Dungeon Sniper

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Fool me thrice? Well, in that case, there was more than shame to be had for the fool. Anger, self-contempt, and did I mention anger? Lots and lots of anger.

The so-called Catcher Powder robbed me of my ability to move my body while leaving me completely conscious. I felt like an innocent but dumb teenager under the effect of a date drug and waiting to be gang-banged by a bunch of hairy midgets. Except that I was not going to be r.a.p.ed—I hoped not—but sold.

The four annoyingly cheerful, talkative Dwarves never stopped talking as they carried me on their shoulders and strolled past the dark forest path.

"Someone do the math. What's a thousand gold divided by four?" asked the Dwarf with the yellow hat on.

"Two hundred and twenty-five," answered the one with the blue hat.

That did not sound right.

"That doesn't sound right," echoed the yellow-hatted urchin with my thought. If he was frowning, I could not see but the back of his head and the ridiculous-looking, mustard-colored hat.

"One hundred is for the Catcher Powder."

"So you're nicking an extra hundred? Not on my watch, Gimford."

"One hundred is for the Catcher Powder," the blue-hatted Dwarf referred to as Gimford repeated obstinately.

"Screw your powder, Gimmy," jeered another Dwarf. I could not see whether it was the one with a green or purple hat. They were carrying me by the legs so I could not see him at the current immobile position.

"Yeah, shut up, Gimmy," joined the Mustard Hat.

"If it weren't for my powder, the Human could've bitten any of us," argued Gimford.

"It's a Human, not a wolf, dunce," a scoff from the back.

"Tell that to Ozborne. Ozzy, remember the last time you tried to catch a runaway Human bare-handed?"

"Aye, they bite strong, mates. I still have the teeth mark, right here."

The Dwarves stopped and turned to Ozborne who shifted his body, and thereby swaying me dangerously, to show his hand to his friends. Again, given my trying circ.u.mstance, I could not see the mark even if I wanted to. I did not want to see it anyway.

"That had to hurt," Mustard Hat winced at the sight.

"It did," Ozborne nodded, his movement rocking my body as well. It was starting to get annoying. I was angry before. But this was getting out of control.

"I heard once that the Elves feed them rocks," said Gimmy.

"What for? To grind their teeth?" asked the Dwarf in the back not named Ozborne.

"I don't know. Maybe it's just fun to watch."

"That does sound fun. Should we try?"

"Nah, don't want to waste a perfectly good rock."

Great. Even rocks had more worth than Humans. Did only monsters live in the Dungeon? Where were the Human rights when they were needed the most? Judging from the other races' impression of the Humans, the weak, tasty, and less-important-than-rocks race was destined for extinction. That was a testament to both how pathetic Humans were as well as the brutality and callousness of the other races.

The Dwarves then talked on and on about the criteria that made for good rocks. I had to hear everything while hanging limply by the stout, strong shoulders rocking at every heated discussion. Which was just perfect. Just when I thought I could not want to kill myself anymore.

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The small Dwarf minetown was located just outside an entrance to a mine. The town was a bustling little community with happy, carefree round faces of Dwarves everywhere—which only made me angrier. I wanted to kick their faces in, all of them, with p.l.e.a.s.u.r.e and sincerity.

The four Dwarves with a Human on their shoulders passed the other Dwarves with curious faces looking at me with not pity, but greed.

"You lucky bastards. Should I be waiting at the pub for the celebratory beer rounds?" said one of the passing Dwarves towards the four 'lucky' slave catchers.

"Dream on, Hamstar. You still haven't paid me back for the beer you drank on my tab last year," spat Mustard Hat.

"That was your birthday, Carnelo. You told me you were buying."

"Aaand you're banned from all of my birthday parties in the future."

"That's no way to talk to your mother."

I blinked. Yes, the eyelids were my only properly functioning body part at the time.

"Get bent, Ma."

"To think I let you suckle my t.i.t.s for a year," spat the Dwarf lady, with saliva hanging by her beard's end in the grossest way possible.

"For the record, they tasted awful," scoffed Carnelo.

"Not according to your father, who still clings to them on bed."

"That's just disgusting," muttered Ozborne, and I agreed wholeheartedly.

I did not know which was more shocking: that female Dwarves looked just like male Dwarves—with the beard, beer-belly, and everything—or the casual rudeness exchanged between a mother and a son.

This would be an awkward timing to talk about my mother, and my family was messed up in its own way. Some other time, maybe. When I was less angry, and finally got to punch in some stupid Dwarven faces.

The four Dwarves carried me to one of the huts, their home probably, which was a cozy little place with a fireplace and crib-like beds on each corner. It was pretty small with an incredibly low ceiling, understandably, so I was laid down in the middle of the living room where my head and toes almost touched from wall to wall.

And then came the search, namely the stripping of clothes. I was still immobile, and as disturbing it was to feel the hairy-knuckled hands groping me all over, I felt a little triumphant when the four Dwarves stared down at me with confusion.

"There's no brand," said Carnelo, crumpling his yellow hat in mild confusion.

"Which means he's not a runaway," said Gimford.

"You think, Gimmy? Thanks, because that part wasn't so obvious to all of us," snapped Carnelo.

"You think he's one of those breeding-purpose males? You know, the one that just mates with females and produces children," said the green-capped Dwarf whose name I still had not learned, nor did I care to learn at all, although what he said sounded eerily like Nasty's plan to use me down at the lair, only now I realized that the Elves had beaten him to it. Man, monsters thought alike, did they not? I felt sick just thinking about it.

"I doubt it. Look at the size of that. Not a 'specimen' to my eyes," said Carnelo, smirking at my private part.

In my defense, all of my body parts were limp. And it was cold lying down on the floor with no clothes on. The point was, it was really cold, dammit, and cold temperature tended to have a shrinking effect on certain body parts. The Dwarves did not know what they were talking about, obviously.

"What do we do now?" said Gimford as he looked around his three accomplices, of 'kidnapping a perfectly free and independent Human being.'

"Check this out," Ozborne called out as he picked up Mataki's Blade attached to my pants. He had just pulled it off the sheath, a fancy scabbard on its own but not comparable to the blade itself.

"That's a fancy sword. Orcish?" whistled Carnelo.

"Looks like it," nodded Ozborne as he ran his thick finger along the body of the blade.

"There's the money for our beer then. Let's go," said Carenlo, putting his yellow hat back on.

"I'm taking this too. I owe Shamuel a dagger," said Ozbourne.

No. Not my Dapper.

" Yeah? What's the story?"

"I picked my nose with his. Now he wants his own fresh nose-picker."

Dapper. You really did not deserve this.

I grunted and writhed all I could, but the Dwarves had already moved on from paying any attention to me and were chattering excitedly over daggers and their other utilitarian, disgusting purposes.

"The best part is that you can cut your nose hair 'while' you pick your nose."

"Who started this dagger-for-nose fad anyway?"

"I know. Amazing, right?"

"What about this junk?" Gimford picked up the Crude Short Sword, its blade dull and barely serviceable at this point but filled with memories—of stabbing six Goblins in their sleep. I had been so busy I had yet to name it—Shorty, no, Crudey, its name was Crudey—

And Gimford just snapped the blade in half as he would a cracker. First, impressive strength. Second, did his just kill my Crudey for real?

"One for each nose," said Gimford, holding up the broken blade in both hands.

"I don't know. Feels like overkill," Ozbourne shook his head.

"Yeah, you're right," nodded Gimford as he threw the broken pieces of Crudey to a trash basket in the corner.

I closed my eyes in pain and thanked Crudey for all the glorious moments we shared together.

Just before they reached for the door, Gimford looked back and stared down at me with an indifferent face.

"Should we tie him up or something? In case the powder wears off."

"You do it. I'm done touching that hairless body," Carnelo shuddered visible before heading out of the hut, followed by the two others. What, did they think I enjoyed getting stripped n.a.k.e.d by their hairy, stubby fingers? I flipped them the middle finger, not physically but mentally, and I meant it with my heart.

Gimford went to a shelf and came over to me with a rope. He did not even make eye contact as he cuffed my hands behind my back and tied my ankles together.

And then the last Dwarf left the hut. I was alone, n.a.k.e.d, and cold, and those hairy pigs did not even light the fireplace to keep me warm.

I had my cheek against the rough wooden floor, in the dark, self-pity and even bigger rage boiling inside me.

The good news was that the numbness on the extremities of my body was going away. Slowly, I was able to move, little by little, and within the painfully long hour or so, I was able to fold my back and wriggle across the room towards the shelf that I had kept my eyes on: the kitchenware drawer.

The Dwarves had left my clothes and other gear on the other side of the floor, only a roll away from my current spot. But they took two of my only sharp weapons with them, Mataki's Blade and Dapper, while killing one, my dear Crudey.

I was still pained by witnessing the mindless murder of a sword before my eyes, but I knew had no time to grieve any longer. I managed to crawl and rolled and finally got my back against the shelf. I looked at the doorway and even activated Echolocation. No sign of anyone near the hut. The outside was still noisy and rowdy. I did not know how much beer a Dwarf usually drank, but I felt my captors would not come back anytime soon.

I leaned my back against the shelf and willed myself to stand on my feet. I almost fell, but this was not the first time I had lost control of my body due to a drug effect. I was an experienced blackout-er, as pathetic as that sounded.

With my hands tied in the back, I rummaged through the drawer in search of a knife, or any sharp tips. One comforting detail was that I did not need to fear to get my fingers cut from the blind, rushed sifting. The Thick Skin Perk was not enough to protect me from scratching against the rugged surface of the tree bark during my final battle with Nasty, but it was enough to withstand some pokes and swipes from the kitchen utensils.

And finally, I grabbed hold of a knife. My fingers were still a little numb from the effect of the Catcher Powder, and I almost got a cramp as I twisted my wrists and back muscles to create the optimal angle for cutting the rope loose, but I did it.

I was free, and angry beyond words.

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I waited patiently in the dark for hours with Bowie the Hunting Bow in my hand. Crudey died seconds after it was named. Through its death, Crudey taught me that it was never too late to name your weapons and treasure them with heart. I knew I was being a little weird at this point, but that could happen when one's best friend at the moment was a talking sword--currently missing. I had this belief that one day, all of my named weapons would talk back to me, and their first words would be compliments on my brilliant naming sense.

Hours passed, then I heard the familiar footsteps coming towards the hut. How could I forget those short, bow-legged feet shuffles that I had made sure to be imprinted in my Vivid Memory while on their shoulders.

I took out an arrow and nocked it.

During the hours I came with Bowie's name and commemorated Crudey's tragic death, I also did some thinking. The Dwarves were not the Goblins. They did not eat Humans, and while similar in size, they were nowhere unpleasant-looking as the red-skinned midgets. If I had to be opinionated, they looked friendly, albeit goofy.

I wanted to kill the Goblins the moment I found those women locked up in a cage at the lair. There was no Human captive inside this hut... except me. And there were inside the city of Deltaris, and the Dwarves helped them remain such.

That was enough of a reason for me to kill them cold-heartedly. Not to mention that I was angry, angrier than when Nasty knocked me out with a sucker-punch.

They took Mataki's Blade for rounds of beer. They were going to use Dapper to pick their noses. They killed Crudey. They carried me like I were some lumber—and dropped me four times on the road.

Those were, of course, surface-level motives. Superficial, direct reasons for revenge. But deep down, I knew what I was about to do was right. Because I thought them so. That was all that mattered, for now.

Waiting by the wall on the other side for the door to open so I could shoot them in the head felt like a deja vu, a twisted nightmare of labyrinthine emotions that I feared I would keep finding myself unless I answered the crucial, inner questions that begged to be answered.

Who was I? Who did I want to become in this world?

Who were my enemies?

The door opened with a sudden outburst of sound from the outside world. The four unsuspecting Dwarves walked into the hut.

And I had already answered the questions by the time I let go of the arrow.

F.u.c.k them all.