering on the floor. Even so, something pulls on the back of your neck. Tells you that this isn't what you're looking for, that only misery awaits you once you enter.
You take a breath and will the feelings away. This is the end. It will be good. You know it will be. You jump in, swallowed entirely by the darkness.
You land on the floor of the dungeon, rolling your ankle a bit in the process of landing on rubble. No matter, it's so little damage as to be irrelevant to you. You stand and look to the ceiling. The hatch is gone. Go figure. You take a moment to assess the space in the light of your lightstone. You feel the same pull on the back of your neck as you assess the dungeon interior. The ceiling seems to be... drop ceiling? The walls are... drywall? The floor concrete? It appears to be an office building, still mostly intact, so many thousands of years after it must have been built. What is it doing here, entirely hidden in an impossible darkness, no less? The thought creeps around in your mind for a moment before you pick up your lightstone and affix it to your armor, an incredibly common practice, but made anew by your surroundings pulling you back to the long before. You take a moment to acknowledge how lucky you are that your lightstone is at least able to light up the interior of the dungeon, otherwise it would have been hell to feel around in the dark. You find your blade, sitting in its sheath, and draw it. No telling what sort of high-level creatures could be roaming around here. You look down the hallway. The hall extending past the reach of your lightstone. No more screwing around. You're in it now.
As you walk down the hallway, each footstep produces a resounding click that reverberates down the hall into the darkness, then back to you a moment later. It is horribly quiet here. No background music, just your footsteps, the occasional drip of water, and what you would describe as the sound of blood rushing; probably your own. The lack of music especially unsettles you. No area is without background music, you thought Has been that way for an incredibly long time. The dread, again, starts to pull at the corners of your mind. Alienation. A tinge of what you can only describe as deja vu from a time long, long past.
You continue down the hallway, slowly coming to terms with the fact you are truly walking in an ancient office building that was buried under a tree somehow still intact regardless of all of the thousands of technological , social, and magical upheaval. This place simply shouldn't be, you decide. A perfect final dungeon if you get down to the brass tacks. You smile a bit, acknowledging for a brief moment how incredibly cool seeing something like this again is. You stop, noticing a doorway to your left, lacking a door but still having attached hinges. Standing outside you can notice a faint green light. Hard to see without covering your lightstone. You grip your weapon tight, and step in, finding your feet resting on the remains of ratty carpet. Within, you notice desks running the edge of the room, upon each is a personal computer and monitor, each turned on, humming, and displaying a single word in green monochrome: "AWAIT".
You investigated the room. You have found no items. You attempted to utilize the computers, skill you had figured you had lost before you tried and found that the muscle memory immediately returned. Regardless, they won't accept input. You traced the computer cables only to find they disappear into the floor. Something is deeply wrong here. Not only should these computers not have power, not be awaiting whatever command their awaiting, but they shouldn't work at all. They're old, clearly built before... A sound interrupts your thought. You look around the space, nothing but dull green light and scraps of paper. You inspect the paper closer. They appear to have once been someone's notes. They are impossible to read, not due to the language, but due to the quality of the handwriting. They are incredibly poorly written. It is hard to tell if their author was in some sort of manic state while writing this, or if their handwriting is simply that bad. You feel that same feeling again, like something you've seen forever ago. You look through the other pieces of paper strewn about, hoping to find something with some sort of indication about what you might be feeling, and why. You find only one, incredibly unhelpful, legible scrap. A phrase, repeated, crossed out. "~~There must be, there must be.~~"
You sigh, the feeling again passing. You turn with the intent to leave the room, when suddenly the once-green ambiance of the computers goes dark. Leaving only the light of your stone to see with. Each computer emits a beep, perfectly synced, before the green again appears on the monitors. An image of an incredibly smug, angry dragon appears. Rendered in one-bit phosphoric green.
A voice emits from each of the machines.
"So you made it after all, then?" The on-screen image of the dragon animates. Clearly not a live recording. More like a flip book with two pages.
If you could ignore it before, you can't now. How are these computers functional? Existing electronics ceased functioning untold number of years ago. You use detect magic, searching for illusion. Nothing.
"I should have figured. They don't make your kind weak, do they? Of course it was always going to end here"
The voice booms. It's uncomfortably familiar. That feeling is back, stronger than it has been. You grit your teeth.
"Well. I could go on. I could tell you how this is futile and that you're wasting your perfectly good life, that you could, hell, spend that life working with me."
The voice giggles. That laugh. That laugh. The feeling grows even stronger. You feel nauseous.
"We both know how this goes, though, don't we? We both know that all I say is futile. So I will leave you only with this: Death, in no way, is the worst fate one can befall."
That giggle again.
"Just keep that in mind, 'kay? Ah! And one more thing. NOW!"
A prompt for an ambush. You grip your weapon, though you're doubled over from the nausea. You brace, ready for a fight.
...
...
It never comes.
You exit the room, the nausea passing, though an undertone of anxiety lingers, as does a renewed fervor to finish this quick. You turn back into the hallway and continue down, before coming to a fork, the hallway splitting off in four directions. You recall that Florence's maps often have a small amount of the dungeon within mapped out on the opposite side to the world map. You turn it around. Nothing. Blank. The paper again feels strange in your hands, if only for a second.
You fold the map and put it in your bag.
You look back up at the intersection, pick a direction at random, and begin to walk, placing your weapon back in its sheath. You're fairly confident at this point that there are no enemies besides the big bad, whom you now know to likely be a dragon, within the walls of this dungeon. How odd, what a strange end for an adventure that up to this point had been full of action and activity. You take the downtime to internalize more of your surroundings. You gaze at the ceiling, some of the drop ceiling panels are stained with various liquids, some are sopping wet and coming undone, revealing a network of pipes behind it. The ground is polished concrete, still shockingly retaining its shine despite the unknown years of neglect and dirt that should be covering it. The walls have rotted in places, revealing the wiring beneath. Every so often, you pass another room, all emitting faint green glows. You do not enter, knowing what you'll find to be similar to what you already have found.
As you continue, however, you realize that the amount of paper with scribbling on it begins to increase. What's initially just a few pages on the floor spirals to pages covering the walls. Each with strong, dark, illegible handwriting. All unique. Notes, of some sort. Someone, likely the boss or its lackeys, placed them upon the walls. You catch a few legible phrases. "You made it here after all, then?", "~~Do you understand the point of all this? Have you seen the designs without?~~". "It must be done. It must be.", "Death in no way is the worst fate one can befall".
You're surrounded with it now. On the floor, the walls, even stretching on the ceiling. You take notice of a few diagrams, as well. Computer logic diagrams, mechanical diagrams, what seem to be magical device diagrams, but absolutely incorrect in their implementation of magic. As you continue, you start to understand that this is pieces and parts of the dragon's plan. Every note, though illegible to you, is some aspect, plot, system, or idea store. You are unsure why they were placed upon the walls, ceiling, and floor, however.
You realize you have stopped in front of a door. You're not sure how long you've been walking, or how long ago you stopped at the door. You were too busy thinking about all that surrounds you. The door is also covered in notes. This must be it. You must be getting close. That same sort of anticipation from the hatch wells up within you again. You take a breath, take the door handle, and open it ever so slightly.
The handle slips out of your hand, the door continuing to open as if connected by some sort of spring. What lies within is a dreadful pitch-black darkness, made moreso frightening by the fact you're already surrounded by what you had thought to be pitch-blackness. at least, you thought you were. The interior space seems to ooze out of the doorframe, infecting the space in front of you with the same unnatural darkness. You toss the lightstone in. The lightstone shines, but only so slightly. Again, this isn't how True Darkness works. Something is wrong with this place. Suddenly, softly, you hear something. From the other end of the door, far within. What sounds like whispering. Typing. Groaning. A chuckle. That same chuckle, but it feels... Different. You feel something in your throat and again draw your blade, finding once again your keenness for finishing this quickly.
You enter the dark, grabbing your lightstone and again affixing it to your armor. You can just barely make out the walls of the room. It's a smaller room, much smaller than the computer rooms, but in front of it is another door, with light seeping from under it. It seems like you're in some sort of antechamber or receiving room, and what you are truly after is beyond door number two.
You stand in front of the door, taking a moment to collect yourself. Reminding yourself why you are here. You heal yourself, and prepare your pre-battle powerups. DMG up! DEF up! S.DEF up! S.ATK up! MDG up! FST down! LNK up!
You take a moment to listen. You still hear whispering. Wonderful, it's none the wiser that you're here. You bite down, kick the door in, and rush in.
You find yourself in a grand room. Seemingly some sort of large lab or something related. The scrawl is present here, too. Covering every square inch, piles littered around. A large area made claustrophobic by the piles of refuse. Lights shining on the other end. Finally. The end. A figure sits at the other end of the room. you can't quite make it out. bipedal. It's whispering to itself, typing. Giggling at itself. That feeling again. It's none the wiser to you. You yell out. "I'm here! Let's finish this!" The figure takes an arm and raises it to its head. It says nothing. It breathes, shuddering a small amount. The breath seems to cause it pain. It slowly turns towards you, silently. Revealing itself to you. It is not a dragon, no. What you see in front of you is a pathetically lithe human form. Hair matted, skin greasy, eyes red. A hundred pounds lighter than she should be. Wearing scraps of clothes much too big. Covered in scars and ink. You look closer. The scars are not from any sort of battle. She stands, slowly, methodically. For a moment, her legs give out, but she steadies herself. She approaches you, quietly. A smug look plastered on her face "So... Look who's here." Her voice is weak, hoarse. Her flat delivery unbefitting the smug look on her hollow face. Her back is arched as she approaches, her arms hanging down in front, she's not, or can't, lift them. Her head is tilted uncomfortably. Her eyes come to rest on your weapon. She smiles, a tired, weary smile. Eyes transfixed on the blade as she continues slowly approaching. "You think... That thing is gonna kill me?" She laughs. It's almost the same laugh, but something is missing. Something grips you in your gut. Her eyes lock upon yours. Scarcely the firey rage you expected, even from this human form. Her eyes instead plead with yours. An expression of fear, of worry, of panic. Her face still unmatching with her eyes. Something is deeply wrong. "That's hilarious. I really expected you to show up with something a bit more interesting than that." She continues to approach. That feeling. Fear, dread, deja-vu, a nagging feeling of forgetting something. All amplified by the figure in front of you, managing to communicate two messages at once. You mind begs you to get it over with. You sweat, your blade loosening in your hand. "You know, I knew one of you guys would catch on one of these days. They'd send someone. They'd hate to see all they worked for going to waste, right?" She laughs again. "But I expected them to equip you a bit more than that." You look down at your blade. Doubt continues to well, made cocktail with the pit of dread surrounding you. You look back up at her. She's still slowly approaching, stumbling every few feet, but maintaining balance. That same smug look, and the same pleading eyes. "Y'know, to remake the world... Did you know it takes some doing? It's not just a one-and-done. I didn't expect it'd take this long for you to show up. How long's it been? Two, three years?" She's not threatening, she seems to more just be... Talking. She continues to approach. Why is it so familiar? "Ha, regardless. Glad you're finally here. We'll see it both, soon." She smiles. It. seems. oddly. genuine. You blurt out, unable to keep your horrified curiousity to yourself "see what?" She looks up, her red eyes, wild, full of something insipid and horrible, come to rest upon yours. "Home. The real one. A place to exist. The return of the soul of the world, a strengthening of the leylines. A world without without all that your leaders stand for." She laughs. That laugh, The feeling again. It pulls on your soul. Seemlngly yearning for something unknown.
She's within distance of your weapon now, simply standing there. Still smiling. "I've done much, friend. It would be foolish of you to attempt to strike me down here. If you even could." She glances at your blade. "However, I know how it goes with your type. So..." She grins, a smug, knowing grin. Her eyes are still hollow. Silence still echoes through the room. "Strike me down. Go ahead." Shouldn't you be hearing boss music? You grip the blade in your hand, still slick from sweat. Everything comes to a head, your fear, your fury, doubt, that horrible familiarity, you express it all through the end of your blade.
A moment. Silence.
She collapses. Blood lashes from the wound. It's everywhere. She falls. Quietly. Wordlessly. Her expression in her face, her eyes, gone. Replaced with a single expression. Mild shock. Then, lucidity. She recognizes you. Your eyes meet again. You recognize her. Hexaaelia lies on the ground. Blood rushing out of her body. No movement, no sound. No groaning. She's dead. Blood staining the scrawl under her. A thornless rose crushed in your palm. Her lifeless eyes staring up, past the ceiling, to the sky behind it. Silence. You feel nothing. The blood soaks into every corner of the room. It becomes the room. Everything is mono-red. There is nothing left for you here.
You return to the hatch. Sun is beaming through the opening. You climb up and out to the hill where this started, directly facing the small village. You see Florence, just about to enter their store for the day. They pause, then turn to you and wave. Their tail wiggles.
You feel that same feeling again. Deja vu interlinked with dread. You stare at Florence, unmoving, unblinking.
It passes after a moment. You wave back to greet the dragon.
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... i also decided why not on the whole "obvious" thing. so here's that:
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"What a weird final dungeon!" You said to yourself, out loud. What seemed to be a low-level cave dungeon at one point turned out to actually be the final dungeon. A keep carved into the ground filled with various tomes and spellbooks. Befitting for "the place where magic goes to die". You continue into the next room, the final room. The end. You see her. A dragon, twenty times your size, with purple fur, eyes the color of sunset gleaming at you, various magical tomes surrounding her, suspended in the air. "So, you made it here after all, then?" She grins a toothy grin. You clutch your weapon in hand. It suddenly seems flimsy, your armor paper-thin. A subtle fear spell? Cool. You push through it. Not powerful enough, it seems. This will be a piece of cake. That time you "wasted" grinding outside the final dungeon seems like it paid off. The smug voice continues to jab at you "you know this is all for the better, right? You know what you're doing is foolish, right?" It cackles at you, filling you with rage. "This bitch is gonna die" you think, smiling. "You know that this doesn't involve you, right?" She asks, feigning(?) genuine curiosity. "Your intent to destroy the magic we rely on does indeed involve me" Your character replies. "...what" She seems stunned. "Is that- What you think???" She laughs. Full on. Full-chested laughter. Enough to take her out for a moment. The tomes surrounding her drop as she's unable to keep the focus on them. She stops. Suddenly, looking to you again. You notice a liquid(?) pooling in her mouth. From where she was sitting on her haunches, she how stands on all four paws. "No. I feel no need to explain myself to you. You'll not believe me regardless. I do not intent to destroy magic. Doing so would destroy myself, if you can believe it" The liquid pooling in her mouth begins to lick at her cheeks. It's a sort of magic-flame. "Lets get this over with quick hun. I'm very nearly done with my work." Her wings unfurl, two great, feathered wings behind her. The flames within her maw intensify. She stretches her claws, anticipating the feeling of tearing you apart.
It took you much too long, but you've finally beaten her. Her healthbar is empty. You strike for the final time, and - The screen flashes. All you see is white, and the distant red of her eyes. Laughter. Manic laughter is all that's audible. "You are so cute, you know that?" "Do you understand how many have tried, and how many have failed before you, darling?" "Now I'll give you one more chance. You can consign yourself right now and I'll let you walk out of here." The screen fades from white. The dragon looms over you again. "...No? Okay." You watch as the dragon's form shifts, ever so slightly. Her fur lightening in hue, two more wings unfurling on her back. The flame in her throat redoubling, more tomes flying around her. "I am not going to let some pathetic human stop me from finding them again, you understand? I am nearly there. You will not take this away from me now." "...And by the way? I noticed these, but I don't think you need them, so I did you a favor. You're welcome." "SAVE FILES DELETED" flashes upon your screen.
HEX'S TURN MANAFIRE 999999 DAMAGE
You are far past fucked.
1: the world as it exists is exactly the one hex wishes to bring about 2: many, many thousands of years and untold tragedies have befallen between hex retreating into herself and now 3: the reader is them, with their understanding of myself, their knowledge of me and their friendship. they did not die, for whatever reason that might be (answer this?) 4: hex cannot see the world, she is blinded by her ambition so far as to be entirely blind. 5: she is a mess. barely alive. eyes manic and begging for release yet a body that won't let her. she's artifice, at this point just the core 6: Florence is hex.at some point hex lost her soul and Florence was created as a result