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Handyman Heroslayer (HH) 1 - Skeletons Don’t Make Good Construction Material
🕑 Added 2025-06-12 11:03:15 +0000 UTCCastor’s most immediate problem was that someone had fused an Undying Skeleton with one of the castle’s main support beams.
His day had started with a report from one of the Dungeon Fiends on the 49th basement level. Apparently, there was an annoying rattle coming from beneath the floor. Castor’s search for the source of the noise had forced him to crawl through a mile of rocks, dirt, and demon shit near the structure’s foundation. It was filthy work, but on a scale from a cherub’s ass cheek to a sea of liquified organs, it was on the cleaner end. He shuddered at the memory of Lake Spleen.
Castor had squirmed over recently passed abyssal parasites, burning them away from his skin with his last Infernal Torch. The enchantment had about six hours worth of hellfire left when he’d found the skeleton, and estimating how long it would take to fix the rattle, he wasn’t confident it would have enough juice to make it back out.
By the end of the day, all of that would seem like a trivial problem.
The skeleton was melded into the support beam, bones poking out from the brimstone and marble composite like it was taking a vertical bath. It shook as he slunk closer, slapping its phalanxes against the rock and clacking its teeth.
Castor frowned as he looked it over, confused by the waste of an eternal soul. Demons were sadistic by nature, with several species deriving literal sustenance from the suffering of mortals. However, a spirit’s agony was like a cut of roast beef, in that one needed to be close enough to take a bite, and it tasted better fresh.
This deep down, the unfortunate creature’s pain wasn’t doing anyone any good, and Castor doubted any self-respecting demon would crawl through the bowels of [Demon Lord] Bythraxomonius’s fortress for a light snack. He’d need to write up a report of the squandered wealth once he was done, which added one more task to his four-hundred-year backlog. It would get priority, since Lord Bythrax was very strict with his tax code. That meant one less hour of sleep during Castor’s six hours of daily ‘personal time’.
Castor sighed and put the mystery aside, dropping his tool box into the dust and deciding to get to work. He reached into his dimensional keyring and pulled out a small, rusty key, slid it into the box’s lock, jiggled it three times to get the teeth to catch, and clicked the container open.
Castor unloaded several dozen compartments from the small box, stacking them neatly to one side until the pile was several times larger than the box itself. He finally unearthed his necromancy kit, selected an adjustable bone carver and runic brush, then checked the expiration date on his mana-enhanced ink. It was only good for another decade, and he clicked his tongue before pulling out his notepad and scribbling himself a reminder that it would need to be replaced soon.
He shuffled forward on his knees to take a closer look at the runes engraved into the skeleton’s skull. He’d need to open up the cranium to make his adjustments, but the outer ring described the spell’s parameters. Castor recognized it as a standard binding weave to keep the soul attached to the bones, allowing it to operate as a power source and rudimentary intelligence.
The only modification from a textbook ritual array was that extra attention had been paid to the durability mechanism. This was presumably so the skeleton could bear the load from the pillar. Sadly, while the would-be Necromancer was diligent in copying the runes, the work was obviously that of an amateur. There were ten different ways to make the binding more efficient, which was necessary when adding an optional reinforcement module.
As it was, the durability enhancement was only getting about 20% of the mana it needed to sustain itself. This meant that the skeleton was being crushed by the pillar, which led to a looseness in the composite. Combined with the undead’s vigorous attempts to free itself, a fierce rattle was the result.
Castor paused and made another note on his pad, jotting down that a dimensionalist was the likely culprit. A Dimensional attunement would interfere with the caster’s ability to utilize Spiritual magicks, and it would explain how the skeleton was fused to the pillar in the first place. Contrary to popular belief, it took a decent amount of talent to cause a teleportation spell to fail so catastrophically. The demon was likely above Level 100.
Castor outlined two potential solutions to the problem of the poorly designed Undying Skeleton. The first was to add modifications to the base ritual to make it efficient enough to handle the load it was under. That would cost Castor a couple of hours and a gallon of Dwarven concrete to patch up the crumbling portions of the support.
The second option was to transmute the skeleton into bone mortar. This would cost Castor at least six hours, an ounce of diamond dust, and a platinum coin. It was three times the effort and ten times the expense.
Castor removed a dust-and-excrement-covered glove, then rubbed his forehead as he wrestled with the decision, but his deliberations lasted for only a few seconds. The skeleton couldn’t be removed without destroying it and its suffering was useless as a food source due to its location. No one would miss the spirit once it was gone. Transmuting the undead into bone mortar would destroy the binding array, and destroying the binding array would free the trapped soul.
Castor resigned himself to losing another four hours of his ‘personal time’ and got to work releasing the spirit from its eternal damnation. He’d have to crawl his way back without the protection of his Infernal Torch.
*****
Castor stripped naked once he was out from under the castle, shamelessly disrobing in the middle of an onyx hallway on the 49th basement level. He’d lost any sense of propriety more than a millenia ago, having been nude in front of countless demons throughout his long life. Clothing was not allowed during extended torture sessions, after all.
Regardless, he had good reason to expose himself, and it wasn’t just that the entire outfit would need to be incinerated. He’d spent hours in the depths with an empty Infernal Torch, and he now needed to find all of the parasites that had attached themselves to his abdomen and remove them before they had an opportunity to burrow too deep.
Burning the ropey creatures away only took a few layers of skin off, but pulling them out left weeping holes in his flesh. It was gruesome work, but having a belly full of the hungry beasts was worse. Fortunately, they preferred eating their way inside, so he wouldn’t have to probe into any of his orifices. He stomped the life out of them one at a time as they hit the ground.
Near the end of Castor’s grooming, heavy footsteps and the scraping of talons drew his attention down the hall. He looked up to see a male wrath demon approaching, dragging three of its clawed hands across the walls. Embers and sparks sputtered as the talons hit rough patches in the masonry.
The demon’s many eyes narrowed and the lips on its muzzle peeled back, baring its flat teeth in a mockery of a smile. It stopped a few feet away from him, its long neck craning to peer down at Castor.
It held up its fourth hand, dark nails gleaming in the dim torch light, and gave him a jaunty wave.
“Hey Castor!” he said, voice one octave above the sound of a brooding mastodon. “I've been looking all over for you.”
“Hey Gully,” said Castor, yanking away the final abyssal parasite. The creature had missed his kidney and latched onto his spine. Castor inspected its mouth, seeing a small patch of bone caught between its ring of needle teeth. He threw it down and gave it an extra-hearty stomp for its transgressions against his vertebrae.
Gul’thraxis watched Castor execute the parasite with vague amusement, his eyes wandering over Castor’s bloody wounds.
“I have healing potions if you’re in the market,” he said.
“They’ll heal on their own,” said Castor. He bent down and pulled a can of refined whale oil from his toolbox, then began drizzling it on his clothes and the squashed parasites. A few hissed and squirmed, having only been playing at being dead. “Why were you looking for me?”
Castor lit a match and tossed it into the pile, eliciting high-pitched wines from the ignited worms. Gully became distracted by the dancing flames, taking a deep breath of the fumes as Castor picked up his toolbox. Castor gestured down the hall and tried to squeeze past the girthy wrath demon. He had too much to do to stand around while Gully talked his ear off. Staying busy also helped to keep his ears attached.
Castor was large for a human–or so the demons told him–standing at nearly seven feet tall and built like a barrel with a powerlifting hobby. He had no evidence to challenge their claim, since every human slave he’d met was smaller than he was. Still, he wouldn’t be surprised if the demons had intentionally only ever shown him the smallest humans they could find as a two-thousand-year running gag.
Gully had four feet of height on the man; five with his long neck extended upright. The demon’s shoulders were wide enough to brush the edges of the six-foot-wide hallway, and he had to turn to let Castor pass by. Even so, the large bulge in Gully’s thong brushed against Castor’s stomach.
Gul’thraxis fell in step behind Castor, craning his neck over top of the human to loom ominously. Castor appreciated the gesture, since he could glance up and speak to the demon face-to-face. Gully had a lot of talent for looming, but Castor was indifferent to it. He was good, but not one of the greats.
“A [Hero] showed up at the castle gates this morning,” said Gully. “Lord Bythraxomonius sent me to find you twelve hours ago. You should really tell people where you’re going.”
“I keep a log outside my office,” said Castor. It wasn’t the first time he’d told Gully this, nor did he believe it would be the last.
“Who wants to go to your office? It’s in Sector F. All the freshwater is down there.” Gul’thraxis spat a glob of burning spit on the ground. Castor pulled out his pad and made a note to fix the hole it would leave later. It didn’t get priority, so he’d get around to it in a few centuries.
“Uh-huh,” said Castor. “When’s the last time a [Hero] showed their face around here? It was that guy with all the tassels on his armor. About two hundred years ago, yeah?”
Gully scratched his jaw. “Nah, that was a [Champion].”
Castor furrowed his brow as he rattled around in his memories. “Right, he had an Oath. It made him explode when a succubus got to him.”
“One of my succubi, by the way,” said Gully. Castor ducked a string of drool. Gully was obsessed with his harem. “No, the last [Hero] was five hundred years ago. A woman with dual scimitars. She had this canvas top and pants so tight they were practically see through. Her only armor was one pauldron. It had a star on it.”
“All offense, no defense,” said Castor. “What the fuck did she think a lone pauldron was gonna do?”
“That’s how all the Outworlders are,” said Gully. “Except for that one weirdo who dual-wielded shields. Now that was a bold spec.”
“I remember that one. He had impossibly spiky hair. Pink, too.”
“He was so focused on those shields he forgot to wear a helmet,” said Gully. “His brains were almost as pink as his hair. Xenobiology is fascinating sometimes.”
“Pretty sure the lack of helmet was an intentional choice,” said Castor. “Anyway, so we’ve got a [Hero] at the gate. What does that have to do with me?”
“He’s not at the gate. [Demon Lord] Bythraxomonius let him in. He’s in the arena.”
“Lord Bythrax let him in?” asked Castor. “The [Hero] didn’t batter down the gates and kill his way through the wall of infants?”
“Yeah, he let the [Hero] in, but he didn’t have a choice. The [Hero] has–”
“Let me guess, a unique and wondrous ability,” Castor finished for the demon. “It was passed down to him by the gods, a blessing without equal, setting him apart from all other mortals who walk the plane?”
“Uhhh, no. I think it’s some kind of ancient Bloodline ability.”
“Bloodline?” said Castor. “He isn’t an Outworlder?”
“He is, but he got it from some wimpy [Sword Saint] and the Bloodline upgraded itself like nineteen times or something.”
“Typical. Still not seeing what this has to do with me.”
“Fuck man, I’m getting to it,” said Gully, running a talon down Castor’s back. “As old as you are, I’d expect you to be a little more patient.”
“I don’t have time to be patient,” said Castor. He reached around and pushed Gully’s claw away. The Wrath Demon leaned his neck down closer to Castor’s face. He could feel the heat of the demon’s breath on his scalp.
“The Bloodline ability is called Incremental Escalation. It makes him invincible against everything other than the weakest minion in the castle.”
“That’s completely broken,” said Castor. “Is he up there killing everyone right now?” He idly wondered how many demons would have to die for his soul to return to him.
“He loses his invincibility if he attacks anyone other than the minion chosen by his ability.”
“Okay, that’s a little more balanced,” said Castor. “Still some dirty protagonist shit, though.”
“Yeah,” said Gully. “Apparently the Bloodline only used to apply when he fought serpents or something. All the upgrades added new categories of monsters until it eventually expanded all the way out to ‘enemies’.”
“Do you need me to track down the weakest demon in the castle? I haven’t taken a census in a few decades. It might take a while.”
“No again,” said Gully. “I already found him. You’re the weakest minion in the castle.”
Castor stopped walking and stared up at Gul’thraxis. “I’m not a minion, I’m a slave,” he said. “[Demon Lord] Bythrax owns my soul. There’s no way the [Hero]’s ability applies to slaves.”
Gully’s head twisted in confusion until it was entirely upside down.
“What’re you talking about, man?” he asked. “You got your soul back, like, a hundred years ago.”
Castor’s head emptied of all thought as the statement paralyzed his brain. He slowly turned to face Gully, whose head twisted back into place.
“I what my what?” asked Castor.
“You’re technically an employee,” said Gully. “That makes you a minion. Did… nobody tell you?”
Comments
Nine
That’s actually hilarious! Being so overworked he missed the notice that he was technically free to leave.
IdolTrust
So doomguy if he was the janitor of the DL. Great start.
