So Read some Lovecraft for this
Armour: Victide (Ranger)
Weapon: Barinade (Jester Arrows); Arkhalis
Acc(11/11): Band of Regeneration, Amidas Spark, Sailfish Boots, Luxor's Gift, Aglet, Rover Drive, Crown Jewel, Tsunami in a Bottle, Frog Leg, Aero Stone, Shield of the Ocean
Health: (400/400)
He was alone again. Just him and his books - or, in this case, ancient crumbling scrolls read by crude, flickering firelight. He'd spent many a summer just like this, poring over any text he could get his hands on. Hungrily devouring knowledge like his very life depended on it. Perhaps it was also a compulsion. A role the hand of destiny had assigned him at birth for its own mysterious purposes. He had been blessed and cursed with a photographic memory. Nothing he had seen or heard ever slipped from his mind. Recipes for innumerable potions, weapons, charms, trinkets, furniture, mystical items. Information about creatures great and small: The Dragon of the Old Ones' Army. The Great Ocean Beasts: Leviathan, Scourge, Fishron. The Plague infected bees which swarmed the underground jungle, searing the lush greenery with nuclear toxins. The Amalgamation of Defiled Souls - victims of King Yharim's war - whose ire was so profound and their suffering so great, they bound together in mindless rage as the dungeon's 'Polterghast'.
I told him about Antlions and their weak points before he left… he should be okay… I hope...
Half an hour ago, The Guide woke from a concussion-induced nap and crawled out of the caving tent the Terrarian had set up for him before he had gone scouting. As of now, The almost-man was nowhere in sight. The Guide figured he was still underground, blasting holes in the sandstone and battling scuttling hordes of antlions. The Terrarian didn't need sleep anyways. He seemed to subsist on thin air and motivation, so naturally he would capitalize on the down time. That was fine, preferred actually. The Guide neither wanted, nor expected The Terrarian to sit around and watch him sleep.
Eugh. Right… let's get back to work...
He yawned, picked up another scroll and propped his elbow on the low workbench to begin reading. He still had a massive headache, was pretty hungry, but he wasn't tired anymore and needed something to pass the time. At his feet lay the Cnidarian's crumbling corpse and the chest it had been so carefully guarding. The chest had been stuffed with scrolls, and The Guide had resolved to read as much as he could before The Terrarian returned and they continued into the depths. So far, most of the letters had been flowery poems flattering 'His Majesty Amidas' - something The Guide expected, considering this was a burial chamber. However, as he cracked open the seal for the next scroll-
Hm?
The Guide blinked. His concentration had been broken by… nothing apparently? He looked around the burial chamber to find nothing had changed. Nothing had moved. What had disturbed him? What caused a chill to scurry down his back and goosebumps to appear suddenly on his skin? Alarmed, The Guide silently looked around, then huddled closer to the fire.
"…"
After a long moment, after the chill receded, The Guide took a deep breath. Was… was that just his imagination? Perhaps he was getting lonely? Maybe it was just getting cold. None of the excuses succeeded in putting him at ease, but he tore the seal and unfurled the document anyways. It had been stamped closed with torpid black wax, and unlike the rest of the scrolls, didn't boast flowery decorations or gold imprinted watermarks. It was a simple parchment, and upon it was scrawled handwriting so violent, it might have been written by the embodiment of rage itself.
The Guide raised his eyebrows and read closely.
A monolith to the Coward King, let this monument stand for time immemorial. All who find this record, recall with seething disgust the one who condemned his people to burning death. He whose pride was so great, and whose heart was so blind, he blotted out his people from the face of the earth. Woe, Woe. Let none show him kindness nor pity. Let Calamity overtake him. Let his children be beggars. Let his infants be dashed upon the crags.
The Guide blinked. Who could have written this, and how the hell did such a record find its way into The King's burial chamber. Wait… 'Let none show him kindness?' 'Let Calamity overtake him?' those were curses - curses that appeared to be proclaimed not over a dead body, but a living person! The Guide glanced at the small pile of decorated scrolls he had just finished reading - and a quick moment of reflection confirmed his suspicion. None of those scrolls made it explicitly clear the Sea King had actually died here. Perhaps he was only missing? Very likely! There's hope!
The Guide continued to read.
… The Sea King refused to disclose his knowledge of that terrible eldritch deity, and for this he paid. For such knowledge, have we been ruined. For this, we have faced destruction. The King coveted his secret, so I will declare it here to all who read: That Dreaming god who hailed from the dizzying abyss of cosmic infinity! The Lord of The pitch black Abyss, of which no man had yet gazed upon and fled with his mind intact! He who rules the maddening spaces between pallid stars, whose deep darkness pulses with the horrible monstrosities that are mercifully hidden from the eyes of men. He whose…
His mouth fell open as the words washed through his mind's eyes. He automatically tried to picture what The Writer described, and the images his brain supplied made him shiver and his stomach grow cold. The Guide knew of creatures, yes… but gods? He'd only heard whispers, for their names held power. The Great Dreamer. The Goddess of the Profaned. The Twisting Abyss. The Herald of Lightning. The Reaper of the Dead. The Wyrm of the Cosmos, whose mindless hunger devours all. These were Terrifying beings to whom The Guide was fain to cast his mind to, lest he lose himself. Those were gods. He was but a man, only surviving by hiding in his plain, utter insignificance. Should he draw their attention, then what hope had he? This knowledge was dangerous, yet, he coveted it. He devoured the pages like a man possessed.
He whose flesh and blood have splattered to the earth, staining the world with detestable creeping abominations. A vast graveyard of squirming, Rotting Gore, which is dead yet lives for time immemorial. Within its bowels, stinking alien organs pulse and splurt, defiling the very stones upon which they lay with spewing poison - as thick as pitch. Eyes which roam, wild, sickly orbs fly screeching through the sky like accursed heralds of death. The slurping, intestinal worms which plunge mercilessly through the shrieking flesh - full of teeth and eyes, and leaving the ravaged land howling and bleeding ichor. The Lunatic mind dwells in the pulsing cavern. A horrid amalgamation of man, beast, plant and god, a defiled prison in which hundreds, no hundreds of thousands of creatures exist at once - altogether straining into the abyss. Altogether screaming voicelessly into cruel deaf ears.
The Guide's breath rasped in his throat. His hands visibly trembled as he reached the end of the scroll's crumbling parchment. The firelight seemed to dim and flicker around him. The winking treasures in the burial chamber had begun to observe him, carefully, malevolently watching.
Then, The Wall. The Wall. Woe… the Wall. The gaping retainer of souls. The obscene Keeper of Hell. None will escape. There is no temple to such an abomination, it possesses no consciousness to receive worship or horrid sacrifice. Its mind that is no mind is filled with trembling insatiable rage. Its mouth that is no mouth yawns wide to consume. None will escape it. None can appease. It is inevitable. Beware reader, The Dreamer mustn't wake. Beware.
…
…
Silence.
It Laughed at him, loud in the chamber. Its raucous howling echoed in his skull causing his guts to writhe about like cold snakes. His mind had gone blank, terrified and entranced with the enormity of his opponent: The Dreamer. The god. The Crimson. The Eye. The Worms which perforated the earth. The Brain. The Wall?
The Wall?
That word made him uncomfortable. He felt disgust, yet something deep beyond his soul lurched in glee. An eager otherworldly resonance stirred his bones - like a monster rattling the bars of its cage.
The Wall.
As the word rang in his mind, pealing like a clear bell, a jolt rent through his heart. A cold - searing pain so abrupt, it caused him to sharply cry aloud. He collapsed upon himself, thrashing on the floor, clutching wildly at his chest as the agony traversed his nerves, searing him from within until he no longer knew who he was. Bile pooled in his stomach and came spilling from between retching lips. He hacked and coughed, the ancient parchment crumbling to dust in his balled fist.
The Wall.
A voice screamed in his mind, it was his own voice. Wild, unrestrained, vicious and cruel beyond belief. It was laughing at him, howling in malicious glee as it recited the words of that profaned chant to the beat of vile unheard drums and the shrill scream of accursed flutes.
The Wall. The Wall. The Wall! THE WA-
Then. Silence.
The fire had extinguished.
The torches had gone out.
The Guide lay there, slowly curling to hug his knees against his chest.
He gazed into deep nothingness, gasping in the darkness.
"Huh? Whaddya mean, Trap?"
The tall, olive skinned man looked to both sides, then blinked dumbly at him. He was a tall specimen, a strong looking individual who seemed to carry an optimistic, almost foolhardy aire about him. He wore a long cloak, under which the muzzles of many, many firearms clattered against each other. There was no wonder he could walk around so boldly. He was a veritable arsenal.
Exactly what I need.
The Old Merchant shook his head, feigning sadness.
"I mean, this is a prison - young lad. A powerful spell has been cast on this place by an evil magician. Once you step foot into this perimeter, there's no escape! Why have you come to this accursed place! Turn back while you can!"
The young man scoffed, and turned to glance over his shoulder at the sun - which was dipping low in the sky. The Merchant knew he wouldn't take this warning to heart. Even full fledged armies didn't like to spend the night in the open. The threat of being gruesomely eaten alive was simply too great to scorn the compound's sturdy walls in favor of a shallow grave.
The dark-skinned man whipped out a pistol and spun it expertly around his fingers, as if to display his proficiency with firearms. He grinned as he did so, almost childishly enjoying everything and anything to do with guns. After a long moment, he stowed away the pistol and replied excitedly to The Merchant's grave warning.
"It's no problem Old Man- really. I'm the toughest guy around! The Best Gunsmith in the north, they call me… I just broke out of a Resistance prison not too long ago, and I've collected all their weapons! I've been wandering around for the past two days, and even Bandit Gangs take one look at me and skedaddle. All I need to do is point this baby, and-"
He yanked out a strange, shark shaped? Shotgun from one of the many hooks beneath his trenchcoat and branished it wildly. Thankfully, he didn't fire - but he did supply the sound effects verbally.
"Brrrrrr… a-Brrrrrr, and viola. Problem solved, right?"
The Merchant bit back a 'How old are you?' and instead leapt upon the opportunity to undercut his rival. After The Guide and the Monster Knight had left this morning, The Merchant had spent the day probing the perimeter - per his daily routine - checking his rabbit traps, and collecting herbs and vittles. During the late hours of afternoon, he had encountered this man wandering about along the strange, teleporting perimeter - disoriented and confused. The Merchant had found him, and decided in the same way The Slayer served as The Guide's blade, this gunsmith would serve as The Merchant's.
This guy... maybe he can kill The Monster Knight.
All he needed to do was a bit of manipulation, and he was gold. Obviously, This man wasn't particularly wily in the ways of deception - but his skills were no farce. It was obvious from the many scars on his hands, and the naturalness with which he handled his weapons, that he what he lacked in traditional intelligence, he made up for in combat sense. The Old Man feigned sadness once more and shook his head.
"Unfortunately not… The Magician has a Knight with him - a very powerful knight. He's not human, but instead a terrifying monster. Even your… shotgun may not be able to take him down."
"Minishark."
"Minishark, of course."
The man patted the Minishark on its strange little head, before lovingly stowing it back beneath his coat. The Merchant couldn't help but raise his eyebrows at that. This man looked like one of his nephews, playing with his favorite stuffed animal… except that animal was a shark with a dual muzzle barrel protruding from its mouth.
The Merchant continued.
"Let me propose something, Mister...?"
"Arms Dealer."
"Mister Arms Dealer. I've been observing the Magician and his Monster Knight for quite a while now. Why don't you allow me to plan for their... disposal. For now, come back to the compound. Rest, eat and drink. We have an endless supply of ale and tonight's dinner is Rabbit Stew."
Slayer: *Proffers Antlion's severed Abdomen*
Guide:(cranky)... why did you bring me this?
S: Food.
G: This is not food.
S:...
G: You tried to feed me a vulture earlier too. I can't eat that. It'll give me worms.
S:...
G: No! put the worms away. I said I -don't- want worms!
So some notes I guess. 1) The Chest That the Guide found is actually the Desert Shrine Chest in Calamity - which contains unique Item Luxor's Gift. Which T switched out his Round Shield for. 2) Town NPCs cannot leave the town. The only escape is death. The origin's of the Town's power is the Terrarian - who isn't aware of this. Guide is able to leave because he is accompanying The Terrarian 3) Slayer has no idea about normal bodily functions. He has no idea what is safe/unsafe to eat because he never eats anything.
Thank you for all your support & feedback. as always its much appreciated.