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HC: Card Slinger | Ch. 11 - Elites
🕑 Added 2024-09-30 12:59:27 +0000 UTCThe path through Gull Rock felt like the quintessential first dungeon—linear and predictable. What Deckard hadn’t anticipated was just how terrifying this place would be. He couldn’t calm his racing heart.
Jagged cliffs loomed on both sides, enclosing the team like rocky jaws waiting to swallow them whole. The spray of the sea and salty breeze should have been refreshing, but the stench of diseased birds and the eerie howling of the wind through the cliffs only made Deckard more anxious.
The hired muscle cut through wave after wave of seagulls. So far, the birds were just like the ones Deckard had struggled with near the village—agile and noisy—but under the expert strikes of the veterans, they dropped like flies. After thirty minutes, they had hunted about thirty diseased seagulls.
The path widened into a crater, and the air shifted. Deckard’s skin prickled as a cool gust swept down the cliffs, carrying a piercing screech that made him glance nervously at the others.
“The Cranky Seagull,” Orson muttered, tightening his grip on his spear. “You two—stay back.”
The sound of flapping wings followed by a louder screech filled the air. Then, the elite landed. This seagull looked almost healthy, standing out from its sickly companions like a sore thumb. Deckard recognized it from the card art in the Worst Deck Ever. He inspected the creature.
Cranky Seagull (Elite)
Lvl. 4
HP: 800
???
It wore the same nasty, irritated expression as in the card art. The card had been useless, but judging by the seriousness of Orson’s team, the elite itself was far from it.
Without hesitation, Orson charged, his spear flashing with golden light as he triggered a skill.
Sweeping Strike!
-24
The skill, which usually wiped out half the HP of normal mobs, barely scratched the elite and failed to trip it. The seagull screeched in rage, its health bar hardly dented. It hopped into the air, flapping madly as it dodged Mason’s rusty sword.
Miss!
It landed with a violent thud and pecked furiously at Kane’s legs.
-34
So that’s what an elite looks like. It’s terrifying. I wouldn’t stand a chance. Deckard stood frozen, heart pounding, as he watched the crew dance around the creature. The elite moved far faster than ordinary mobs, but the team made it look clumsy as they were moving with precision, dodging damage, and striking at the perfect moments.
Hammer Blow!
Kane’s hammer crashed into the creature’s back.
-32
-41!
The elite staggered, its health dipping below halfway, but it wasn’t done yet.
Screech! Screech!
The sound reverberated through the cliffs, alerting more seagulls from the rocks above. Lesser mobs dived down, adding to the chaos, but Orson’s team barely acknowledged them, their focus remaining laser-sharp on the elite, even as the smaller birds pecked and harried them.
Orson swung his spear in a wide arc, driving the smaller mobs back, and spammed a voice skill whenever possible.
Shepherd’s Shout!
A wave of force scattered the diseased seagulls for a brief moment, but they quickly snapped out of it and resumed their attacks.
Deckard could only watch helplessly, Tristan sulking beside him, both sidelined. Meanwhile, Orson, Mason, and Kane relentlessly attacked the Cranky Seagull amidst the chaos of cawing birds and flying feathers. The elite lunged forward, wings flapping in a blur as it aimed its beak straight for Orson’s chest.
-54
Orson grunted, his health dipping, but didn’t break stride. He countered with a perfectly timed strike.
Critical Strike!
-45
The elite’s health bar flashed red. It was almost down. Orson’s crew pushed for the kill, their final blows landing in rapid succession.
Rusty Slash!
-19
Hammer Blow!
-32
Sweeping Strike!
-32
With a final screech, the Cranky Seagull collapsed, bursting into a shower of shimmering light. The remaining lesser seagulls scattered.
Your party has hunted [Cranky Seagull].
+100XP
Deckard exhaled. They actually did it. I would’ve freaked out in the middle of all that, but they pulled through.
A small pile of loot appeared where the boss had fallen. Unlike the weaker mobs, this one actually dropped something valuable. Tristan scooped up the items, grumbling as he slipped on a new leather vest.
“Aha. Look at me, Uncle,” Tristan said, striking a heroic pose. "Ready to lead the charge into the next boss, don’t you think?"
Deckard rolled his eyes. “Yeah, because you’ve been such a big help.”
“Hey, I’m just saying,” Tristan replied with a smirk. “Look at me. Finally got some gear that says, ‘I belong.’ You should try it sometime.”
Tristan wasn’t done. “Oh, and there’s a card too,” he added, tossing it to Deckard with a grimace.
Deckard’s heart sank even before he flipped the card. Please, not the Cranky Seagull. Anything but that. His fingers hesitated for a second before turning it over.
Cranky Seagull.
“Great,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Just what I needed.”
Orson and the crew were already pushing forward, their pace relentless, and Deckard found himself and Tristan scrambling to keep up.
From Cranky Seagull’s crater onward, the seagulls changed. They became bloated, sluggish things that dragged themselves across the rocky ground. Their faces looked almost melted, with beady eyes and barely any feathers left clinging to their twisted frames. They look like expired turkeys that escaped from a supermarket, Deckard thought, disgusted.
Terminal Seagull
Lvl. 3
HP: 250
Orson’s crew still cut through them efficiently, but it took noticeably longer. These new mobs had much more health than the earlier seagulls.
Rusty Slash!
-15
-12
-9
Deckard watched as Mason hacked at one of the creatures, the damage numbers floating up slowly as the bloated seagull’s health bar barely budged. Orson flanked it, helping his colleague.
Sweeping Strike!
-24
-28!
After several attacks, the terminal seagull crumpled to the ground, bursting into a puff of light.
Deckard perked up after seeing these creatures just stand there, taking a beating. These would make for much easier target practice next time he tried fighting. Additionally, they stayed mostly away from each other, minimizing the chance of another mob joining the fight.
Orson's crew got started on the second Terminal Seagull. Seeing how easy it looked, Deckard took a step forward, ready to volunteer to help. It seemed like a good learning opportunity.
He froze mid-stride. The seagull began inflating its chest, puffing up like a pufferfish. Uh? What is it doing? Is it going to explode? Deckard thought in a panic. Instead, the terminal seagull deflated, spitting out a cloud of poisonous miasma.
-2
-2
-2
“So gross!” Tristan said beside him.
“Yeah,” Deckard agreed.
Orson’s crew remained unfazed. They kept targeting one at a time. As they progressed, they encountered larger groups of the creatures, and that’s when things got tricky.
Two terminal seagulls inflated at the same time and released the miasma.
-4
-4
-4
Being infected by one poison was bad enough, but when it stacked, it became truly dangerous.
Orson’s crew did their best to maintain distance from the larger concentrations of terminal seagulls, limiting themselves to at most two stacks of poison.
Even so, they had no choice but to increase the number of stops to recover health.
Another seagull went down. Although the XP was shared equally among the party, they were grinding through so many mobs that Deckard's XP bar rose significantly.
Your party has hunted [Terminal Seagull].
+7XP
“Ooh! A piece of gear!” Tristan said happily, picking up a pair of rubber boots from the ground and equipping them immediately.
Too bad it wasn’t a card.
After fifteen minutes of fighting, an unusual quiet settled over the cliffs. After his experience with the Cranky Seagull, Deckard knew what that meant—they’d reached the dungeon’s second elite.
The first thing that hit him was the heat. It was warmer here. The chill of the sea breeze didn’t quite reach him anymore. The change was subtle but noticeable, like stepping into an invisible oven.
Once they rounded the bend and reached the crater, it was impossible to miss the elite. Its bulk was staggering. Deckard couldn’t even figure out where its wings were. The seagull had ballooned into a large, bloated mass, but its beady eyes gleamed with alarming intelligence. Its body glowed with a sickly green light.
Radioactive Seagull (Elite)
Lvl. 4
HP: 2000
???
“Positions,” Orson commanded, his voice sharp.
Orson moved in first, drawing the elite’s attention with a quick jab.
Sweeping Strike!
-27
The elite squawked and retaliated, rolling over like a bowling ball, trying to squash Orson. He managed to dodge, but the elite changed trajectory and slammed into Mason instead.
-66
Mason’s health dropped by a quarter, and Deckard winced as the damage number floated up. The elite drooled as it darted forward again, aiming to land another blow.
Kane rushed in, swinging his hammer with reckless abandon.
Hammer Blow!
-35!
The elite staggered, but instead of backing down, it let out a low, guttural sound and inhaled deeply. A chill ran down Deckard’s spine as the creature exhaled, spewing a thick cloud of green mist into the air.
Poison Cloud!
-5
-5
-5
This poison was thicker, and its radius much larger. Deckard watched as Orson and his crew were enveloped in the cloud, their health bars steadily ticking down with each pulse of the poison. Some of their attacks began to miss as they coughed and struggled to see through the noxious haze.
Miss!
Kane cursed as his next hammer strike went wide. Mason, already reeling from a beak strike, was forced to gulp down a healing potion.
Potion Heal!
+35
The green numbers floated above his head, but the poison wasn’t letting up, and the damage kept ticking.
Despite the constant damage and missed attacks, Orson’s crew didn’t lose focus. They moved like a well-oiled machine, weaving between each other’s blows, staggering their strikes to maximize damage.
I wouldn’t last two minutes in this fight. Deckard clenched his fists, watching the numbers tick away. He hated the helplessness gnawing at him.
Finally, the creature's health bar hit the red. The elite froze and began glowing a brighter green.
“Step back!” Orson commanded.
His crew ran, and Deckard and Tristan followed. A few seconds later, there was a green flash as the creature exploded. Thankfully, no one was caught in the blast.
All that was left after the fight was a pile of loot. The poison cloud dissipated as the creature died, and the group exhaled in relief.
Deckard blinked as the loot dropped—two antidotes, a rusty weapon, and a card.
This time, he took the initiative to walk up to the pile of loot and retrieve it. He recognized the card. He already knew what it did in Terralore, but hadn’t yet read the skill description.
Seagull Poison (Common)
Description: For ages, seagulls have eaten man’s trash. They became familiar with toxins and have learned how to weaponize them.
Skill effect: Active. Release a cloud of poison in a 3x3 meter area, poisoning everyone inside. Can stack up to six times.
Restrictions: lvl. 3.
He stared at it for a moment. The murky green artwork resembled the poison clouds the seagulls had used.
“Okay, look alive, boys! Now comes the final stretch,” Orson called out, scanning the rocky path ahead. “You two stay back and keep a safe distance.”
This was the last section of the dungeon, and the intensity spiked. Both types of seagulls—the swift, nimble ones that darted forward like arrows, and the bloated, tanky ones that lumbered behind, clogging the path—now appeared together, forcing the crew to fight on two fronts.
Orson’s crew didn’t flinch. With practiced precision, they carved their way through the swarming enemies.
Rusty Slash!
-18
-20
-15
The smaller seagulls burst into light with each blow, their health bars evaporating in quick flashes. But even with the ease of the takedowns, the group’s progress was slow—measured, inching their way closer to the summit of Gull Rock.
Finally, the rocky path leveled out into the summit. The ground was littered with nests—empty and abandoned. Pale, cracked eggs lay scattered across the plateau. The smell of salt and decay lingered in the air.
That’s when Deckard saw him.
Ronan.
Comments
Coleman
About the bird.
Cássio Ferreira
I'm sorry. I don't follow.
Coleman
Have you heard?
