Respawn Condition: Trash Mob

Carnage. Screams.

My hand runs along the body of the great-mimic as I charge towards the fray. He is still inactive, still waiting. He won’t join the fight until he is provoked. My throat is sore, my hand feels wet; the grip of the metal spear slips in-between my fingers, even with the coarse surface of the handle. Half a goblin flies past me, dead. I jump to the side as a fireball just barely singes my fur, flying past behind me to the heap of coins that I just left, the vivid golden-metal melts in the eruption, together with my stains of red blood. It all turns into a great clump of something horrid. Some disgusting amalgamation, a tincture of the bile of the gods of luxury and death, melting into one.

Screams.

In a second, I look down to my feet mid-stride, my pace never breaking, my speed never slowing. I see a goblin laying in a pool of melting gold, screaming. It’s in her eyes, in her ears. I don’t want to look. I duck, though I don’t know why. Something tells me to. An instinct. A twitch of my lizard-brain. I hear the whistle shine above me like the voice of a whispering angel, the crisp, sharp singing of an arrow flying above just past where my head was a moment before. Catching myself with my palm on the ground, I lunge further, keeping my pace and still running straight forward; they have seen me now, the adventurers, the hero. I’m hard to miss amongst the goblins, I suppose I must be quite the sight, the minotaur sprinting across the room screaming and bloody.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

About half of the goblins are dead or worse. The screams continue, the sounds of fighting continue. How many of the adventurers are here? The hero, the priestess, the thief-girl, the wizard and the bare-fisted newcomer, who now stands before me.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

I hear voices behind me, the goblins who remain see me, they follow. Stop. You idiots, do you want to die?

The hero’s eyes meet mine, I scream as I charge towards him, my black spear at the ready. A flash of color, a blur, just before I reach him, the new-comer jumps before me and lands a clean blow with her fist to my gut, as she screams out some word. I hear the heavy wooden-beads covering her arm rattle. It hurts. Red. I keel over. My breath escapes me. But not long enough for the next strike to come, raising my hand with the cape bound around it, I grab her by the leg before she can react. I’m used to pain. The stun doesn’t last as long as she thought it would. I have you, monk.

The beads gave her away. She’s a monk, you see.

In that second, as my eyes meet hers, she realizes her mistake. Her friends realize her mistake, the hero realizes her mistake. The wizard-girl shouts a word. Her name? Springing to my feet, her tiny leg still tight in my grasp, I throw her. I throw her as hard as I can and she smashes against the wall behind them back first, before flopping down onto the ground, moving no more. Several of the bricks crumble. The room is quiet for only a second, before the wizard-girl screams the name again and abandons the fight to look after her friend.

Enough. Stop. Stop screaming. Stop. Sto- !

I feel something touch my leg. I look down, a goblin. He is bleeding, time slows in that instant, as the minotaur brain leaves me and just me, the first me, here for that realization. As I look down at the face of my mangled friend, the brother from my last goblin life, I hear he’s saying a word, blood leaking from his wounded visage. I can’t speak goblin this time, but I remember the word. It’s her name. His sister's name. Are you asking where she is? I don’t know.

I don’t know!

Another second passes and I hear the whistle come again, as the thief-girl knocks another arrow towards me, this time I don’t duck. It sticks in my ribs. Red. It hurts. I hate fighting. I hate hurting. I hate hurting others. So why am I? Why? My presence returns to my vision and I see my friend, his eyes now empty. His soul now departed for this run. Red. I hate this. I hate this. I have to fight. I have to.

I roar a wordless minotaur scream in honor of my fallen comrade, as I rip the arrow from my meat, a strand of sinew attached to it, falling with it to the bloodied floor. My blood mixing with theirs, as it should be. This is why I have to fight, why I have to kill. I hate it. I hate it. I charge towards the hero. I’m going to get you. I’m going to stop this. I hate this. I HATE THIS!

My face is wild, I can feel the frothy spittle dripping out of the sides of my mouth, my visage is that of a rabid beast. My jaw hurts from the clenching of my teeth, my eyes bulge from the rage. The black spear shines with a crimson hue in the firelight. Everything hurts. But this is what I have to do. I have to fight. I have to kill. I’m a trash-mob, this is why the dark-lord gave me this power. To protect my home. I’ll do it. I’ll do it. I’ll do it even if I have to kill you, hero!

As I scream and bound towards him, I stumble. Something is wrong. As I tumble towards the floor, I feel the dagger in my side.

No. Not you again.

I slam the spear into the muck and stone beneath me, to stop my fall as I grab my side hoping to reach the dagger. I grab her arm instead.

My eyes shift to meet hers. She looks at me. There is something… strange in her eyes. But her grip is weak. Her body is weak. She is weak. What are you fighting me for, thief-girl? Do you love the hero? Is that why you always intervene to protect him? As if he couldn’t stand on his own? My eyes are wild, my face smeared and contorted. I squeeze, her arm breaks. She screams. STOP SCREAMING!

Springing to my feet I fling her forwards, her arm snapping in several places as it bends from the force of my movement. Her body is propelled by my grip, as if I were lashing out with a boneless rope, she smashes against the priestess and both of them fly back into a heap, behind their breaking lines. I breathe, I feel anger. Rage. Red. Everything hurts. Fight me hero. FIGHT ME.

The goblins who remain have either tried to gather the wounded and retreat. Another brave few idiots who followed me have made their way to the wizard-girl, thinking they have a chance now that the adventurers have been hurt. They don’t.

We don’t. This is a farce. I know it is. They weren’t paying attention, they got cocky. This isn’t what they’re capable of. Raising my spear for the third time, I look back to the hero whose eyes shine with a cold fury that I haven’t seen for a long time. He’s very protective of his friends, like I said before. Good. Good! Hate me hero. Fight me. FIGHT ME! I still have the cape in my hand, why? Why? It feels right to have. It’s mine. I want it, I fling the bloodied clasp around my neck and feel the cloth dangling behind me as I don the piece of equipment.

There is an explosion of light, of movement in my eyes. The wizard-girl has begun. I hear her screaming, not in pain, but in rage. She’s one of those types. Fire emits from her body, encasing her like the burning shell of a phoenix’s egg. In an instant, the few goblins who made their way to her, become no more, as the deathly wave washes over them. A burning lash of fire, taking the shape of the maw of a dragon rushes over them. Nothing remains, no dust, no gold, no stone unblackened. The only thing left on their side is a broken heap of people, untouched by the inferno and dots of fire. The hero stands before me with his sword at the ready to protect his friends.

Now. Now finally. Finally! I roar and charge the hero with my spear in hand, the black blade cutting through the air, whistling like one of the arrows. The hero, his shining sword, red, his shining eyes, red, and bloodshot with rage much like my own, swings towards me. The strike lands on my spear and flings my grip wildly to the side, even with all of my minotaur strength, I barely manage to hold on to the weapon. As my body is shifted, I feel him going for a second strike, he is fast. Raising a leg I kick out and plant a hoof firmly against his breastplate, sending him flying back a foot. The sound of a gong rings out like the toll of a bell striking midnight, as he charges forward again, red in his eyes, red in his heart. I hear crying. Screaming.

The goblins are crying and screaming. The wizard-girl is crying and screaming. The hero is crying and screaming. I’m crying and screaming. Our blades meet again, a wave of sparks shines through the air. Again, again we meet in combat, finally. Finally!

I swing and stab, the hero ducking and weaving and countering every one of my blows, but never quite managing to get one in on his own. He is stronger than me, faster, smarter. But the great spear is an advantageous weapon, its reach gives me safety. Even with his speed, the extra distance gives me enough time to react. With a sword, I would have died already. Another toll of the reaper’s bell, as our weapons meet, as our eyes meet. As our drive to protect what is precious to us meets. He hates me. I hurt his friends. I hate him. He hurt my friends.

Clash after clash, strike after strike. I feel the air leave the room, the air leave my lungs as we fight. I have never felt so alive, so strong. My blooded cape swings behind me as I weave. Do you see me, hero? Do you see me? I roar and charge forward again, I have given in to the minotaur. It knows better than me, it knows how to fight. It knows why to fight, my own eyes only trace the dead bodies over the ground, leaving the battle for a moment each time. His eyes leave the battle each time, as he looks over to his friends. Are they hurt? Are they alive? Couldn’t you protect them? Is it my fault? Is it his? Sparks. A thousand sparks, like fireflies in a memory of a warm childhood night, shine out in the darkness. The cackle of the great-mimic, watching the chaos overpowering the room, as its voice bounds around from wall to wall. Screams. Screams. They’re mine. They’re his. We’re the only ones screaming now. We scream at each other. We scream at ourselves. We scream at the forsaken gods who have put us here and pitted us against another.

Tidal waves of white-magic now coat the floor of the room, as the priestess uses her power to heal her friends. It is more than usual, it is a lot. The magic leaves her cupped hands, flowing down to the stone floor like a bountiful river, that obscures the carnage below, hiding it from sight and bringing a peace to this place. I hate it. It’s not real. The gore, the grime, the blood, the death, that’s real. Out of the corner of my eye I see the leg of the monk twitch, I see the arm of the thief-girl twitch. The white-magic covers the bodies of my friends and hides them from my sight.

It doesn’t heal them. Why? Why?

I am losing blood from the deep wounds in my hand, chest and side. My fur is wet, wetter than it was this entire time in this life. I don’t care. I feel wobbly. I don’t care. I didn’t find the stairs. I don’t care. We fight. Twisting and bounding, lunging and slashing and parrying. I feel it. I feel the drive, the excitement, the hunger. More, MORE! FIGHT ME M-

A blur.

I see an orange blur shoot out like lightning from the corner in the back. A single thin silhouette, bounding out like the crack of a whip. A single fiery punch, smashing against my body. It was only for a split-second, but I saw her, the monk, her fist enchanted with a magical fire from the wizard-girl. A combo-attack.

Huh? I am flying. Why?

Time has slowed as I look down at my torso, which is disconnected from my lower body as I fly through the air. A black singe on my breast, my legs fall over without the rest of me. It hurts.

Ah. I feel my cape billowing beneath me, as I fly, the spear clenched tightly in my hand, as I fly. I won’t let go. My eyes close, as I am ready to die.

I wanted to fight more. I wanted to fight more.

I hear a cackle and a great creaking sound, as the great-mimic opens its lid, I see the two giant eyes stare at me, as I fly into its maw and I land lifelessly on the hard, stone floor.

The hard stone floor?

With my dying gaze, my vision leaving me, I look up at the inside of the great-mimic. At the underground staircase that it is sitting on top of.

Panting. Red. I am tired. They’re right here. This whole time. They were right here. How? Aren't we in the middle of the room? Dungeon-magic. I am dying. Raising the tips of my shaking fingers, I feel my bloodied hand slap against the first stone step of the secret-stairs, as my final breath leaves me.

Did you see me, hero? Did you see me dungeon-master? Did you see me, friends? I did it for you.

The darkness takes me once again.