Priestly

## Description

Author of the 14th edition of The Dungeon Anarchist's Cookbook.

He made it to the ninth floor. His mind broke while marching into Larracos conscripted into the Bugbear army, over the corpses of the NPCs, to be slaughtered by the orcs.

## Cookbook Entries

Larracos is like a dream. It is a living, breathing poem. A song. One that marks itself indelibly onto your bones the moment you experience it the first time. I've never seen anything like it. It's an inverted funnel of museums and galleries and colleges and of color. The NPCs live here. They have purpose and life. For the first time since we have been dragged into this horror, I feel awe and wonder and something other than rage. But it is a tainted and fleeting feeling. This city should not be here. It is too beautiful to be used in such a terrible, senseless way. I still don't fully understand the fable with the volcano and the centipede at the bottom and what sort of metaphor, if any, it's supposed to represent, but whoever designed this wonder at the center of the ninth floor was someone who appreciates fine detail and the art of turning the mundane into visual music. It is too beautiful, too real not to be a copy of someplace that truly existed, and it is difficult for my mind to make sense of it. For the first time, I don't know where the real ends and the nightmare begins, and it has taken my breath away. The Semeru dwarves supposedly built it, but they don't control the city. Not anymore. They're still around, mostly in the pubs. They're also the non-combatant caretakers of the inverted castle, which sits in the center of the city at the bottom of the well. The diameter of Larracos isn't that great. It's smaller than some of the cities in The Hunting Grounds. But the city itself has layers, going deeper and deeper, like an inverted cone. I believe that legend is what this city represents. The Semeru were attempting to reach the Celestials who live not above, but below them. This action somehow awakened Scolopendra at the very base of the volcano. This city thrives. Each level is something new and exciting. There are districts. One with theaters. Museums. Colleges filled with bright-eyed NPC students. Temples. Stores. Tonight, before we are expelled, I plan on sitting down and enjoying a play. A play, in this place. Can you believe it? I will draw a map for you. The one Milk drew is good, but it lacks detail. The alien beasts congregate in the pleasure districts. I don't dare venture down there, lest my impression of this fantasy is tainted. It's where they hire their mercenaries, though I hear those markets are already bled dry. It's where they trade their wares and buy their weapons from the murderers who cleaved through us like chaff on that nightmare of a sixth floor. The aliens get expelled when we do. Less than thirty hours until the fighting begins. They'll be back. Once only three armies remain, they'll be able to re-enter the city, and it will be destroyed. They say by the time the fighting is over, none of these NPCs are left alive. None of these building stand. It is all destroyed in the pursuit of an imaginary prize. This makes my heart hurt. This volcano world is obviously a fairy tale. But is this city real? It looks real. It smells real. There is history here. And if so, what's the purpose of giving this to us? To show us a wonder that once existed, to remind us that they don't care what they destroy? To beat us into further submission? And what of the NPCs? What of their suffering? I fear what will happen to my mind when I see it destroyed. (Chapter 33, Book 4)

Stab, stab, stab. It is all I know. It is the final days of Faction Wars, and it is clear the orcs will stand victorious. It is clear the army I have been conscripted into will fall against these beasts. It is clear tomorrow I will die. The brutality and sadism of the Skull Empire is unparalleled. How is it these monsters are only play-acting? How can their citizens see this and not rise up after learning what lives in their leaders' hearts? I will soon be facing them on the battlefield. Tomorrow morning the bugbears march. Several of the enslaved, conscript crawlers in my squad will flee in the night and hide in the forest, but I'm afraid they will be run down, just like the others. Stab, stab, stab. I don't want to go back into the city. That beautiful dream. That song of a place. I am terrified. My mind is slipping. That beautiful city, destroyed? I cannot march with my eyes closed. The orcs have the numbers and the brutality, and the bugbears do nothing but laugh. I overheard one of them wondering out loud if the gods themselves will notice the battle, the bloodbath. That happens here, in this place. The gods notice when the toll is too great. They add themselves to the fray. It is proof to me that in reality we are truly alone. My people are gone. There are only 300 of us left, down from millions. And they, the real gods, have not intervened? No. No. It's undeniable proof of our solitude. Stab. Stab. Stab. I hope there is music, in the end. (Chapter 54, Book 6)

So much. So little. Stab, stab, stab. If I fall, if I stand. It matters not when the song is done. (Chapter 33, Book 4)