NOVEL NEXT Chapter 4: The relaxing chamber
As evening, or something akin to it, descends upon the subterranean world after what they might certainly describe as being ‘a day’, the now twice-fallen combatants find themselves inexplicably reborn once more, their wounds healed, and their strength returned. They stand together, united now not by battle but by the shared experience of resurrection, as they return again into the depths of the underground dungeon that holds them captive — namely, into their designated quarters.
“I want to go home,” mutters someone in the back, getting told to shut up by several people at the same time. This kind of talk was already dealt with yesterday.
“Hey!” barks an orc, grabbing an elf. “You shot me in the eye, asshole!”
“I guess you should watch where you’re going,” replies the elf, swiping his hand off as she keeps walking.
There’s still a bit of the spirit of ‘don’t take it personally’ that needs to find accommodation within everyone here.
Their footsteps echo softly through the dimly-lit passageways as they explore the vaguely familiar hole in which they find themselves. The air is cool and damp, with a faint, musty scent that clings to their senses, a persistent reminder of their imprisonment beneath the world. The brickwork walls are hewn from rough stone of a colorfully painted white marble, splashed with many colors and worn smooth in places by the passage of time. It’s like they’re in an old, ornate palace — in the chambers of some forgotten fortress of grandeur.
A series of chambers have been set aside as living quarters for the participants in the colosseum. There is a sense of eerie stillness here at the moment that stands in stark contrast to the chaos and violence of the arena they left behind now, now that the first ‘game’ is over. Their bodies are healed, but their destroyed clothing and armor aren’t. Covered in blood and gore, the living trudge back like a swarm of shambling undead. The rooms ahead are lit by flickering torches mounted on iron sconces, casting pools of warm light that serve to dispel some of the darkness that pervades this subterranean realm.
“I don’t think I like dying,” mutters a priest, the others around him nodding in agreement.
“Do you think we’ll have to do this every day?” asks another voice, receiving only confused shrugs and guesses in response.
Each chamber of the quarters is furnished with a simple yet functional aesthetic. Sturdy wooden beds, their frames holding the weight of straw-filled mattresses, are lined against the walls in many rows — one per head. Coarse linen sheets and rough woolen blankets provide a modicum of comfort to the weary occupants, who will seek rest within their embrace. They are barebones, but functional. And this is proven immediately as many people, very content to lie in their own filth, flop down onto the beds while still wearing their grimy trappings that they have worn since their first deaths on the surface.
Heavy wooden chests stand at the foot of each bed, offering storage for personal belongings and a place to sit when weariness overwhelms them. A large, long, rectangular table occupies the center of the quarters, surrounded by a mismatched collection of chairs and stools that bear evidence of long use and countless repairs.
The man who had come in third place with the spear looks around the chambers.
It’s a very strange place. On the one hand, the walls and the stonework hint at it being quite the spectacle of wealth and power. On the other hand, the furniture is very…
He lowers his gaze, looking at a large carpet that looks like it could have come from his own grandmother’s house.
— It is very unspectacular at the moment. Perhaps this is some incentive for them? Perhaps they are meant to buy more creature comforts with these ‘champion points’?
In one corner, a small hearth has been carved into the stone wall, providing warmth and the means to cook simple meals. The crackle of burning logs and the faint scent of woodsmoke mingle with the damp air, lending a sense of homely familiarity to the otherwise cold surroundings.
In a separate chamber adjacent to the main quarters, a large communal bath has been carved from the very stone that forms the foundations of the underground dungeon. The room hums with the sound of cascading water as it flows from a natural spring, filling the pool with a gentle warmth that beckons to those who seek respite from their grim surroundings. Several adventurers, still reeling from the violent melee that preceded their unexpected resurrection, find solace in the cleansing waters of the bath.
Underneath the soft glow of flickering torchlight, they submerge themselves in the water, letting it swallow them whole. The sound of running bathwater melds with quiet sighs of relief as tired muscles unknot and tense nerves begin to unwind. As they scrub their bodies clean with rough sponges, the once-warring combatants now find themselves brought together by shared vulnerability and gangly body awkwardness. In this space, where battle-hardened exteriors are stripped away, they are exposed not just physically but emotionally as well. The weight of recent memories - the clash of steel on steel, cries of anguish and fury - leave invisible scars on their hearts and minds.
— To put it simply, it’s awkward to bathe with the people you were murdered by or had murdered moments prior. It takes a little getting used to.
In this momentary sanctuary, conversations begin to flow as freely as the water around them. Battle-worn veterans exchange tales of near-misses and daring feats, while others share stories about their lives before their entrapment in Munera's dungeon. Awkward laughter bubbles up from time to time, a bittersweet reminder of what life could be beyond these suffocating walls. Despite their differences in race and creed - humans, elves, orcs, and fairies all mingling together - they find common ground in their shared suffering and uncertain future.
Back in the quarters outside of the bathes are faded tapestries that adorn the walls, depicting scenes of battles and mythical creatures that have long since faded from memory. Frayed rugs like the one the spearman stands on lie scattered upon the cold stone floors, their vibrant colors dulled by years of use, yet still offering some small measure of comfort to bare feet in comparison with the naked stonework below.
People begin to loosely separate from one another. Some of them return to their familiar groups, whom they knew from their past lives. Others, somewhat troubled by being murdered by their friends only seconds ago, loosely shuffle around and recollect together in new, nervous pairings, and others just straggle around, wandering and looking in a daze. Not everybody is handling this… sudden transition well.
Many of the others are in a pseudo-shock of sorts. They’re not really… all here at the moment.
Of these many groups comes together one of the more gentle minded collections — a group consisting of people who aren’t actually fighters in and of themselves. In the midst of the somber atmosphere that pervades the underground dungeon, the black-haired semi-finalist priestess, Niji-ji, and a druid find themselves united in a common purpose now that the bleak fight has ended – to provide healing and comfort for their fellow resurrected combatants. The healing is done, so instead they set to work on a more important task.
“That was pretty dirty of you,” says the druid, looking her way. She’s likely referring to the priestess’ underhanded tactics of betrayal during the arena session.
The woman shrugs, shaking her head as she ties her hair back behind her head with a small band. Her fingers trace the spot where her own skull had been pierced not an hour ago but find nothing out of the ordinary there. “I’m getting out of here,” she says. “It’s not personal. It’s business.”
“…Huh…” mutters the druid, looking at Niji-ji as the odd-contrast comes to the forefront. That is, the rather heartless priestess, who has now offered her services to help cook for the community.
People are complicated, aren’t they?
With a shared understanding of the healing power of food and fellowship, they work together over an imposing cast iron cauldron that dominates one corner of the communal dining hall by the hearth. Next to it is a stockpile of raw ingredients that are all very…
“…Edible…” mutters the priestess, looking at a tuber she picks up from the pile.
The ingredients provided by Munera, the dungeon core, and their captor are an assortment of roots, tubers, and very pale and mushy greens that appear to have been harvested from deep within the bowels of the harrowing darkness. While these gifts are tinged with suspicion, hunger eventually overcomes caution as the priestess and druid prepare a simple yet nourishing stew. What else is there to do, after all?
It wouldn’t make any sense for the dungeon-core to poison them after all of this. It wants to keep them.
“Is there any salt?” asks a wizard who has joined in to help.
“I don’t think so,” replies the druid, shaking her head as she looks around.
Niji-ji looks over their way. “I bet we have to buy it with our points,” she explains. “As an extra.”
“You think?” asks the druid. “You have the most; you want to?”
“No,” replies Niji-ji dryly, grabbing a dull peeler as she sets to work on peeling the first tuber. “Told you. I’m getting out of here.”
The druid sighs. “It’s just salt. What could it cost?” she asks.
“One point,” replies the wizard.
“Huh?” They both look over his way. He points over his shoulder toward a kiosk that is built into the wall of the quarters. Behind the counter stands a skeleton. Several basic items are lined up on display with a price-tag next to them. There are things like new clothes and armor, weapons, and magical scrolls. There are potions and boots, but also more pragmatic things,such as blankets and furniture. Everything that could be considered a comfort of any nature past the basics of survival and hot bathwater has to be bought.
“…We have to pay for soap too…?” mutters a man from the side.
“Just bathe without it,” remarks Niji-ji, sliding the peeler over the tuber as she works, receiving a few looks. “What?” she asks, glaring up from her work. “I’m not wasting a single point.” She lifts the knife, pointing to the ceiling. “One-hundred and I’m out. That’s the goal.” She sighs, shaking her head. “You’d have to be stupid to waste your escape on some trinkets and candy.”
Of course, as she’s saying this, there are people lining up at the kiosk to do just that — spending their one point on some comforting things to help them get through the night. Some people buy sweets or tea; others buy an extra scratchy blanket to stack on top of their one free one and so on.
The flames beneath the cauldron dance in a mesmerizing pattern as Niji-ji then stirs the bubbling contents with a long wooden spoon. She murmurs over the concoction. An outsider might assume that she’s praying and blessing the food being made, but in reality, she’s just muttering about people being idiots. Beside her, the druid carefully selects various herbs and spices from her own worn leather satchel, grinding them together with practiced ease. She casts them into the cauldron with a subtle flourish, each donation of some of her personal collection for the communal food receiving a side-eye from Niji-ji.
The druid lifts a finger. “You don’t make friends with bland food,” she explains, winking.
“We’re not here to make friends,” remarks Niji-ji, striking the thick spoon against the pot to get some of the goo off.
The aroma that fills the dining hall is at once homesome and inviting, drawing their fellow captives towards them like moths to a flame. As they gather around this makeshift hearth, confusion and wariness remain etched upon their faces – they are, after all, all strangers who only moments ago were locked in mortal combat.
“Hey. Nice job,” says a man on the side. He’s the human man who fights with a tower-shield and he’s talking to the fairy who won the first bout.
“It was nothing,” replies Frejvald, the fairy, nervously rubbing the back of his head. He turns to look at Niji-ji, lifting a hand. “Sorry about that. You’re not mad, right?”
— She hits the spoon against the pot again, clearly being very mad. Which is probably fair.
As the stew is ladled into simple wooden bowls and distributed among the assembled company, an uneasy silence settles over the dining quarters. Each person takes a cautious taste of the steaming broth, their expressions shifting from suspicion to surprise as they discover that it is not only edible but actually quite wholesome and flavorful —it seems that someone actually bought the salt after all. A whole kilogram is far more than is needed for a single meal, even for this many people. So some remains for later still. The act of eating together and breaking bread with those who were enemies, begins to soften the barriers that stand between them. Wary glances are replaced by hesitant smiles.
Niji-ji watches as everyone sits down.
— Someone slaps her on the back, causing her to almost tumble over.
“Thanks for doing this; you guys did great!” praises a man she recognizes. “Here. Share this,” he says, holding out a small bag of mixed candies as a gift for them, since they cooked for everybody.
She stares in vague disbelief at the third-place winner, the man with the spear. “Really?” she asks. “You’re wasting your -”
“- Thanks!” yells the druid, snatching the bag from his hand.
“HEY!” barks Niji-ji, chasing after her as she runs off, leaving a somewhat over-worked wizard to man the cauldron.
Munera, the dungeon-core, watches them all from above, below, left, and right. Curiously and hungrily, it views the participants and their interactions from all angles — some more intimate than others. They’re interesting.
Very interesting.
Some of them have already begun fighting in their own way outside of the arena. It watches them whisper in the baths, speak at the tables, and clench hands in the back corners. People are coming up with plans, teams, and schemes. Others are trying to win over the broad masses with kindness and helpfulness. Others are still going independent, sticking by themselves and scaring off anyone who comes too close.
The first fight in the arena was against a monster.
The second was them against themselves.
Perhaps the third should have a new opponent, one who hasn’t been fielded yet — the arena itself.
Maybe it’s time for a game?
And maybe it’s time to bring in some viewers from the outside? Munera shifts its vision, looking out of its dungeon-gate at the world beyond. There, far over the old battlefield, on the edge of the horizon, is a city.
— A city full of potential participants and fans of the spectacles to come.
“Hey,” says Munera, looking over at a skeleton inside of the dungeon that has never stopped screaming.
It looks up its way, an old broom in hand. “Get out there and bring me some humans,” it orders.
The quietly screaming skeleton drops the broom and then shuffles outward into the world, its whistling cry fading into the distance as it goes forth, vanishing into the beyond.