Sweat gleamed on Dagger Dork’s bare chest as he slipped across the rotting planks of the Revelation Depths. He was lean, fast—built for narrow spaces and dirty work. His black mullet bounced with every move, greasy and proud, while the thick mustache above his lip twitched with every grin like a warning. No helmet. No armor. Just skin, scars, and swagger.
“It’s all about timing,” he muttered, sliding down a rusted ladder into the gloom below. The air smelled like moldy death. Dork didn’t mind. He’d smelled worse. He was worse. From the depths came sounds—wheezing, rasping, hungry. “Sounds like Bork’s gut after three jugs of swamp ale,” he smirked.
With a dagger in each hand—Pokey and Slashy, as he lovingly called them—Dork danced through the caverns like a drunken shadow. Wraiths fell before they even noticed him. Traps snapped behind him, missing by inches. And when he had to pause, he just rubbed his nose, cursed under his breath, and kept going.
And then she appeared: Dervla, the Pledged Knight, hollow and cursed, dragging behind her the spectral horror known only as The Unbroken Promise—a ghostly abomination that hurled massive bolts like a drunken blacksmith with a grudge.
Dork stopped. Wiped blood from his chest. “Well, aren’t you a romantic pair,” he said. “Let’s see how you handle heartbreak.”
The fight was chaos. Bolts flew. Shadows screamed. Dork ducked, rolled, stabbed. Always moving, always grinning. Even when one of the spectral chains grazed his ribs, he just laughed and stabbed harder. When it was done, both knight and ghost lay still.
Dork stood over them, panting, flexing his sore shoulders. “Nice try,” he muttered, spitting to the side. “But I’m not much for long-term commitments.” And with that, he vanished into the next corridor—drawn ever downward, into the dark.
A man and his mullet fight for a pub in Mournstead: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLQRPy70pDgKVpPuDonXqpLBxKiV0yCb1H
#LotF2023 #Depths #TheRevelationDepths #LordsOfTheFallen #DaggerDork #Daggers
