Why is a bowelbear like a writing desk?

It’s strange, the things you notice while you’re in captivity. I’d never paused long enough to really listen to the inside of the dragon until now. Sound carries strangely here. There isn’t much of an echo anywhere. It’s a bit like when you place your ear against someone’s chest: you can hear what’s happening beneath the flesh, but it takes on a gurgling, liquid quality, like you’re trying to differentiate between smooth jazz and hard rock through a wall of gelatin. When the most common sounds you hear are marching feet and screams, you really begin to notice the difference between how those things sound topside and how they sound in the belly of a beast.

That’s not the only thing I’ve noticed. After a few encounters with the leader of the monsters, I’ve really started to wonder if I’m not the first human to descend into this slimy, accursed place. These creatures down here—bowelbears, trollons, and gallblins—are nothing like their unintestinal counterparts. My studies into the nature of such horrors were limited at best before I arrived here, and it was only because a clever pneumonic that was able to recall their names at all (If ever an owlbear or troll you do meet / and if there’s a goblin ahead at their feet / then into a stomach you surely have fallen / so beware of bowelbears and trollons and gallblins!).

I’ve been carted through the “town” square and dangled in a cage for the younglings to gape at. From that perch I was able to see many things. The trollons, while still mostly primal monsters with a ravenous appetite for fresh meat, possess a remarkable aptitude for construction and tool making. It is their nimble fingers that weave the bone and scrap metal so abundant in the mire into cages, rudimentary huts, armor, weapons, and even conveniences like cookware, toys, and wagons. The gallblins, it appears, are the least intelligent of the bunch, and though they alone wear gear, they’re the slaves of the camp. The two who’d originally accosted me were special cases—armed goons with no more reasoning capacity than was needed to follow the command to kill.

Apologies. I seem to be rambling. Allow me to get back to my main point: the bowelbear king. Yes, that’s right. The bowelbears: those hideous half-bear, half-owl monstrosities that growl and hoot like deranged howler monkeys with fangs; those naked, feathered mutations that plod about with filth caking their wings, claws, beaks, nails, their swollen, oft-used genitals on display; those disgusting, wretched abominations are in charge down here. They possess the highest level of intellect and some minor magical capability (cantrips barely more advanced than a child at the Academy could perform, but magic nonetheless). It is they who order the other creatures about. It is they who commission the trollons to build torture devices and pleasure machines of various crude sorts. It is they who have nets set up in the dragon’s gullet to catch live prey for transport to their encampment (and subsequent slaughter).

And it was one among them to whom I was dragged after that first awakening in the cage.

Their leader introduced himself, in shockingly smooth Common, as King Omentum, ruler of the three clans of the Underdigest. It was here, he told me, that they’d made their home for hundreds of years. The three species had been in this dragon’s stomach—they referred to her as the Wyrm, in a reverent tone—for as long as their history could trace, and perhaps longer still. It was here that they’d created a small empire for themselves--in ages past, they'd needed to ward off the attacks from other tribes (there'd been more native races here? My mind boggled at the thought). It was here that they now lived a life of relative luxury and, hard though it may be to believe, peace.

It was also here, he informed me, that I was going to die.

There was, however, one catch. One way out. King Omentum had a penchant for riddles, and offered me this challenge: if I could answer a conundrum from him each day, I would be spared until the following morning. He assured me that his word was his honor, and that he would continue to grant me this boon until such time as I no longer provided correct answers—at which point I, a rare magic-user, would be sacrificed to the great Wyrm, in order to obtain her “blessing”.

So here I find myself. I’ve answered two riddles so far. Neither was particularly clever. If this trend continues, I can probably stay alive for quite some time. But is this really even living? Spending my time in a darkened cell, with only a few pilfered trinkets for my amusement? I’ve no way to escape. My magical abilities are useless without mana, and I’ve been given hardly enough food to live on, let alone enough to regain my supernatural powers.

My only shard of hope at this point lies with the Girl. I spotted her, once, hiding in an alcove with a glowing plant at her side. I assume she saw me. She must’ve. It raised my spirits considerably to find that she’d come for me after all, and hadn’t merely turned away when she saw me disappear in the Sea of Acid. My reassurance was short-lived, however, for upon the fifth day of my captivity, I overheard talk of another group present in the stomach. A group with weapons and intent to kill. A group comprised of the only thing worse than bowelbears, trollons, and gallblins.

French pirates.


-Guy.IAD

Never Been To Kansas, Actually

I awoke in darkness. How long had I been unconscious? Blinking my eyes rapidly, I noted a dim glow somewhere in the distance. The air here was tangy and bitter simultaneously, like a whiskey sour. Which I could really have gone for at that moment. Time to take stock of my resources. Light: not much. My pack: missing. My body: lying prone, face-down on something firm and mildly damp. Pain? Yeah, some. Mostly my ankle. Might be broken. Damn, and I hadn’t prepared any healing spells before being consumed. No reagents on hand. I’d have to patch it up the old-fashioned way… assuming I could find any materials to do so. Memories: few. Falling through a hole after killing the Volcanocotopus, and then... nothing. No idea. Time to explore. I shuffled forward a bit and hit my head against something hard. I put out my hand in the gloom, testing what was before me. My arm felt heavy.

Bars. I was in a cage.

I rolled over and discovered why my arms were harder to lift than usual; I was in shackles. Both wrists were clasped in thick irons, with a three-foot chain between them. I studied it, noting that while it appeared sturdy, there were also spots of rust along its length, much like those I now noted on the bars of my prison. I managed to struggle to a kneeling position on the bare metal floor. The distant light flickered: a torch? Where was I? What was happening?

Then suddenly, a growling hoot and a snarl, followed by barked orders in a guttural tongue. I turned my head quickly and spotted a gang of figures moving in my direction, carrying torches. They weren’t quite close enough to… wait… no. Not friendly. I couldn’t see who or what they were yet, but I heard the sound of a cage opening, and a piercing, animal shriek. A roar. A squelch. Movement.

This couldn’t be happening. This wasn’t possible. How was anything else alive down here, let along setting up cages? Marching closer. Opening more cells. More screams. I began to sweat. Things had just gone from bad to worse to way worse. And then, as my captors drew ever nearer, I finally saw what they were. My breath caught in my chest.

Four or five towering abominations—ten feet if they were an inch—each mottled with wet feathers and fur, brown, gray, dingy red like old paint, their talons and claws clicking on some unseen surface, blood at their beaks. Next three spindly, wiry-frames, their faces like punched meat, their beady features like carved stone, with long fingers still holding rent flesh and a thin film of putrid fur. And at the head of the line, two armored humanoids, squat and bulbous, like rotten broccoli with chainmail and pikes, their eyes gleaming orange in the torchlight, their boots falling apart, still wanting for repairs and better nourishment, as I could see the thin bones pushing through the mottled, camouflage skin.

Bowelbears and trollons and gallblins, oh fuck.

-Guy.IAD

Guy vs. Volcanoctopus - STRIFE!

Previously, inside a dragon…

As I belted out carol after joyful carol, I heard the sound of churning acid nearby. My head whipped round just in time to see a massive tentacle—spotted with sores and covered in a thick, orange slime—erupt from the mire. I barely had a moment to react before I was suddenly entwined about my waist. I drew the only weapon I had on hand and pummeled the creature mercilessly, but to no avail. I guess it must’ve been immune to Rachel Ray. Next thing I knew I was airborne: my bag of loot tumbled free as another tentacle rose and crushed the kayak, sending shards of lightweight wood in every direction. I spun about through the hot stomach air, shouting and trying to wriggle loose. Now the body of a great Volcanoctopus splashed to the surface the pool. I heard a rumbling cry of hunger and rage ring out from the monster’s beak, as the disgusting, bulbous head wobbled like month-old Jello, black and moldy. Except with lava spots. I knew then that things were dire, for a creature of this strength would be a fearsome foe indeed. Around me was naught but the dim glow of the acid. Would there be no respite? Could I not find some means to escape my fate? Was this the end?

And that’s when I spotted the Girl.

My rapidly pulsing heart still found time to skip a beat. She was breathtaking! I could scarcely believe so fair a lady had chanced to end up inside this dragon with me, alive no less. Now, granted, given the isolation I’d experienced up to that point, even a female Bugbear would’ve seemed a sight for sore eyes… but still! She was seated some distance away upon a raft constructed from beer casks and other refuse found floating in the acid lake. I tried to call to her, but the constriction around my torso was tightening, and it was all I could do to breathe. Thankfully, she noticed me—how could she not, given the tremendous noise of the Volcanoctopus and the disruption in the acid—but instead of moving to act, she paused to chat with some sort of unusual vine affixed to the rear of her vessel. I could only watch in confusion as she and plant appeared to converse. Was she a Druid, perhaps? Regardless, whatever aid she might’ve provided came too late, for just as quickly as my hopes rose, they sank again, along with the rest of my body. The creature’s next meal was at hand… er, tentacle. Me.

And now, the conclusion:

I found myself mumbling one of the few protective spells I knew: an endurance charm that would grant me temporary immunity to the effects of the acid and, hopefully, the impending blunt trauma of the Volcanoctopus’ beak. But alas! My mana, depleted at this critical moment! I could sense that I only had enough energy left for one or two small spells. Curses! As I twirled beneath the warm, stinging liquid, moving ever closer to the mouth of the beast, I felt despair overtake me. This was it. Journey’s end. No phoenix down to save me. Think Guy, think!

The Orb of Arching Bolts in my pocket sent out a tiny spark, pricking my leg like a thorn.

As if spoken by divine providence, I suddenly knew the path that lay before me. Only one shot at this… needed to make it count. I drew the crystalline sphere from my pocket and focused as best I could—which wasn’t saying much, since I was still a) underacid, b) gripped by a semi-molten tentacle, and c) about to die. The Vocanoctopus had dragged me deep into the acid lake in record time, causing my head to throb with the increased pressure. Now it decided to consume the choice morsel it’d found. Nom! I was inside the beak. The creature’s rough tongue scraped against my flesh. Mere seconds to act.

So long, light source. It’s been fun.

With nary more than an anticlimactic stream of bubbles, I used the last of my mana to shatter the Orb.

Immediately, a shockwave erupted outward, electrocuting me—but only a little—and completely frying the Volcanoctopus. It emitted a horrendous dying cry and spat me out, as tendrils of lightning weaved across its supple body like ants crawling over a fresh slice of watermelon dropped onto their hill. I didn't have much time to celebrate, as I was now adrift deep beneath a huge lake of acid, and had about five seconds of consciousness left before I drowned.

Yet it seemed fortune was to smile upon me again, for at that moment I saw and felt radiant waves of golden light leap around me, and I gained a level. My mana, health, and air, instantly restored! Yes! I felt my mind expand with new spells, the nature of which I hadn’t time to quite contemplate at that moment. I cast a breath charm and a fortitude charm, and started toward the surface.

Or would have, except at that moment, a strange muscular contraction opened a wide hole in the stomach lining below me. I tumbled through the passage in a torrent of acid, and fell into darkness, landing hard on something even harder. My eyes slid shut as I lost consciousness.

-Guy.IAD