FINAL CORE : [A holy dungeon-core litRPG]

The sons and daughters of the gods.

It is said that the gods of an age past had once sired children, often with each other, but also often with members of the common races of the world. These offspring, while not controlling a god’s full power, still had a considerable boon in strength over their counterparts. However, over generations, this magic waned and weakened with each diluting act of procreation, and now, while we know that the god’s blood trickles among us, it is next to impossible to discern the descendant of a god from any other man because the magical boons have simply been washed out of the blood.

In a way, this is proof of the strength of the human bloodline that dominates all other races’, slowly washing them out of existence. It would seem that not only does the human potential win out over the blood of the elves, orcs, and dwarves, but even over that of the gods.

This only speaks to our incredible potential as a species.

 

~ Excerpt from Wicker Marvin’s banned book on the topic of human superiority

 

 

~ [The Humming Man] ~
???, Male, Chronomancer Location: The City

 

The smell is in the air.

 

The smell of changing seasons. Time has really flown, hasn’t it? It feels like only yesterday that summer began, and now it will soon come to an end, bringing on the golden autumn of what promises to be a very dark year. Many things will happen, but this is exactly what is supposed to happen.

 

The humming man sits on a fountain next to a man with a journal, who pays him no mind at all, not seeing him. The man with the journal, a member of the witches’ sect, has plucked a flower and pressed it. It rests now in his book, as he is sketching it on the other page.

 

Spring and summer are bright, warm, and lush seasons and it’s good this way. But they must one day make room for autumn and winter, which can bring cold, bitter bites to the people of this world.

 

— And that’s good this way.

 

“Brother Anderwal,” says a voice. The man with the book looks up from his journal, staring at the man who has approached. The humming man leans over, grabbing the flower from his journal, as the man looks up at the other member of the witches’ sect. “It’s almost time.”

 

Anderwal nods.

 

He looks back down at his journal, but the flower is gone. Perhaps it was blown away by the last wind of summer?

 

Curious.

 

Not saying anything, Anderwal looks around and shrugs, then closes his journal, rising to his feet as he goes to fulfill his task.

 

The humming man hums, watching him go, and then looks down at the flower in his grasp. It’s a soft, gentle thing, ripped free from its roots. Now that it has been plucked, it has no choice but to die. Cut flowers make him sad because of this. But this is the way life is.

 

Sometimes, beautiful flowers must be cut for no other reason than their extravagance.

 

Taking it with him, he walks, having a place to go. The work is never done, in spring, autumn, or whenever. There’s always another nudge to make, another push, another twist.

 

But what else would he do with all of his free time, if not this?

 

He takes Anderwal’s flower and walks down the street.

 

 

~ [Caeli] ~
Human, Female, Battle Alchemist Location: The Tower, Roost

 

Caeli looks at Rorate. “I mean, they’re growing,” she replies. “But this isn’t exactly what I’m used to doing, you know?” she replies in response to Rorate’s question, turning her head to look at the rows of mushrooms that are growing in a series of encased planters. “It’s hard to keep up,” she explains. “What are you doing with all of these, anyways?”

 

“Preaching,” replies Rorate, bending over to poke a mushroom. “They’re a lot smaller when they’re dried and also, Isaiah wants us to stockpile a lot of the powder for emergencies.”

 

Caeli shrugs, looking back at the mushrooms that she has been tending to for a while now.

 

“Oh, I almost forgot,” says Rorate. “Isaiah wants us to take a batch of the potions downstairs to Seide and her goblin-tribe,” she says.

 

“To drink?” asks Caeli. “That sounds horrifying. Can you imagine what those goblins are going to see?”

 

Rorate shakes her head. “Not for the goblins. For the pilgrims,” she explains. “They’re already here,” she says, standing back upright. “Thousands of the faithful have traveled from all around the world,” she explains, looking at the alchemist. “We can’t let them down, right?” she asks. “They’re expecting to find revelation, and it’s my job to give it to them,” says Rorate, picking up a bottle of mushroom-brew.

 

 

~ [The Humming Man] ~
???, Male, Chronomancer Location: The City, A Small House

 

There is a smell in the air of sweet bread being baked. A woman with blonde hair stands in the kitchen and hums to herself in delight as she runs around and cleans up the area, after taking great lengths to try and bake a cake. Fire crackles in the hearth out in the living room. Vapors of fragrant steam rise from the cup of tea that is sitting next to a quiet woman with white hair, who sits there alone and reads a book.

 

By all accounts, it’s quite the comfy little home that the witches have nestled themselves into here. He quite likes it.

 

Sure, it’s not actually theirs. The real owner of the house is dead, but, ignoring that, they’ve definitely made it very comfortable.

 

“Spoodles!” calls a voice from the kitchen. Witch Perchta leans out and looks at the woman with white hair, Witch Spillaholle. “Help me clean this up, would you?”

 

Witch Spillaholle looks over her shoulder towards the kitchen. “Witch Perchta. I refuse. I told you that I am not hungry.” As she does so, the humming man takes his opportunity and leans down, gently lifting a page and sliding the pressed flower into it, before quietly retreating back a few steps.

 

“It’s cake, Spabbly-wabbly,” replies Perchta. “You don’t have to be hungry to eat cake.”

 

“Witch Perchta. No,” says Spillaholle.

 

The woman in the kitchen purses her lips, puffing out her cheeks in annoyance as she disappears back inside. Spillaholle returns to her reading, taking a calm sip of her tea.

 

In general, one often attributes certain things to certain seasons. Springs are for love and rebirth, winters are for death, and so on. Yet, funnily enough, many things are possible in any season, be it spring, summer, autumn, or winter, despite any previously held convictions. The experiences of life are not locked to one in particular, and, while some might offer stronger opportunities for such happenings, it does not exclude them from happening in other seasons.

 

Sometimes these things happen through nature.

 

— Witch Spillaholle sets her tea down and flips the page of her book, watching as the pressed flower falls down to her lap.

 

Sometimes these things happen with a little nudge from the universe.

 

Confused, the woman looks around the empty room and then down at the flower, picking it up and examining it. As a creature that has lived a very peculiar and uniquely introverted lifestyle, this is a new thing to have happened to her, and the humming man watches in quiet fascination, as he would watch any other event that he causes, as a strange curiosity washes over her quiet, stiff face as she smells its pressed petals.

 

Witches are curious creatures indeed.

 

He doesn’t have much to do with them, which should be obvious given their small numbers these days. But their ability to sense traces of magical influence is very keen. Their connective reasoning, even if sometimes muddled, is fairly sharp, given the ironically unobstructive sharpness that is offered by their one-sided world-views.

 

He watches a little light of spring move through her autumn eyes as she connects some dots.

 

— Someone screams from the kitchen, breaking the spell.

 

Spillaholle looks over her shoulder, watching the smoke waft out of the oven. Someone had clearly burned their cake.

 

The witch slowly rises to her feet, spinning the flower once between her fingers, before resting it back into her book that she sets down and closes snuggly. “Witch Perchta, cease this nonsense,” she warns. “I am trying to r-”

 

“SPILLIEEEE~!” howls Perchta, running past the doorway, carrying a flaming baking tray in her hands.

 

Witch Spillaholle sighs, shaking her head as she heads to the kitchen to defuse the situation. Though she does stop to look back at the chair and the book, at least until another scream gets her attention and she has no choice but to help put out the fire.

 

Surprisingly enough, the cake turns out okay.

 

 

Razmatazz

Hey, kid, I heard you liked dryads? Deer legs and hooves not shown.

(Really excited for you guys to see the chapter 100 arc *-*)

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