Duradel Sylvan stared at the newspaper. An expedition in the Badlands was underway and no one thought to invite him. Well, he did always like a little competition. He had not been to the volcanic region in quite a while.

Folding the paper, he went to the armory. He took a gambeson and a nice titanium place with vambraces and then added knee protectors to the mix. The horned whiplash lizard did always like to bite at the knees, and they were crowding the Badlands.

Taking his red rimmed hat, he pulled out a parchment out of his robes. It was a standard form his brother made him fill out every time he went on an adventure, as if he was a simple adventurer and not a monster hunter.

The vampire wrote down everything he thought relevant to his trip down. Then he placed the parchment on his pillow and exited the hut. The river that carved the canyon ran merrily by him. He knew to follow it.

With sure steps, Duradel went by the smithies and at the end of the day, he put them entirely behind them. By now, Timothy would have found the form and began murmuring his disgruntled protests.

But this time Duradel couldn’t take his brother with him. This dungeon core, Luca, provided Timothy with a home and a purpose. Something the two had lacked ever since a force of werewolves under their vampire overlord had attacked their village.

The vampire had liked Duradel’s purple eyes and silver-blonde hair. And Timothy had been bitten by a werewolf. The same one that had killed their parents. Two elders who had been too weak to run.

But Duradel and Timothy had gotten their revenge, in time. Timothy had learned how to smith and had made wonderful weapons and armor for Duradel, who had been learning how to be a warrior before the attack.

Switch blades extending from the sleeve. Titanium and iron glass slender blades with cross shaped guards. Wicked curved daggers that had been outlawed years ago. Breastplates that could stop a fireball or an icicle. All of his armor components were as light as a feather and as sturdy as a rock.

But Timothy was not getting any younger, while Duradel was eternal. There were rumors of a special elixir, better than a life-extending ring, even, in the Badlands that made people stuck in the age of their prime.

Duradel had hunted for this elixir before, but it was said to be the sap of a special fir tree that grew in the magma of a volcano. Which volcano, Duradel, did not know. But he was going to find it. And if these ants distracted the denizens of the Badlands long enough for him to find it, then all the better.

He stopped for the night by the river and laid on the small pebbles on the banks. He was used to sleeping on sharper bedding, so he was not worried about the conditions.

It was a pleasantly warm May evening. Fireflies were out and about, dancing around each other and buzzing a lullaby for everyone who would listen. Duradel reached out and with lightning-fast reflexes caught one.

The bug tried to fly away, but he had it securely in his grip.

“Show me what you have seen.” Said Duradel, staring within the bug’s eyes.

His vampire eyes glazed over, and he saw the goblins of the Canyon Rush dungeon moving in big groups and marking the banks of the river. Probably trying to scout out new spots for smithies. Luca was ever looking forward to expanding his dungeon.

Fish swam in the river, small red and gold bait fish that told Duradel that he would have no luck fishing for food. But he had one wine skin worth of blood, and he didn’t like animal blood, besides.

Then, around midday yesterday, something flew over the river and landed in the middle of it. It was a golden bird, as big as a carriage, that had stopped to drink.

Duradel let go of the firefly. There was no point in trying to see what else has passed by the river further back, for it surely had gone on its way. But the Roc bird worried him.

Relatives to the phoenix, Roc birds were creatures of fire and fiercely territorial. There was a time when each Roc was a dungeon core. Then, the secret of enchanting was stolen from them, and now anything could become a dungeon core.

This could be a coreless bird, or a core. But if it was a core, heck even if it was not, he needed to take care of it. It was too close to the Canyon Rush dungeon. There was no telling when the goblins found themselves on the receiving end of a Roc attack.

Not that Duradel liked these goblins. Personally, he had nothing against the species. There were hardworking goblins just like there were hardworking humans.

But half of Luca’s goblins were an heirloom from another dungeon. And they liked to speak in riddles and, when they had nothing clever to say, straight out lie.

The dungeon core had tried to discipline them, and they didn’t play their games with him, but Duradel and Timothy were fair game in their eyes. If Duradel had a copper for every time he had snapped at a goblin to speak plainly in the last two months, he would be a rich man.

No, the Roc bird had to go. Had it been a specie that accepted contracts with dungeon cores, Duradel would have simply beaten it into submission and sent it to Luca. But Roc birds were proud.

To go and hunt it at night was suicide, though. He cast a cloaking barrier around himself and closed his eyes. Sleep, as it was always the case when something big was nearby, didn’t come easily to the vampire.

He kept waking up at every sound that sounded like the screech of a bird. The last time he had fought a Roc bird, the cretin had set him aflame. He just hoped that this bird was pass its prime and wouldn’t do the same.