Welf Crozzo, Level 1 Adventurer, Hephaestus Familia

It was always the same story, again and again and again. He tries to assemble a group to help take him further down, they learn his last name is Crozzo, and their palms outstretch asking for crutches. Crutches made of straw. Crutches that only waste everyone's time.

Magic Swords, blades filled to the brim with elemental spirits, ready to be unleashed with a firm swing. Blades filled with so much magic that they crack through. Blades that might break every time you swing one due to how brittle they become. Everything else sacrificed in the name of greater and briefer power.

Utterly useless. The same power could be achieved with effort and time at far less cost, but the insistence on now poisoned the world. Then, the power fades, the sword shatters, and you die because you sacrificed everything for immediate strength. Immediate glory.

How could he make something so wretched, as a smith? How could he sleep after making something designed to shatter and fail when the user needs it? So he refuses, and the mood of those strangers he assembled turns sour. Disappointment, anger, bargaining, and more. The final result is always the same, however.

'Don't come back.'

So he pushed on his own, getting as far as he could in the Dungeon without aid from others. He was strong, blessed by the grace of Hephaestus and another before her, having lived and grown with this power since his early teenage years. Each day accumulating slightly more power, like filling a well with cups, he exercised, he smithed, he fought, he ate, he rested.

His muscles were bolstered with divinity, and nearly a thousand pounds he could lift and carry over his shoulders. His footspeed and reactions were on par with the mortal athletes of his home, and were getting swifter each day. His skin was like boiled leather, and the claws and teeth of goblins and kobolds could not reach him through it.

Floor Eleven is what stopped him each and every time. Hard Armored, Infant Dragons, Silverbacks. Those were not enemies a lone level one could overcome. He needed a team, or he needed tremendous luck. Only a fool relies on luck.

So he thickened his sword, and turned it into a great cleaver-blade. He exercised with anvils and carved lesser monsters into chucks. He accumulated slow and steady strength, the kind required to defeat the monsters of floor eleven and progress. Seeking allies the same as he always had, even if each attempt in that regard ended the same.

His blade cleaved through the tongue of a frog shooter, and he twisted into an approach, letting him bring his great blade up again for another downwards chop upon its head as it recoiled. His cleaver-blade had no name, it didn't need a name while it was still in his hands. A great thing, five or so feet in length and two finger-widths thick that made mockery of mortal blades and cleaved through the lesser monsters in a single swing.

He wasn't managing to keep up with a supposed freshly-graced adventurer.

Bell, he was managing to outpace through power and experience, though it was a closer thing than he was expecting. The rookie wielded two blades, one long and one short, and used them talentedly but not skillfully, not yet. The larger blade was slower to act, used defensively for the most part, and set up for the faster blade. Then, when the situation called for it, the larger blade was used for wide and powerful swings that cleaved into monsters but left the rookie vulnerable for a moment or two.

He was further slowed by the additional layers of armor, unused to moving in the combined bulk, though Welf was confident that he wouldn't have that problem if he simply used Pyonkichi Mk-II as is. The armor was allowing him to shrug off blows he wasn't quite managing to avoid yet, however. Armor like that would only last two blows against a monster from floor eleven.

Welf was managing to outpace the rookie in terms of defeated monsters, each swing of his great cleaver ending a life through its weight and his personal strength alone.

Welf was well-behind the supposed former mercenary. The man who seemed to be about his age, at most a handful of years older and just particularly youthful. He spoke and fought like the veterans that Welf knew in his youth. He insisted on the use of heavy armor, the kind that would limit the bending of the torso and rotation of the shoulders.

After a few floors down, Wlef had noticed the lack of weapons on the man save the arm-mounted crossbow and large bag. A man who insisted on staying well armored and at range of his enemies? Caution might let you survive, but few heroes stand back while battle rages on. His opinion of the fellow had shrunk again, but professionalism held his tongue.

Welf had mistaken a side-arm for a primary-arm. The man named Adam Smasher fought in a striking manner.

With fists and feet.

Well-armored arms exploding forwards, blurring as they moved, and each blow turning flesh and bone into hot gore, painting the walls and floors of the Dungeon. Monster-flesh bursting like ripe fruits as they were struck. The range of motion was still limited by the physical constraints of the armor, although that did little to slow the man down.

Twin fists burst forth three times, three Killer Ants died. Their shell was like pottery, shattering under mailed hands.

Momentum of each blow carried into another blow, efficiently turning monsters into corpses, sometimes skipping straight to a butchery by planting a fist into flesh and ripping out the core in a single motion. When a monster attacked from an angle that fists could not handle, the truly impressive moments began.

A shifting in weight brought the man backwards, flipping over to kick a war-shadow upwards and making it crash against a distant poison moth. Hands caught his momentum, then a flex and twist brought him around in a spin-kick that shattered mandibles and rightened him once more.

Kicks, leaps, spins, movements not technically constrained by the inflexible plates but not ones any would consider effective in the midst of a chaotic clash. Inefficient and tiring feats of athletics, in the midst of a matter of life or death? Punches leading into kicks leading into backflips leading into stomps leading into…

It never stopped once beginning, a tall figure in black plate turning every motion into a killing-motion that led him closer to another target. Movement and violence unified. The armor was used as a weapon, adding to the weight of his blows, used actively to send oncoming claws aside, and crushing through enemies.

Welf had seen many in heavy armor fight and die before, in his homeland. Men in heavy armor did not move like this. Adventurers who still wore heavy plate, even level twos and threes that he had seen a time or two, did not move like this. Once he had seen a warrior from a distant land, wearing cloth and wrappings over deep wrinkles and a foreign tongue. That warrior did not move like this, fighting evasively and with minimal effort required for each action.

The man named Smasher fought like nothing Welf had ever seen. Every time he attacked, something died. Every time he moved, he attacked. As long as there was a monster present, he did not stop moving.

Blows were rarely dodged, usually only ignored by virtue of the heavy plate he wore, giving him the ability to focus utterly on attacking. Claws scrapped over metal, tongues were grabbed and used as leverage, mandibles crushed and shattered, horns snapped off. Only the moths and papilos were given the honors of proper weapons, each slain with a single well-placed bolt from the arm-crossbow before their dander could spread.

He swung again, and cleaved a war shadow at the waist, sending halves to either side behind him, the lower body quickly burning to ash as it moved. He swung again, and cleaved another shadow from the shoulder to the hip. His arms were beginning to tire with exertion. His pride refused to let him slow down.

Moreover, the monsters pouring into their front demanded a constant and brutal pace. The sixth floor had an entrance to the first monster pantry, a towering crystal in an equally massive room that staked through both floors seven and six. Sometimes used as a hunting spot for rare monsters, sometimes used as an alternative route down to floor seven, sometimes used for other purposes.

The man named Smasher had seen it, and decided that the best course of action would be to clear it out completely. 'That would make the most of this trip'. He had declared. Welf had a mind to protest, but he had no chance of swaying a vote, and no mind to prove himself a burden.

The walls behind them were utterly exhausted by their slow advance, something that would apparently allow them to handle pass parades should they come upon them. Performing this same tactic against the onslaught of monsters coming from the pantry and into the narrower corridor that they were situated in, Welf could see exactly how it could work.

They had set up in the second row, behind Adam, to guard the Pallum supporters he had hired behind them. Adam had gone to the entrance, and had shouted furious taunts into the pantry until the swarms began to descend upon him, and made a fighting retreat back into the corridor.

It was like watching hell open up behind him as he returned to them. Like a tidal wave of monsters of all kinds from the sixth and seventh floors. Like a dam had broken and a river of monstrous flesh was rushing towards them.

More striking was how that wave crashed into 'Senpai' and broke against his fists.

It was sobering to realize that the kid, Bell, had not been exaggerating how effective his other familia member was.

He had actually been downplaying the man.

He swung in a wide arc, his cleaver-blade turning two war-shadows into halves, and stomped back to avoid the mandibles of a killer ant. His arms twisted, his sword came up overhead, then crashed down. The killer ant was split in half at the head.

Another stomp back, then a swing. A fighting retreat back into already-exhausted and thus safer walls. Already they had left a hallway of corpses nearly knee-high, more gore and viscera than Welf had seen in any place but one. Here there was no soil to absorb the blood, which instead flowed like a sluggish river under their feet.

"Frogs at our backs!" the veteran tone of one of the Pallum supporters, a man named Tomas, called out.

Two fists turn two monsters into sprays of gore. "Scrappy, handle it!" The gore-stained man in black plate snarled out behind him, adjusting his backwards pace to cover the left side of the hall more than he had been and freeing Bell to go to the back. It seemed like every line was a growl, rumble, grumble, or snarl. Nothing light came from those lips.

Which meant Welf was no longer just handling a flank, but rather half of the tidal wave of monsters.

He spat as he stepped back. Fine by him. His cleaver needed room to cut.

He swung again, and weighty steel carved into three unfortunate monsters, sending them to the ground. He was used to fighting alone regardless, weaker monsters like these weren't an issue, not when they were limited by the scale of the hallway itself. The only issue was, could he last long enough to kill them all?

It was like trying to fight a river with a sword.

That it was working wasinvigorating him.

The man had been lying earlier, it seemed, speaking about how trying to carve a legend was a foolish endeavor. Because if this wasn't something heroic, wasn't something legendary, what the hell was it? What the hell was his homeland like, if this was 'common sense'? Strategy and skill that let three men fight an army of monsters and win.

He didn't know when he started laughing, only that his sword had started to swing itself about halfway through, Bell had returned to the front again, and once more a river of monsters was crashing against a triangle of steel.

This Adam fellow was a complete ass, but damn if he didn't know his stuff when it came to fighting.

He swung, and cleaved another two rabbits as they leapt at him.

War-shadow claws carved a thin groove into his hip. He ignored it, stomping back to swing and cut the offender in two. He'd check the wound later, when they had the time. One of the several wounds that now littered his body. The river of monsters gave him no reprieve to drink a healing potion, not yet.

If he was going to get into fights like these more often, he'd have plenty to afford new equipment. No wonder Adam had insisted on heavier mail, fighting like this all the time. If he was a fresh level one, he'd need way more armor to survive this too.

A horn scrapped against his arm, a backhand sent the horn rabbit flying to crash against the wall. A swing of his cleaver crashed into a frog and split it into halves.

He might still need more armor to survive things like this, thinking about it. It might be worth investing some hours into later.

—

Tomas Barleycorn, Level 1 Supporter, Orcus Familia

"You want to come by the Hostess of Fertility with us? It'll be my treat this time!" The white-haired kid, Cranel, was a real good sort. Tomas could be quite certain of that. A bright smile always persistent on his face, never a rude thing to say about others, dreams about being a hero and a talent with the sword. He was the kind of kid Orario chewed up and spat out.

Tomas raised a tired hand and waved it off with a polite smile. "Maybe next time kid, it's been a long shift for us Pallums, we got to walk faster to keep up with your tall'uns. The only thing on our minds is heading home and hitting the hay."

The kid didn't look too disappointed at that, accepting the excuse with a grin and a sheepish rub of his neck. Not a single hint of suspicion in that body of his. Tomas hoped nothing too bad happened to the lad.

"Same time tomorrow?" The taller one, on the other hand, Tomas was quite certain was an old hand at murder. He moved like an old kneebreaker, a casual sort of mannerism that wouldn't mind shattering your legs with a sledgehammer if he felt like he needed to. It was in the eyes, you see, the eyes and the shoulders when a man walked.

Well that and how the man laughed when he tore monsters apart, that part made it pretty obvious. Tomas was also quite certain that the man was a consummate professional underneath all the gruff and casual insults, the way he handled the contract-making and delves thus far? Not a single violation of their contract so far, not even the minor ones. The closest they had gotten was when the Cranel kid went off and got another to add to their little band, and Smasher had made sure they were paid first before anything else.

"Either we or three of our associates will be here on time, we had a contract after all…" Tomas trailed off, nodding his head back and forth once, before continuing. "Ten percent per supporter isn't scalable, Mister Smasher, I'm sure you know."

The entirely too young professional murderer nodded and dictated terms. "We'll renegotiate shares once the operation expands. For now, it works." Generous early payments to hook them followed by demonstration of potential gains and putting the impetus of their payment worsening on the contingency of additional aid. The kid was entirely too used to this business.

Tomas smiled all gentle-like, and nodded politely. "Just thought I'd inform ya, never hurts to be helpful. If that'll be all, we'll be heading on out now."

Smasher nodded, and Cranel waved goodbye enthusiastically. He and his fellows made their ways out of the Tower and started for the long-route.

"Details on the smith the kid invited?" Susanna asked casually.

"Welf Crozzo. From Rakia. Can potentially make magic swords due to bloodline resurgence but refuses to do so. Otherwise average adventurer." Finlay recited with his usual mask of sleepiness still firmly on his face. "Drank four healing potions in total today, ate a ration of hardbread and salted pork during his lunch, keeps his canteen in his bag. Strength good, speed middling. Favored by his familia captain."

"Nothing to worry about then." Susanna declared. "You're handling the chat with the boss again Tomas?"

"It's my job after all." Tomas responded with a nod. "You two be in the bar if he wants me to call you up, but otherwise enjoy yourselves."

"Got it."
"Sounds good."

The two replied in near-unison. Soon enough, they had reached the nice and confusing alleyways of Daedalus street. Walking down old and familiar paths, he noticed an uptick in activity down in the twelfth section. He'd ask about it later.

Reaching the pallum-sized doors of a sleepy bar, he knocked twice. A slide in the door opened up, and familiar eyes met his gaze.

"Tomas?"

"Tipperary."

The door opened up, letting the three of them inside the pallum-scale bar. He tipped his helmet as he passed the others, who raised their glasses in salute. Susanna and Finlay split off from him, and he made his way over to a door in the back. A pallum man was standing there with a club on his belt.

"Tomas. Boss is inside, said he brought some pipes with him."

Tomas gave a smile, removing his helmet fully and placing it in the crook of his arm. "Thank ye Chistopher. We'll have a drink once you're off, alright?"

"Sounds good by me." The door was opened, and Tomas stepped through into the cozy looking backroom. A brick fireplace on one end, a chute leading out to help ventilate the place. A short table for drinks and smoking, and a door on the side leading to the kitchen.

Tomas walked over to the center and stopped politely.

The figure on the other side of the table exhaled pipesmoke, then spoke. "Tommy-boy… go ahead and take a seat, help yourself to the pipeweed and drink. My treat."

Tomas moved over to the other long-chair, gently setting himself down and placing his helmet on the floor next to the chair. "Sorry about the messy gear, Pops. I'm fresh from down under right now."

"Oh…? Don't worry about that. One of the maids will handle the stains. Go on, have a smoke."

Tomas took off his armored gloves, and took up one of the long pipes provided. Then taking the provided scoop to add a portion of the crushed weed to the pipe, and striking a match to lit the whole affair.

Puffing once, then twice, he exhaled gently. It was the good stuff, Pops was in a good mood.

"Now… You went down again today, with that same group of rookies. Tell me how it went." It wasn't really a question, not that Tomas had any interest in refusing to answer.

When Pops asks you something, you answer.