The Crafter's Darkness: A Dungeon Core Novel (Dungeon Crafting Book 4) Jonathan Brooks (best smutty novels TXT) 📖

of rooms had been constructed.  Gerold stopped by them one-by-one, as he hadn’t seen them all in use when he first arrived; to make their lives more comfortable, the Dungeon Core had obviously built some things for the Dwarven villagers.  It was here that he saw his first residents, which he just realized was strange because no one had been in the first two bedrooms as he walked through.

In one room, there was a fountain of periodically spouting, crystal-clear water that gathered in a stone basin; there was no obvious source of the water, only that when someone approached it – as he watched one of the villagers approach with a simple stoneware jug – it would turn on, shooting a small distance into the air before splashing down in the basin.  The water level never really seemed to go up or down, though, so Gerold thought the whole splashing fountain thing was a way for the Dungeon Core to show off a little, while still making something functional.

“There he is!  Way to go, Gerold!” the villager woman said after she filled up her jug from the basin and turned around, seeing the tired Dwarf standing in the doorway to the room taking it all in.  He didn’t recognize her – he had only learned a few of the villagers’ names the entire time he was there, as the Shieldmen didn’t really fraternize with the residents all that much; there was too much to do in their normal lives to worry too much about socializing.  Also, it seemed as though word of his exploits in defeating the undead dungeon had already spread to his people.

Unfortunately, he didn’t feel like he had done a good job; after all, five more Shieldmen had died on their expedition.  He couldn’t show or say that, though, because that would be dishonoring them for their sacrifice – there was enough dishonor around as it was.

“Thank you,” he replied, trying his best to seem grateful for her words.  “I…uh…need to get going to get some sleep,” he finished lamely, unsure how to get out of the awkward conversation.

“We’ve moved your bedroom to the place of honor at the end of the line of rooms, so that you don’t have to worry about anyone walking through and waking you up,” the still-nameless villager said cheerfully.

“Um…thanks.”  Great, even longer to walk.  His personal stuff – which was woefully little that he brought from the village when they moved the rest of the villagers – had originally been in the first room after the distillery and empty room, but he hadn’t seen it there.  Now he knew why.

Looking at the next added adjacent room, he found what appeared to be a large kitchen and dining room, three times larger than the one he just came from.  Inside, three more villagers – two men and another woman – were cooking up something that smelled delicious, but he didn’t stick around to see what it was; besides, he had already eaten all he wanted, so now all he needed was sleep.  He did see that, in addition to a massive cooktop, there was a large rectangular oven in the corner that could probably fit at least 20 of himself inside; there was no wood burning, and therefore no smoke, so Gerold could only assume that the dungeon was using its “Mana” to heat it without needing that kind of thing.  Which, he assumed, was the best idea; he hadn’t seen a single air vent leading to the surface, so any smoke produced from a fire down below would have a difficult time escaping.

There were a few more rooms that he had already seen before, which were the growing rooms.  As he passed and looked inside, Gerold could see the rest of the villagers hard at work with Sandra’s constructs planting neat rows of different seeds; in one room, there was a section of wheat that appeared to have already sprouted and grown, and all it was waiting on was harvesting.  It was good that the villagers knew what they were doing, because Gerold would be practically useless if he was asked to help.

His feet felt like they were dragging when he arrived at the last of the bedrooms, and Gerold finally came upon the last of the Shieldmen.  They had a room all to themselves, it seemed, and though it was sparsely decorated just as much as the rest, it felt somehow safe and familiar.  The five Shieldmen stopped their conversation as soon as he walked in and he paused, worried that they would hate him for allowing the others to die.

Instead, each of them saluted Gerold with a fist banging against their armored chests, followed by a short bow of respect.  At first, he thought that they might be mocking him, but after a moment of looking at the seriousness in their faces and demeanor, he realized that they actually meant it: They respected him.  Why?  I lost all of my equipment and managed to let every single one that went with us into that dungeon die.

“Sir.  Would you honor us with the tale of those that gave their lives to see to the destruction of that horrid dungeon?” asked Delarthe.

Ah.  I see.  Because he had survived, without the armor and weaponry that made them Shieldmen, even, they didn’t think he was neglectful or let others fight his battles for him, leading from the back; no, they saw him as they would a senior member of the Shieldmen, one that was stronger and more capable of surviving dangerous missions.  It was the same way that Gerold would look at someone like…Bregan.  If he saw Bregan go into a dungeon with a dozen other Shieldmen and was the only one to come out, he would instantly think that there was no foul play, no shirking of duties, and that the Second-shield had done everything he could to keep those