The Butcher of Gadobhra

Chapter 363: A Bloody and Brutal Perspective

"Know, oh prince, that between the years when Engine made the world and the years of the rise of the Children of Typhon, there was an Age undreamed of, when shining cities lay spread across the world like blue mantles beneath the stars - Cinderstein with its hoards of gold, Wolfsburg with its Guilds, Northguard the Miserly, Silverthorne with its fair-haired women and towers of shadow-haunted mystery, Sedgewick with its tireless workers, Shadowport that bordered on the Underground kingdoms of the Engineers, Limburger Hollow with its tasty cheese, and Mapleshade with its riders of moose. But the proudest kingdom of the world was Gadobhra, reigning supreme in the dreaming North. Hither came Ozymandias, the Butcher, bloody-handed maker of Sausage, sullen-eyed, cleaver in hand, a warrior, a titan, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, to tread the jeweled thrones of the World beneath his booted feet."

A meaty fist the size of an ox smacked into Ozzy, knocking him through the air and into a side of raw beef hanging on the edge of the large abattoir. The Butcher of Sedgewick was feeling that blow, his head spinning, and body aching. Nothing had ever hit him that hard. The carcass of meat was reduced to steak tar-tar. Ozzy stood up, wiped blood and raw beef from his face, and looked at his opponent. The Butcher was Gadobhra stood nearly thirty feet tall and looked as though a giant twice his size had been forced into a tight barrel half his height. Stumpy, thick legs ended in enormous three-toed feet, and his arms were wider than his legs. A cleaver the size of a barn door hung at his belt, glowing red and sullenly grumbling that it was being ignored. Layers of fat hid layers of muscle, giving him a somewhat comical appearance, which could only be appreciated from a long distance away and a powerful telescope. Up close, there was no doubt that this primordial horror was the most dangerous creature in Gadobhra or under it.

As Ozzy cleared his head, his opponent spit and then laughed. "You are such a pain in my ass, son. And don't take that personally. Half the dungeon's butchers might be descended from me, but I'm not claiming a smoke-swilling abomination like you as a relation. My family tree is twisted and rotten enough without adding a blackened branch like you to it."

Ozzy was happy for a breather. One second, he'd been heading back to Sedgewick, and the next, he was in the Pit of the Butcher directly in front of a throne of meat and gristle. "Sorry if I'm causing your fat ass any inconvenience; maybe you shouldn't have dragged me here? I'm happy to head home and get back to work."

The Butcher of Gadobhra walked back to his throne and picked up a bone that once belonged to some enormous creature, sharpened from gnawing on it over the decades. It made a good toothpick. "Oh, you think I wanted you here? Knock that idea out of that thick head of yours. The only time I give a crap about greeting a new butcher is at Guild meetings and when they fight their way down to me and swear allegiance. And none of that describes the fancy-schmancy, smoke-loving, meat-ruining, minion-stealing pretty boy I see in front of me. The only reason I even agreed to give you some advice is you've done something that most of these nincompoops in the dungeon have never done: And that's become a Legend. For that, you get a few words of wisdom from me. And trust me, I have very few words of wisdom, so treat each as a hard-earned victory."

"Advice? Then what the hell was the fight about? You smacked me around a dozen times, and I barely nicked your legs hard as I tried."

Again, laughter. "Maybe you should learn to think first, then? What was the first move you made? Did you look around the battlefield? Appraise your chance of victory? Negotiate your way out of a tough situation? Nope, you pulled your cleavers out and grew a couple of feet taller." He scowled, anger clearly showing on his face and his voice thundering.

You dared to raise a hand to me? To ME!

You're lucky I have a dungeon to run. Dungeons are like armies; they move on their stomachs. Only the fact that you've been shoving tons of meat into this place kept you from being gutted and what was left of you hanging on a meat hook. Now, put away those cleavers and pull up a stool. We have shit that needs saying, so you're going to be all polite-like and not provoke me into smacking you around some more."

Ozzy put away his cleavers, grabbed a stool, and sat down, a little puzzled by the change from fighting to talking. The Butcher yelled, "And the rest of you can quit hiding in the shadows and get back to work! This is a private talk; I'll gut anyone who tries to listen. Minions? You tell me if you catch a butcher or daemon pulling sneaky stuff. I'll pat you on the head, and you can sit at the big table and eat a nice mince pie for a reward." The butchers returned to work, and the minions raced around, eager for a reward. Knowing how bad the life of a minion in the dungeon was, Ozzy had no doubts this was now a private discussion. "Can we start with why I'm here for advice?"

"Sure, why not? See, you did something BIG. I emphasize that word. BIG. You managed to kill an old power and did it in front of a lot of other powerful people. You scared the piss out of them. Doesn't matter how you did it. Some will call it luck or taking advantage of an opponent's weakness. None of doesn't matters, just scared people making crappy excuses. You won the battle using your brain and their weakness. That's smart. Only an idiot throws away an advantage, especially in a fight where no one expects you to win. And now you're a Legend. Guess where being a Legend can put you?"

Ozzy shrugged, not knowing where this conversation was going.

The Butcher slapped the arm of his throne hard enough that the structure of bone and gristle was crushed, and he lost an armrest. "It can land you right here, with your fat ass having to rule over a dungeon of idiot butchers and give advice to little piss-ants who learned how to cut pork chops. You think I was born here? Nope. I grew up in some little village; I forget the name, working the farm and enjoying the slaughtering season. I liked culling the herds and cutting up the meat. As time went on, that became my job. Grab a pig and slice it in half in one swing. I started to make a name for myself. I'd put aside some money, started a little shop in the village, and was eyeing up a local girl who had her eye on me. The future looked happy and boring."

He paused and scowled, then chased the old memories away and continued. "And then the wars started, and that little village was emptied of every boy and girl over 13 summers. It was a good thing, too, since it was overrun by the swarm a month later. They put me to work in the baggage train, cutting up whatever they brought me and turning it into food for a hungry army. Had my share of fighting, too. Taking out the enemy supply train is a winning tactic that the idiot general in charge of our forces kept forgetting. Twice, the bugs sent fast-moving squads of crawlers at us, and I learned that swinging a hog slicer worked just as well on living meat as dead meat. And I liked it. Better experience, for sure, and those bugs make this cute squealing sound as you slice them in half. I sliced them up and put them in the stewpots like any other meat, and no one complained. A soldier with a full belly is a happy soldier. The general ignored the attacks and pushed further ahead, and the enemy tried to cut the army in half. They sent a thousand mind-controlled 'pets' at us. Men and women from the villages or captured soldiers, all with a little critter in their ear controlling them. Many of the regular soldiers hesitated at killing them or grew disgusted, which gave the thralls and bugs an edge."

"Do you know I still think about that battle? I kept wondering what the difference was in slicing people in half instead of bugs. As far as I could tell, they all died the same. They kept running at me, and I kept swinging. I was having the time of my life, exhausted and laughing, the blood and gore washing over my feet. Everyone else in the baggage train died that day, and the army was crippled. I alone survived, with a ring of bodies around me when they found me. I killed hundreds. I was a Legend that day, with a whole army looking at me. The general said some fine words I forgot and offered me a promotion. I took the promotion by taking his fool head off his shoulders in one swing. The bastard hadn't fought and didn't have a drop of blood on him. The army was about to dissolve into chaos, and the bugs were still out there and coming our way."

The Butcher paused, and Ozzy sat quietly, trying to imagine the scene. "Legends are tricky things. I wasn't careful about picking mine. I could have given an inspirational speech, telling them we'd be victorious with me in charge. I could have told the common soldiers it wasn't their fault idiots led them, and they could rejoice because I was in charge now. That would have turned my Legend into something positive. But I only knew how to kill and cut meat, and if that worked, I'd keep doing it. I scared them. When the old general's advisors argued, I gutted them or lopped off their heads. I told people what to do and threatened them with death. Then I walked to the head of the army and told them that today they were all butchers. And then I led them on a rampage through an army twice our size and came out the other end. They called it a victory. For the first time, we scared the bugs, and they retreated to save one of their queens. Out of ten thousand men who had followed me, less than a thousand remained. They were bloody and wounded and crazed from killing. They'd also gone up levels and earned new classes that were all about killing. So had I. I was the Butcher General leading the Butcher's Brigade. We fought for years, growing stronger and fighting everything from bugs and elves to giants and demons. And we won. But we became monsters. Legendary monsters, butchers, every one of us. Nice folk didn't want us around, so they sold us to Gadobhra, and we were given this dungeon."

There was silence for a moment, Ozzy not daring to speak. "Are you hearing what I'm saying? Choose wisely. You may still end up a monster, but at least you'll know why. Now, memory lane is making me all weepy and quiet. Go ahead and ask questions; I know you have some. They'll piss me off and get me back to normal."

Ozzy took a deep breath and considered. The choices he'd been given looked different after the dungeon lord's talk.

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You have performed a Legendary Feat!

Maybe you should stick around for a few centuries and see how the Legend grows? For now, echoes and whispers are spreading of your Legendary Battle with Duchess Midnight, Soul-Binder, Realm-Stealer, the Countess of Silverthorne, and Lady of Daggers. But even the greatest of victories takes time to become known throughout the world of men. For now, you are still the Butcher of Sedgewick, grinding your sausage and pining after The Lonely Barmaid. And word is spreading about how tasty that sausage is...

Fists of Iron: The bards sing of your mighty fists and the mighty creatures that you punched in the face: Lemechial, Midnight, Peerson, and Blackgut were creatures far beyond your level...but you still punched your way to victory and became a Legend in the process.

You gain double damage when fighting Bosses with your fists, feet, and natural weapons.

Nerves of Steel: It has been noticed that you argue and negotiate almost as good as Lemechial. Did you gain a piece of your foe when you slayed him? Your reputation for standing firm and matching wits, or exchanging threats is Legendary. Negotiating with the most dangerous creatures takes a stiff spine, a steady eye, and the ability to make them see you as an equal. No one can read your thoughts or motives if you don't want them to. You are immune to the effects of fear, intimidation, and coercion during negotiations. Your stare alone can intimidate many creatures, stripping them of their courage.

Slayer: When they tell stories of 'The Butcher', they aren't thinking of your sausage. Legends are told of your bloody blades slicing and chopping through your enemies, leaving a trail of gore behind.

Your weapon attacks do +25% extra damage. Any wounds that you take in battle have no effect upon you until it ends.

The Sausage Maker: Someone has to get their hands dirty and make the sausage. You like the work and don't mind the blood. You have a growing reputation for getting things done. One way or another, you find a way to finish the job and make the bodies disappear. This intimidates your opponents and pleases your boss. "Send in the Butcher to make the sausage." isn't something anyone likes to hear.

-Any special sausage or magical meat made by you is more powerful than normal, giving either a 50% stronger effect, or double the normal duration. Your preserved meats will not go bad for three times longer than normal. If left in sealed barrels infused with smoke from your Pit, the duration is indefinite.

-No one can steal your recipes, but you can gift them. That person cannot gift them, or be stolen from.

-Intimidation or fear abilities that you use are more intense.

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"Fine, here's what I want to know: Why the hell do you hate cooked meat, bacon, or sausage?"

The Butcher blinked, then chuckled. "With all you could ask, that's what you want to know? Fine. A Legend can change you. Mine is all about blood, gore, and raw meat. I'm not remembered as a leader of men or a killer of monsters. Not a person alive remembers how I fed an army, and no one talks about the Butcher's Brigade saving the Empire, only about how I lopped off heads to take control and won by throwing away lives. When we didn't have food to eat, we ate what we killed and rarely had time to cook it. I grew to hate the thought of a huge baggage train slowing us down, filled with it's beans and coffee and bacon. We roamed the land and ate what we had to. You might say that attitude is still there. I don't mind a little char on my steak, but it better be red and juicy on the inside. You sit up there and cure your fancy bacon. Tell me, boy, did anyone ever die from eating bacon? All that smoking and curing is weakening you."

Ozzy reached into his bag. "Yeah? Eat four pieces of this and tell me if you think I can kill with my bacon?"

The Butcher leaned forward and sniffed. "Not touching it. Smells well done." He looked up suddenly to where a minion in the rafters was pointing to a spot between two hanging carcasses. "Mignik! I see you up there in the shadows. Get your ass down here! I gave an order and somehow, you don't have the brains to take me seriously?"

The boar-headed butcher slunk into the room, glaring at Ozzy. "I needed to know! What has this one done to get your attention? It steals minions and burns the meat. It doesn't come to the dungeon and works no shifts. It stays outside where things are soft and the meat is easy. Why do you sit and talk with it? Why?!"

The Butcher's eyes narrowed. "Your stupid, as usual, Miggy, but you do have a couple of points. Tell you what? I'll bring those up in a moment, but first, our new Butcher, Ozzy, has something for you to eat. Choke it down and I won't kill you and turn you into a minion for defying my order."

Mignik went from abrasive to fearful, instantly. He grabbed the bacon from Ozzy and started chewing it. "Stupid, stupid, bacon. It...it isn't terrible. Fatty, sweet...hot. It's hot. IT's HOT!"

He threw back his head and burped, sending a burst of flame from his mouth and up to the ceiling. Then his skin burst into flames, and he ran around the room screaming before exploding into chunks of singed meat. A large chunk sailed past The Butcher who caught it and popped it into his mouth."

"That was funny. And he doesn't have a bad flavor. Tastes like chicken." He stared at greasy, blackened spot where Mignik had exploded. "Ok, I will grant you the point about killing people with bacon. I know what that shit is, now. They used to feed it to the fire and volcano mages to beef up their mana. Come to think of it, there were a few heads popping each battle. I used to wonder about that. What else do you have in that bag?"

Ozzy pulled out a sausage grinder and put it on the table. Then he gathered the ingredients he needed from the meat all around, and pulled spices out of his bag. In went fat and gristle and blood. Lots of blood. Spices he'd bought from the kitchen store in Wolfsburg, salad berries from the smoke, and a few of Mignik's entrails. He turned the handle and the grinder squealed and growled like a lost soul as the links of blood sausage came out the other end. Ozzy kept the heat low, breathing out cold smoke and let just a little settle into the sausage. Then he tossed the links to The Butcher. "Try this. Blood sausage is an old recipe made by damn near every ancient culture. Some use a sheep's belly, but I prefer links. There are even ways to cure it without smoke or cooking, but it takes longer."

The Butcher bit into one, then tossed the rest into his mouth. Fat and blood ran down his chin. "Not bad. I could get used to that touch of smoke. Reminds me of the smell of cities burning as we marched through them. And I remember eating sausage before I became a legend. Long time gone, and it's hard to remember things that aren't killing, but I remember we ate a lot of sausage in the army. All right, you'll do. But I want to see you in the Pit. You can come visit like anyone else, kill or be killed. Bring friends and fight. You might wake some people up, and piss them off if you take a cleaver from them. Miggy sure is pissed, and it might have helped him grow a spine. I think I see it over by that bench." He laughed at his own joke. "But someday, I'm going to call, and you'll show up for a shift, or I'll come drag you back. Just a little one. Oink and Chopper have some vacation time coming up. You can cover for them. And I like what you did with the Guild. Gristle is another lost child that needs to be kept busy. Tell him I want a level four Butcher's Guild and get it built. Stupid that's it's so low when you've recruited a brigade of butchers and are heading to Tier Four. I want a guildhall to match that. Gadobhra was a city of Butchers once, and it will be again. Dominate the other guilds and remind them who's the Boss Butcher. You handle that for me, come visit now and then, and I'll stay off your ass for a little bit. Not that anyone else is going to know that. You get me?"

"Yeah, I think I understand. And thanks for the advice."

"Ha! Sure, anytime. Come see me again when you do something else stupid and heroic. Now get the hell out of here. I'm calling for the gristle daemons and toothy-gnawers and sending them after you in half a minute. Run, Ozzy, Run!."