Dungeon Item Shop - Chapter 295: Milk-party (Patreon)

“Tea… tea…” mutters the entity, running around the small room that they now find themselves in. Fresh and Basil hadn’t moved from the spot they were told to stay in, rather, a few moments later, the room simply appeared all around them in the white void. Simply fading into existence as if they were inside of it all along and just couldn’t see any of the furnishings.

It’s simple, plain. There’s a small table that they sit at on two small chairs that had to be fetched from some far off room that neither of them could see. Apparently, they haven’t been used in a long time and the same could be said of the tea, as the entity, the dungeon-master, is turning its own home upside down as it searches for it, apparently not having needed it in just as long a time.

Fresh turns to Basil, looking at her for a moment, before turning her gaze back to the dungeon-master that Basil is unable to take her eyes off of as well.

The entity, much like the entire room that they find themselves in, is colorless and white like the void. The furnishings, the walls, the entity, all of these things are distinct parts of the environment, having contrast and shape. But color is entirely missing from everything except the two of themselves and a few crumbs of sand that they dragged in. While the thing is busy rummaging through a cabinet and swearing, she bends down and quickly wipes away the sand with her hand, putting the crumbles into her own pocket.

“The rats… the rats…” it mutters. “I bet they stole my tea… I bet they… RATS!” it screams, pulling its head out of the low shelf and clutching its skull. “It was in this box! I’m sure of it… I’m…” The entity breathes frantically, as if it were about to have a crisis. It looks at the little box that it’s holding. It’s a small, wooden thing. It looks to be hand-carved and there is a cute engraving on the lid of some birds, drawn by a childish hand.

“If I may ask,” says Basil. “When was the last time you used it?” asks the priestess, pointing at the empty tea-box. “It may have just… turned to dust,” she explains, watching as the dungeon-master shakes the empty box out. Only vague crumbles and grit fall out.

“AAAAAAAAH!” The entity falls to the floor, clutching its face and screams. The box falls down at its feet, clambering apart as it lands. From the small chairs that they sit on, Fresh and Basil look at each other for a confused moment, before turning back towards it. The creature falls silent, staring down at its dust covered hands, crumbles falling from their shaking fingers. “Three thousand, nine-hundred days,” it says.

“That might do it,” says Basil, thinking. Fresh stares up at the ceiling, trying to calculate what that is in people-time. “If I may, how about we gather some coconuts?”

“COCONUTS!” yells the entity, jumping to its feet, kicking the box inadvertently as it runs away to some other room, vanishing through a door that neither of them can see.

Fresh tilts her head, watching it vanish. “Sure is jumpy.”

“It must be a stressful life,” says Basil. “Imagine if our home was a dungeon,” says Basil. “People coming in all day long and taking our stuff.”

“But isn’t that what the dungeons are there for?” asks Fresh, scratching her cheek. “I thought you told me that’s why the gods made them?”

Basil nods. “Yeah. But somebody has to keep things running in the dungeons. And that somebody lives here,” she says.

The dungeon-master runs out, carrying an armful of coconuts. It’s an odd contrast as they have color. The entity drops them all onto a counter, picking up a tea-cup and dusting it out. It spares them a quick glance. Fresh smiles and waves, together with Basil.

“We hope we’re not keeping you from your work,” says Fresh. “Can we help?”

“STAY THERE!” it yells, spinning back around to the coconuts. Lifting a hand, it holds its fingers over a coconut and just like that, the coconut splits apart above the tea-cup. There’s no magical aura to be seen, no status-window. It just happens. While it works, Fresh bends down and picks up the wooden box that it had dropped, placing the lid back on and setting the thing onto the table. She looks down at it, staring at the feathered depictions.

“Bakaw…” she mutters under her breath, staring at the odd birds depicted there. They look like chickens.

“Are you still saying that?” asks the entity, turning back around as it pours a second cup full of coconut-milk. “Some things never change, huh?”

Fresh blinks, lifting her gaze up towards the thing. “Bakaw?”

“You really do get stuck in the brain-mud, Perchta,” it says, carrying the cups over on two nervous hands. “First the rats, then the chickens. What’s next?”

Fresh doesn’t really know what it’s talking about. But as in their last conversation, she just kind of decides to play along. “I think I like crabs now too.”

“AHA!” it yells very abruptly, spilling some of their coconut-milk as it sets the cups down. “I TOLD YOU!” It seems triumphantly proud for a moment, before it sees the spilled milk. “AAAAAAAH!” it shrieks, grabbing its head again as it runs away to grab a rag from the kitchen, to dry off the table.

“Thank you,” says Basil, pulling the cup towards herself. “Please don’t fuss on our account.”

“Thanks,” says Fresh, taking the other cup away as the entity runs back, furiously rubbing the table dry. “Yeah, sorry for giving you more work.”

The dungeon-master runs back to the kitchen, throwing the wet rag into the basin before coming back to the table and scooting a chair of its own in. “So -” it starts, looking at the two of them. But then it doesn’t say anything, staring at them both for a while as it seems to realize something else now.

“Yes?” asks Basil.

Wood screeches across the stones as the dungeon-master jumps up and runs away without another coherent word, but a lot of loud, panicked shrieks of terror.

Fresh looks back at Basil. “Basil? Are all dungeon-masters so… twitchy?” she asks.

“Hmm… well…” Basil shrugs. “I’m not sure. But I bet they’re a bit socially isolated, you know? We might be the first visitors in a long, long time.”

“Oh,” says Fresh. That makes sense. She used to be a very isolated creature too. But then when she encountered people, she felt more of a quiet terror in her own chest. Perhaps this entity feels the same feeling of anxiety, but in a more overt way. It isn’t really shy about its emotions, or perhaps it has simply lost track of any and all social mannerisms, apart from being a good host?

Fresh sips her coconut-milk.

A moment later, the dungeon-master comes back out. Its silhouette has changed and for a moment, Fresh is confused, until she realizes that it is now wearing a very frilly, fluffy bottomed dress with a lace-up front. It is of course, like everything else in the room, entirely white.

“That’s a beautiful dress,” says Fresh, admiring it. Apparently, the dungeon-master had a mild panic attack because they noticed that they were literally naked in polite company. Perhaps it had been isolated for so long, that it didn’t even think about things like clothes anymore. Not that its body had anything to hide, from what she saw before.

Though, despite the dress, she still isn’t confident in saying that the dungeon-master is a girl. It doesn’t seem clearly defined in any way.

The dungeon-master grabs the frills and does a small spin, before walking over to the table under Basil’s applause.

“I haven’t had guests in a long time,” it says, finally sitting down at the table. Reaching behind itself, it grabs the flowerpot they had brought, pulling it out of seemingly nowhere. It sets it down in the middle of the table, turning it a smidge to the side to adjust it to the right angle.

Fresh tilts her head, looking at it.

The dungeon-master stares at the skull flowerpot, intently, still not having let go of it. Narrowing their eyes, they turn it an inch to the left. Then a half inch to the right. Still displeased, they continue evaluating it, pulling back to rub their chin for a moment, before turning it another tick to the left. This seems to do the trick.

“Perfect,” they say, nodding contently.

“We hope you like them,” says Basil, sipping her coconut-milk. “We grew them ourselves.”

“They’re beautiful. I really like the vase,” it says, touching the inside of the wooden skull’s eye with a finger.

Fresh smiles. “I’ll tell Shamrock you like it,” she beams.

“Sham…rock…” it says, staring down at the skull. “Aaaah~,” it coos, but this time it’s an odd sound. It’s not a scream and it’s not a sigh. It’s more of a hopeful, longing groan. “I want him.”

“Excuse me?” asks Basil, clearing her throat.

“Floor fifty-seven!” says the dungeon-master. “Floor fifty-seven!” it says. “TWO THOUSAND, ONE-HUNDRED AND FOUR!” it screams, jumping up from its chair, its palms on the table.

The room is quiet.

Feeling the two of them watching it, the dungeon-master sits back down and clears its throat. “Excuse me.”

“No worries,” replies Basil. “What do you mean with floor fifty-seven?”

“He’s the only one I’ve ever seen get that far alone!” exclaims the dungeon-master. “Most groups I see get there are coordinated and experienced.” Fresh gasps. She had no idea Shamrock could go that deep down into the dungeon by himself. “But he just… he just…” It pulls out a cookie, jamming it into its mouth and chewing in frustration for a moment. “He just tears through it all! Every trap. Every monster. Every trick. He JUST BREAKS IT!” it clutches its face, crumbles falling from its lips. “I WANT TO GET HIM!”

“Well…” Basil clears her throat. “Business is business, I suppose.”

“I had no idea he was so strong,” says Fresh, crossing her arms and thinking. “Man. I’m a little jealous,” she says, looking at her soft arms.

“That’s because you’re always slacking off!” yells the dungeon-master.

“Hey!” argues Fresh, not sure what it means. “I’ve been working really hard, right Basil?”

Basil nods. “It’s true. She has,” affirms the priestess, sipping her coconut-milk.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” says the dungeon-master. It slides the tea-box towards itself, running over the lid with its thumb. “You’re a true creature of habit, Perchta.”

“I made new habits,” replies Fresh.

The dungeon-master looks up towards her and then down at the box. “At least you didn’t leave,” it says, staring at the lid of the box. “Like those other two…”

“Where else is there to be?” asks Fresh, sipping her coconut-milk. Is the creature referring to the other witches? Probably. “Listen. Uh, things are going to get really bad here soon,” says Fresh. “Outside that is. So I don’t know if you’re going to get a lot more visitors or a lot less in the near future.”

The thumb stops moving over the box. “Is it starting?” asks the dungeon-master. Fresh scratches her cheek, looking to Basil for guidance, but she has no answer either.

“There might be a war, so maybe?”

“The rats eat their own,” it says, lifting up the lid of the box, it pulls a bunch of cookies outside from somewhere that they can’t see and neatly places them into the tea-box, closing the lid down lovingly on top of it.

“You sure don’t like humans, huh?” asks Fresh, scratching her cheek.

The glassware rattles as the entity slams its fists onto the table. But this time, it doesn’t scream, it doesn’t yell and it doesn’t do anything except glare with the most venom that Fresh has ever seen present in a living face.

“I’ll never forgive them,” it says calmly, but in a hissing voice. It doesn’t glare at her, but rather it turns to Basil. “I’ll never forgive them for what they did to you, Perchta, to the south, to... Yo… Yo…” it stammers, not able to finish its sentence as whatever this last word is, appears to be too painful for it to say. “- Every last one.” It points at Basil. “Every last one of you RATS who comes into my home. I’ll kill you. I’ll cut off your legs and pluck out your eyes AND THROW YOU INTO THE BLACK-WATER!” it screams.

“Hey!” says Fresh sternly. “Don’t yell at Basil,” she warns.

The dungeon-master turns its gaze to her. It gets up and scoots its chair back. “Thank you for visiting. Excuse me. I need to get back to work.”

Before Fresh can say anything. The room vanishes. The chair beneath her vanishes and she only just manages to catch herself and stand upright, Basil apparently has the same difficulty and then, a moment later, both of them are thrown out of the dungeon.