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  [Sigurd]

  An explosion rattled the air, it burst from the peaceful atmosphere like the crash of a cymbal at a high-class opera – unexpected and most certainly unwanted.

  It seemed to linger in the air, humming and reverberating as it slowly died down. As well as hearing the thunderous roar, Sigurd could feel it, a vibration running though him like a slap on the back from a mighty drunk dwarf.

  From his skin to his bones, it rattled around, making the air thrum with the power and violence it held as near and dear.

  Following the explosion, there was a brief moment of complete silence, as if the world itself had stopped, putting everything on hold for just one moment. And yet, like the eye of a storm, when peace settled in, you knew that in naught but a moment it would be gone again.

  And sure enough, a few moments later, the world started again, time resumed, the storm took hold, and Sigurd found himself cringing as the roof rattled, vibrating, as if on this perfect day it had begun raining, heavy rain.

  The sound was sharper though, tinnier and dryer than the wet slapping drum of rain pounding down.

  Amongst the hail like storm a few softer hits thumped down, like an elderly inn keeper beating the dust from her carpets or a particularly vicious parent disciplining his naughty child.

  The soft thumps that rang out around the place ended this subdued firework show with one final, large thump that smashed down just outside, pelting the windows of the shack with gravel and debris.

  When the cacophony of noise stopped, Sigurd relaxed rolling his shoulders and jaw around to work out the kinks that had developed as he was wincing and tensing up at the impacts to his poor garden shed.

  Half expecting the bombardment to continue any second now, Sigurd busied himself tidying up the shed, half of the tools had fallen from the walls, they were held up by a few thin nails that had been punched into the wall years earlier.

  Over time, the weight of the resting tools had slowly bent them towards the ground until it was a daily battle to rack them up again after use.

  ‘I just have to find the time to fix them and solve my problem’ Sigurd thought to himself, but between the odd jobs for the village and his retirement he hadn’t found the time yet. Sigurd’s father, God rest his soul, had always said that he was busier in retirement than he ever had been while working and, God, it seemed to be true, or at least Sigurd thought so.

  It took him a good few minutes to hang up the tools properly, time that only increased the apprehension at what he would find outside.

  Would his garden be ruined? Oh, please no! he begged to whatever Gods were up there, I’ve spent ages and ages on the horticulture.

  “Please don’t be ruined” he said aloud instead. Chanting it to himself like a mantra as he went to open the door.

  He quickly discovered another problem though, when he tried to push the door open, it wouldn’t budge. Well, that was a lie, it did budge – just a little – but, like a spring it just pushed back.

  Sigurd sighed in frustration, tilting his head back out of irritation, as he stared up at the ceiling. While doing so he noticed the large, buckled dent in the doorframe.

  “Great! Just Great!” he ranted half-heartedly.

  Calming down, Sigurd looked around the shed. There was nothing really useful for fixing this, all the big tools were outside, the shed was for the detail work and so the tools were all fairly dainty little things, certainly nothing he could use here.

  Since Sigurd was just eager to get out, he picked up a hammer. The largest one of course, and just started whacking away on the lump until it was out of the way.

  Perhaps a touch too far, but it felt good to vent his frustration- having already been in a bad mood before the explosion. Sigurd had just ruined the metalwork piece he had been working on, wasting metal, time and money.

  Setting down the hammer with a wooden thump, he pushed open the door. It moved with a rattling creak and groan as the metal shifted, then it stopped.

  He tried again. It stopped.

  It was still stuck. Raising his eyes to the ceiling he checked there was nothing still blocking it. With nothing for it, he took a step back then in anger just shoulder barged it out the way.

  The door slid open.

  Stepping out of the shed, Sigurd looked around in dismay. There was only one way to put it. His lawn was fucked. Not just fucked; absolutely fucking ruined. It looked like a bomb had gone off and considering the explosion, it wasn’t all that unlikely.

  The lawn was covered in dirt and stone. From the layer of dust to the large chunks that lay strewn around the place, it was not quite how he remembered it. No, Sigurd remembered a crisp, pristine garden full of lush green grass and flowers.

  He sighed.

  The grass was barely visible beneath a thick, uneven layer of mud and rock dust. A large clump of mud had been blocking the door from opening and now it was spread across the last step. Just more work for him to do, Yay! he thought half-heartedly to myself.

  With a final huge sigh, he stepped back into the shed, found some of his gardening tools and got to work.

  *** Four days later***

  Sigurd had finally got his garden shipshape. And when he said ‘shipshape’ what he really meant was ‘barely passable’.

  He had cleaned off the roof and repaired a couple of leaks in the house as a first priority, couldn’t have water leaking through to the beams and struts, a fine way to have an accident that!

  Similarly, he repaired the shed, properly this time, instead of just assaulting it with a hammer.

  Just digging out the muck from the lawn and tipping it away took the majority of the four days of work.

  The grass was finally back to a shade of green, though it was more of a faded, tired grass colour, plastered grey by the dust, it would all clear up again when the rains fell.

  The pond was the only major problem left to deal with, but Sigurd decided to leave that for a while.

  He’d have to drain it and redo it as it was currently full of dirt. It had formed a thick layer of mud at the bottom that would need to be dug out before the pond could be refilled. The dust and rocks and general rubble that had landed in the pond had killed everything bar the bugs, and Sigurd didn’t fancy trying to restore the ecosystem at the moment.

  After finished some last bits of clearing, Sigurd stood back and looking at all the work he’d done, despite it still being worse than before, he was proud of himself.

  Washing his hands, Sigurd stepped back into the house, closing the back door with a loud slam. He slipped out of his boots and was just about to sit down with a nice drink when he heard a loud knock at the door. Placing his mug down, he got up and went to answer it.

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  “Hey Sig” a jovial loud voice called out to him. ‘Sig’ was a nickname, one he didn’t mind – he was actually quite fond of it, and had found himself referring to himself as such on occasion.

  Sigurd Vasagen was his full name though no-one in the town called him that anymore. He had retired from the life of an adventurer, a life many dreamt of, but few understood, it was a tough life, but the rewards were well worth it if you were careful.

  The small quaint town of Littlebrook was home now, and though relaxing in the peaceful village where time passed so slowly was lovely, Sigurd did find himself missing the rush and the experience of the adventure.

  At this point though he was committed, and couldn’t bear to abandon the house anymore. He was happy living off savings and doing odd jobs in the village, selling off some of the metalwork creations he made as a hobby whenever the traders came by.

  Littlebrook rarely received traders. It was as much of an embodiment of a name as anything else. It was literally in every sense of the word, small, with a brook, hence the name. Sigurd laughed lightly at the thought. Whoever named the town clearly wasn’t too creative.

  Unlike the big cities, life here was predominantly about helping people. There was no mayor or town leader, and no real use for money. It was used as everywhere else, but it couldn’t buy anyone privileges in town, or a bigger house – because the townsfolk all pitched in to build the houses and if a family had another kid and needed an extension, the town would get together and build it for them. Sigurd liked that about Littlebrook.

  Littlebrook consisted of about forty people, with four streets in the village proper with five houses on each side, a market place and a few logging cabins and woodland huts for the hunters and gatherers. Beyond the town itself, a few scattered farmhouses filled the endless country scenery, the small road leading to it trailing off over the horizon.

  The side with the hunters’ woodland was towards the mountain and on the other side was a couple of small fields that the farmers used.

  The mountain was called the Avaltjarn or “The Avalt” for short, it sat at the border between several different lands and extended up to the skies beyond even the birds could see. A magnificent sight, the untamed reaches fraught with dangerous terrain and peculiar life.

  “Hey yourself” Sigurd said opening up the door. On the other side was a young lad, 14 years of age. John was his name. He was almost hopping up and down with excitement. Absent-mindedly Sigurd wondered why.

  “Have you heard?” John said, before continuing without giving any time to respond. “The explosion, it was caused by a dungeon we think. Up in the mountains, Rayver said he saw it when hunting. A cave, in the peaks, it just like blew open and it’s a pitch-black opening. He said it had an odd look to it, we thought you might know, being an adventurer and all.” He rattled out not even taking the time for breathing.

  “Slow down lad, a former adventurer mind you” Sigurd replied with a chuckle placing a hand on his shoulder. “Come in, come in. Let’s discuss it over a drink.”

  It took almost a quarter of an hour to get anything from him. He was too giddy about it to explain properly. John was one of those boys who wished with all their heart to be an adventurer, he played swords all day till his mother shouted at him to do his chores, and he was always pestering people for advice and stories.

  Sigurd had hesitated to tell him what it was really like, but John was fascinated by it and he didn’t have the heart to tell the boy the truth.

  But with a possible dungeon up on the slopes it was quite likely that John would get that chance. At least he wasn’t so rash and stupid as to delve inside alone. Sigurd’s few cautionary tales enough to discourage him of that much.

  The story had Rayver climbing up farther than his normal hunting haunts, following a particularly fleetfooted deer when he had reached a cave that hadn’t been there before.

  Rayver claimed to have felt an ominous, overwhelming feeling crawling up his spine and had turned right around, the deer having vanished in his moment of distraction. Rayver had returned to town and from there the news had spread. By all accounts, it sounded similar to what Sigurd had experienced during his dives and it only further confirmed his suspicion that it wasn’t all smoke and no fire and that they were in fact dealing with a real dungeon, and a new one at that.

  It was both good and bad news for the town. Dungeons were extremely profitable, and this was sure to be great for the town, but it could be bad as well because dungeons meant change and the town might well lose its lovely quaint charm, as adventurers and all the businesses and followers they brought with them converged on the village.

  Luckily, at least from the sound of things, it seemed that the dungeon was quite far away and so it was at least plausible that the guilds would start construction much further up the slope. A nice-sized dungeon town would be a great little place to go for a day. Though that was an expensive project, and the dungeon would have to be worth it: something that was definitely not guaranteed.

  Sigurd hoped that the town could remain smallish and keep its quiet atmosphere. Something he so cherished. Though he wouldn’t be averse to a few more dungeon dives, you know, to liven up the life a little.

  John had ended by saying that he knew the townsfolk were wondering if Sigurd could go explore it, since he was the former adventurer and all, to confirm that it was a dungeon.

  It would be dangerous but the accolade ‘First to conquer a new dungeon’ was something every adventurer yearned for, himself included.

  Quite often a new dungeon would offer new rewards and unheard-of prizes that got moved down to later levels once they developed further. It was why guilds paid so much for information on new dungeons, that and the new challenge and place for adventurers to go.

  Dungeons were quite rare after all and with the current rate of shutdowns there was a growing need for big dungeons to entertain all the adventurers and train soldiers.

  ***8 hours later***

  Sigurd was nearly to the entrance now, five hours after leaving the town, he had made it, sweat poured down his brow soaking his eyebrows and beard, the way up was fucking horrible, stupid dungeon making it inaccessible.

  He was less fit than he should have been for a solo adventurer, but he wouldn’t be able to contact his old team for a while and he had doubts they would even want to get back into the life. As far as he knew they were all happily retired just like him. Besides, all he had to do right now was get in, confirm it was a dungeon look around a bit to get as much information to give the guild and then get out.

  Giving his pits a sniff Sigurd realised his clothes were getting a bit too ripe, the journey to the cave was a tough slog and he was sweating profusely. He felt sticky and was looking forward to changing out of them. Hopefully the dungeon would soon realise how badly it needed steps or a path to its entrance.

  Sigurd realised that his mind was wandering and pulled it back on track. ‘A wandering mind meant a straight path. Straight to the grave for an adventurer’. That’s what his old teacher had said, the man’s advice had kept Sigurd alive on numerous occasions, so he always repeated the line to himself before a delve.

  It was nearing mid-afternoon now; John had caught him in the morning, getting in some early gardening and Sigurd had set off shortly after the talk, stopping only to let some of the villagers know what he was doing, they had expressed a multitude of opinions but it seemed that the dungeon was just being accepted and the change that came with it as a ‘come what may’ sentiment.

  Setting his pack down, Sigurd lay on a smooth section of rock, enjoying the feeling of his spine straightening out hunching over whilst carrying the pack had started his back aching and he needed to rid himself of that distraction before he began the delve.

  Yawning a bit, Sigurd took a good long rest. “Forty I may be, but I wasn’t that out of shape” he mumbled to himself.

  After his nap he got to work, since poor planning provides piss-poor performance, then preparation provides perfect performance. Right?

  Sometimes.

  Yawning and stretching once more, he got up and started a basic stretching regime. Just to limber up a bit you understand, not because he was old.

  The next task, equipment. Getting out of his sweat-soaked clothes he dug into his pack and pulled out a fresh set of underclothes and some soft leather gear. Warming it between his hands with a touch of magic made it especially supple and it helped in pulling it on.

  Sigurd pulled out a belt with lots of pouches, repacking the few that had come loose in his pack. The belt rested on his hips, the left side filled with healing supplies and the right with dangerous things. From healing potions, bandages and gels on the left, to poisons, bombs, and elemental attack runes on the right. He was alchemically prepared.

  Sigurd pulled out his battle axe and whetstone and began the long process of preparing it for battle, pulling the cutting edge into the block towards him then pushing it back away until the edge was just sharp enough. You don’t want a really sharp blade in battle, because the edge chips away, fractures, and begins to seriously degrade the weapon.

  From the pack, Sigurd grabbed some metal vambraces and clipped them onto his forearms, a rerebrace and pauldron went onto his upper lead arm and shoulder – left in Sigurds case, though he occasionally switched to right if he had taken damage to his lead - while his rear arm – right – just had leather protection on the shoulder. He required less protection on his rear side as it held his weapon and was positioned away from the enemy, allowing him more freedom of movement for his weapon.

  A simple leather and steel band breastplate protected the rest of his torso, Sigurd had both greaves and sabatons on both legs with a poleyn and cuisse on the lead leg – left - and simple leather on the rear leg - right. He slipped on his gauntlets, grasped his axe, hefting it familiarly as if it was an old friend, and in a way it was.

  Made of fairly thin steel and leather, the armour was of medium build, it wouldn’t stop very large powerful mobs like full knight armour would, but it was heavy enough to take a decent bit of damage. He favoured the mobility it gave to dodge the usually slow and powerful types, whilst giving the protection to face the slashing, or piercing style mobs head on. Because it was weighted significantly towards his left side, Sigurd had to be especially aware to keep foes from circling around him, but in the small confines of a tunnel it hadn’t been too difficult in the past.

  Sigurd took a couple of practice swings, a few more stretches to settle the armour in place, and he was ready to explore.

  He collected his old clothes and stuffed them in his pack, slinging the pack down beside the entrance as he stepped into the black.