Paradise of the Darkest Dungeons [Another Darkest Dungeon Fanfic]

Hello. The section “Literature” for some reason did not appear on the blog, although I entered it. Here is the fanfiction on DD, in which I want to try to convey the main features of the game and conduct the narrative based on the events taking place in my campaign. But this is in the future, but for now I ask you to read the beginning.

– I’m a caretaker, and this. Go to Hamlet? – a bald old man with an impressive beard, a calm look and facial expressions, reminiscent of a Senbernar, stood near the winds of tired skates beaten by the winds of a carriage. The road square, from where the stagecoachs set off between the settlements of this region, was almost empty. From a minute a minute, the city was waiting for the arrival of golden pre -um.

-I understood, I already thought that your parent, clinging to the station caretaker, did not come up with anything better than calling her adored deity. You can at least something in addition to knock out from your beard, similar to the broom of my mamashi witch?! I ask you which young lady, and what is going on in your damn gamlet in general? Rumors go different, Musier caretaker! – the stocky peasant in a dense black camisole played with a stylet with a carved bone pen and squinted displeasedly, looking at the unfinished bearded man.

– I’m a caretaker, and this is my Dili ..

– Oh gods! Why are you so tight! Vishaga!

– Whoever remembers the gods in vain? – the armed man turned around and saw a powerful figure in a metal armor.

– And who are you, your mother, such? Long long lay in the sun, conserva, it seems someone has come to life inside you!

– My trained eye suggests that you are none other than the robber, the gentleman is good – the thick metal finger poked the armed in the chest – I suggest you voluntarily give up and proceed with me.

– Who are you, iron lumberjack, where your friend is a scarecrow and a girl with a dog? – the robber calmly hid the style of the scabbard and crossed his arms over his chest. The caretaker looked indifferently at the skirmish, holding his hand on the door of his stagecoach.

– I, Viscount Reynald Courtois de Bazant, knight and crusader, minister of the Order of the Divine White Light of Heaven! I vowed to monitor the order in this place deprived by the true white light. You, robber, come with me – a heavy hand lay on the shoulder of the robber. He cast a slanting glance at the iron paw and snorted contemptuously.

“Listen to me, tin cutie Rei,” he dropped an iron glove from his shoulder with a sharp movement of his hand – my name is dysmas. Dis-Mas, how your flying iron-bottom head whistles, which I take off from your four-meter shoulders. Now I will take out my card friend named Musier Pistol and prepare a colander for pasta from your bundle shell! If you are right now ..

– I’m a caretaker, and this. Go to Hamlet? – Dyasmas fell silent and both of him and Reinald looked in surprise at the bearded driver – we have a monastery and tavern in Gamlet. I’m a caretaker.

– Ba! You heard it, Rey?! This lump of wool blamed something in addition to “I am a smarter, we got a dumbbell”. Yes, you, it turns out, the most pleasant interlocutor, can! What did you say about the tavern there?

– Monastery? The crusader boomed.

– bar, gaming room, brothel, club, transept, repentance room ..

– Go to Hamlet? – repeated Noaccount-casinos.co.uk the caretaker and, pulling the handle, opened the door of the stagecoach.

Chapter I. “Letter”

This light town is dotted with inflorescences of all the colors of the rainbow and is inhabited by the most musical birds in the world. Cozy narrow streets are covered with polished cobblestone. Steppege ladies and gentlemen walk in quiet areas under the handle. Ladies have cute umbrellas from the sun, the gentlemen of the monocles. The sun generously and gently illuminates this paradise. Honored citizens smile sweetly to familiar passers -by and discuss their well -fed calm life among themselves. Only then, the well -fed glossy face of the owner of the bakery, Mr. Carlson, when once again, his gaze stops at this old tramp, perched on a sweet bench. Too sweet for such a dirty smelly ragged ragged!

– Look, Henriete, again this carrion defiles our bench with his stench – indignantly spraying saliva, wheezes Mr. Carlson to his wife. She bulges her eyes to the ragged man, but does not know what to say, because from the birth of Tup, like the circle of Braunschweig sausage – we must finally complain to the city chapter! It is high time for a kind of blot to throw out of our city. Togo and look, he plants lice on the butt rolls of respected customers leaving my store! And then what, close the matter? Sanitary check will make me bankrupt because of this insignificance.

Mr. Carlson with blood wrapped with his eyes bums the tramp, passing with his wife past a small forged shop near the bakery. The tramp, in turn, escorts a thick couple with a long look, rewarding Carlson’s back with his middle finger. This tramp is not a young man. His face shaved somehow, wrinkled and looks like a fried pie with Liver, which he would cruise now, perhaps, for the share of the police. The old jacket is covered with dust of roads and sebaceous stains. The disheveled colorless hair sticks to the sides and seems to be chopped off by something not particularly sharp and to the haircut of the unsuitable. For example, a bread -drama that has disappeared the other day from the same bakery. How I would like to eat something! But this has not been possible for the fifth day to a row. All that is currently enough for is to sit next to the bakery, hoping for a small piece of bread or blackening a crust.

– Hey, ragged! – Hears the old man a muffled cunning voice from the side of the bakery. He slowly turns tiredly. A cunning erysipelas peeps out due to a carved oak front door.
I want a crust? – the tramp hastily blinks with his eyes and frantically nods a shaggy head. He breaks himself to dart toward his benefactor, as soon as possible, but without strength immediately flopes on all fours near the shop.

-Aha ha ha! What are you there, like a husky dog ​​stood up with four paws?! Run here, the dog – the tramp is hardly lifted and on the bent seeds to the bakery. And the cook has already reached the threshold and busily furiously screwed in deep pockets of wide pants under the apron. The tramp stops in front of him, fascinated, like a cat behind his mouse, looking at the hands of a kid.

– ABOUT! In, it seems, I found it-joyfully yells a cunning little boy and pulls out of his pocket a hand gathered in the figure of the absence of anything in the right questioning place, and simply put, a muzzle.

-Aha ha ha! Funny every time! – Absuried with happiness, the boy rolled out with laughter – Vali Ozhdova, Grandfather, or you will stir me up to the hepatic colic – the heavy wooden door slamms, praising the tramp with the alluring aroma of fresh baking.

Already gets dark and the tramp with a tired shuffling step weaves on a cozy narrow street. Frankly, he is not quite a tramp, since he still has some angle. But this is really an angle, and the probability of losing and it is extremely great. The poor old man approaches his abode in the attic of a communal house.

– Mr. van der kopf! – The hostess of the communal house yells from the attic window. Her voice sounds mockingly, because the old dirty Hans van der Kopf has long been no longer “gentleman”. Poor, grimacing, raises his head – I have two news for you: good and bad, with which I start, Mr. van der Kopf?

– Perhaps let’s be good, Madame Martins – a tramp answers hoarse from habit.

– The good thing is that you are a letter, Mr. van der Kopf! It seems to be from your relative, it is written “from: Totten van der Kopf”. And you know what? Such an envelope stands like a night in my best room and with only one neighbor! It looks like you’re poured here, the lord is our beggar and unfortunate van der kopf! Your relative is clearly not from commoner!

-Well, okay, okay, Madame Martins, what kind of second news?

“And the second, his mother, news,” Mrs. Martins suddenly switches from malicious squeaking on thick bass – the second news is that I no longer want to see you in her beautiful communal house, a rogue! You owed me in three days! Three days, be you cursed. Take your letter and fail!

The thick lady waving that there is urine and throws down the crumpled envelope. The brazier tramp is like this, looking up, and gets a rather weighty lump of paper on the nose. With trembling hands, Hans van der Kopf unfolds an envelope from his old fraternal-fisherman and with curiosity reads the contents.

You remember our old house, abundant and majestic. He stood proudly on a high hill above the swamp. All my life I spent in this estate shrouded in rumors. I turned out of luxury and debauchery, but in the end I began to get tired of earthly joys. Strange terrible traditions said that our mansion was gates to some great unknown force. I collected relics, studied rituals, and laid all my strength to dig up and find buried secrets. All the remnants of our condition were spent on dark workers and strong intercourse. Finally, in a salted breed under the very foundation, we dug up the damned portal, and with it the oldest evil. Each of our steps disturbed the ancient land. We fell into the abode of death and madness! As a result, I ran alone, sobbing and laughing, according to the ancient darkened arcades. I have not lost consciousness yet. You remember our old house, abundant and majestic. Now these are rotting ruins! I pray, go home! Take what yours is from birth and save our family from bloodthirsty enduring shadows from the darkest dungeon.

Chapter II. On the way to Hamlet

The old road leads here. She curls dangerously, like a snake, through a dull rural area. And, I’m afraid, she leads to places even more repulsive. In the old, interpreted stones from which the road is folded, the infection lies, and on this winding path you meet human malice, violence and, perhaps, other unimaginable horrors. Fasten, and remember that there is no courage where there is no madness. The old road leads to the underworld, but only in its gaping abyss we will find atonement.

The stagecoach is destroyed, and the caretaker has left, you will have to travel to Hamlet on foot. In these parts the robbers bred! Use the bypass path – to the city is a stone’s throw.

– You heard that? – Dyasus frowned, looking into the Sterns Sulfacing before starting to get dark.

– What are you talking about, robber?

– You are kidding? That you have not heard this: about robbers and a workaround?! Who is it, the devil is his dery, just said?!

– Your sins, robber, drive you crazy. Danate until it was too late – Reynald indifferently stepped a heavy step, pushing the darkness with his powerful body.

– Clearly, you are kidding me, Rey. Do you want me to go crazy and all the rugs went to you, to build another monastery of insane lovers of holy world or as there.

– Divine true white light of heaven!

– Bosevinovovov’s nibeus – Dymas twisted the face so, twisting the crusader, which became like Sharpei – deliver me from this Mura, iron senilee! Better tell me how to get out of this crown!

– We will use this bypass path – to the city a stone’s throw.

– Yeah! I knew that the Holy Storosovy, that you heard this man with the voice of my grandmother, who was about the robbers and the path, probably, from somewhere in the bushes. Then let it just come across to me – I will put it on the feather.

– Removing life – mortal sin. You will burn in the fury of white fire, robber.

– My name is dysmas! Dis-Mas, Oslina, like a whistle of my dagger, with which I cut your holy throat if you do not start contacting me respectfully, I understood?! – Reynald shrugged indifferently and silently followed.

Dismas continued to grumble under his breath displeasedly until the branch creaked suspiciously loudly.