Malgorath stood atop a flat slab of carved obsidian, surveying the motley crew of undead before him. He struck a dramatic pose, chest thrust forward and cloak billowing (despite there being no breeze in the stale dungeon air). "Rise, ye Legion of the Slightly Undead!" he boomed, voice echoing off stone walls. His audience was unimpressive: three skeletons—one with a slightly crooked skull, one missing a hand, and one so tiny it looked like a goblin in a Halloween costume—and two zombies, both missing more limbs than a failed scarecrow. The creatures blinked (or tried to blink), unimpressed. A single ghostly lantern swing creaked in the corner, as if nodding politely to Malgorath. He cleared his throat theatrically, expecting at least some rattling applause, but all he got was silence and the faint aroma of musty decay.
Malgorath felt the heat of attention (or at least as much heat as a subterranean chamber can muster) and launched into his speech. "My brethren of bone and decay! By the obsidian throne of Infernal Academy, I decree that today we carve our names into the annals of terror!" He slammed a fist on the block under his arm, surprisingly hard, which nearly caused the smallest skeleton to tumble. The skeleton regained its composure, patting dust off its bony shins, while the zombies let out a unified groan. He puffed his chest a bit to look more intimidating, and pretended that their groan was actually a sign of approval. It was hard to tell if it was a cheer or indigestion.
"My lord!" hissed Splurg from just behind Malgorath. The goblin aide gave a small bow, tugging at his oversized sleeve. "Thy speech has already unnerved them (in a good way, surely), but might I remind Your Magnificence that eloquence is strengthened by ambience?" Splurg's skin was a sickly shade of green that perfectly complemented the dank dungeon gloom. In one hand he held a small wooden wand with glowing runes, the other tapped open the translucent System Screen hovering midair. It displayed dozens of environmental settings for the dungeon floor: fog level, cursed tombstone count, creepy music volume, spectral light intensity, and more.
Malgorath's eyes sparkled with dramatic inspiration. "Yes, Splurg! A little atmosphere for our debut is vital. Nothing beats dread well-seasoned with style." He flicked an arm as if conducting an orchestra, and Splurg began clicking toggles on the System Screen. The display glowed an eerie shade of purple. Fog machines (already enchanted for convenience) sputtered to life, plumes of fog twisting around the undead's feet. Splurg orchestrated a symphony of tombstones springing from the floor: crooked old slabs etched with mocking epitaphs ("Here lies Sir Trollhausen, who once tickled fair maidens to death"). Even the cobwebs seemed to cling to the performance, swaying gently as if enjoying the show. Lanterns lined the path now with flickering orange flames, casting long shadows. Malgorath approved each addition with an over-the-top flourish: fog, lanterns, the distant howl of an eldritch wolf echoing.
The dungeon was transforming into a haunted cemetery forest on steroids. Trees with skeletal branches curled overhead as if reaching for the group. Fog rolled over the mossy ground in thick waves. Ghostly lantern lights swayed. Lantern flames danced as if to a silent tune. A distant owl hoot crisscrossed the soundscape. But Splurg noticed Malgorath getting carried away. "My lord, perhaps not every setting needs maxed? The fog… it's rather dense. I fear a hero might fall into it and never find their way out (or find dinner)."
Malgorath waved away the concern with a dramatic sigh. "Fear not, loyal Splurg. Every hidden hero becomes gloriously disoriented in the swirling mists of Doom! Plus it conceals our brilliant traps… eventually." He paced theatrically, ignoring a distant clang as one of the tombstones collided with the dungeon wall. Skeletons shuffled in the gloom, one tripping over a grave marker to slight amusement from Malgorath. Malgorath clapped once for effect, ignoring the twinge of pain from accidentally smashing his own wrist on the slab. Splurg quickly adjusted a dimmer on the fog machine, muttering about smoke alarms.
To add a finishing touch, Malgorath attempted a necromantic chant. "Animatius Arrisoompha!" he intoned grandly, pronouncing some words as if he believed he was speaking the language of the void. Unfortunately, the words came out all wrong. Instead of raising a spectacular skeleton warrior, he summoned a rather confused ghost who promptly sneezed translucent sparkles onto a zombie. The zombie let out a surprised "Braaap?" and wiped its nose (in its own way) as the tiny sparkling motes dissipated. He blinked at the sparkling chaos, pleasantly surprised by the harmless outcome.
Splurg cleared his throat gently. "My lord, the correct incantation is 'Animae Sanguis Imperium,'" he offered with deference. Malgorath blinked, still hearing his own magnificent echo bouncing off the walls, and repeated, this time getting every syllable right. He felt the Dungeon Floor shudder with dark energy. Unfortunately, he had also forgotten to wear his ceremonial Demon Lord necklace, and the spell turned three of the lantern lights ghostly green (though Malgorath felt no less spectacular).
Clearing his throat to regain the moment, Malgorath bellowed to the undead, "Behold the glory of your Master! Who shall fetch me the first adventurer to test these marvels?" He scanned the room, spying the new scarecrow trap he'd set in the corner (stuffed ironically with infernal straw and wearing a tiny helmet). One of the zombies paused as if considering bowing to the scarecrow, but decided against it. Malgorath smiled and exclaimed, "Excellent! This fearless scarecrow will be our volunteer guard!"
Splurg adjusted a lever on the system for trap difficulty. "My Lord," he began softly, "perhaps these traps should maim rather than murder our guests. If the hero survives, we gain him as a resource (and, uh, precious Demon Points)." He glanced at Malgorath with a worried look. Malgorath huffed indignantly. "I am a Demon Lord, not a charity! These heroes are intruders, not guests," he retorted. He paused, eyeing the traps with something like uncertainty. "Still… I suppose you have a point," he admitted grudgingly. He tapped a finger to his chin. "Let them live for now," he muttered. "This way, they supply us with excitement."
The first trap was a classic pitfall near the entrance. Splurg had replaced the bottom spikes with a sturdy net of thorny vines. Malgorath crossed his arms, feigning indifference but secretly relieved. "Very well," he muttered, "let it trap them alive—but keep it tight." Behind him, one of the skeletons nearly stumbled into the pit and waved a bone at Malgorath in warning. Malgorath rolled his eyes but offered a triumphant grin. He even winked at the skeleton, as if congratulating it on following instructions.
Next was the poison-dart trap lining a narrow hallway. Splurg carefully calibrated the dart tips. "Sleep toxin," he announced. "Non-lethal but potent enough to knock out a hero." Malgorath skeptically watched as Splurg adjusted the potency via the System Screen, the digital readout flickering. When a practice dart whizzed harmlessly past his ear, he nodded. "Good. We want them only down, not done." Then a stray dart shot from the wall and struck the tall skeleton in the shoulder. It clattered against the bone with a dull thunk. The skeleton jerked upright, then raised its arm in a goofy thumbs-up gesture. Splurg quickly deactivated the trap. Malgorath, however, just smirked at the chaos. He dusted off the skeleton's shoulder bone and murmured approvingly, "Good form. You'll make a fine warrior yet."
The final trap was the scarecrow at the far end of the room. Its straw-stuffed grin was already unsettling, and Malgorath envisioned it leaping to life like a boneless puppet, scythes raised high. Splurg, however, placed the final enchantments in a gentle tone. "Only harmless flailing and rattling, my Lord. It should scare them, not skewer them." Malgorath eyed it skeptically. "Very well," he acquiesced, though one eyebrow raised. Still, he handed the scarecrow an extra twisting vine for flair, as if giving it a ridiculous mustache.
With these preparations, the dungeon's first floor finally looked suitably ominous. Fog lazily drifted by the tombstones and skeletal trees. Lantern lights bobbed, casting spectral glints on the cracked statues. Occasionally, a zombie moaned an unsettling note and the skeletons creaked to life for a slow march in circles (as if rehearsing their duties). Malgorath admired the whole scene with swelled chest. It was not just creepy; it was a production worthy of the most dreaded stage. In the recesses of his mind, Malgorath could almost hear distant, panicked whispers from unseen visitors.
In a grand inner monologue Malgorath imagined the heroes stumbling into this cemetery forest, hearts pounding as will-o'-wisps danced. He could almost hear the heroes think their strategy: "Pitfall here… uh-oh—" followed by a comedic tumble into the trap. Or perhaps they would sneak forward, only to have a skeletal raven swoop down, cawing for extra drama, when the scarecrow came to life. (The scarecrow's leather grin seemed as if it actually smirked.) He felt like a director watching his troupe follow their cues exactly.
As the last rays of orange torchlight were swallowed by the unnatural night of the dungeon, Splurg gave Malgorath a cautious clap on the shoulder. "The stage is set, my lord, and surely a fine show awaits. But remember: make it exciting, not fatal. We need these heroes breathing to reap the rewards of their defeat." Splurg glanced at the System Screen. "Perhaps a hint of treasure in sight? Or a comforting background jingle?" he joked quietly. Malgorath's chest puffed out even more; it was hard for a demon to admit subtlety.
He cleared his throat and issued one more command to the undead motley crew: "Stay vigilant, my Undead Minions! When our unsuspecting heroes arrive, we shall greet them not with mere bones and decay, but with a show of devilish delight!" He cleared his throat mightily, as if warming up for an aria. The skeletons managed a ragged sort of salute, a bone levitating in mock salute, while the zombies gave an off-key groan of agreement. Only the goblin-sized skeleton seemed already bored, idly stacking nearby rocks like a miniature tomb.
Summoning one final burst of theatrical flourish, Malgorath flung open the dungeon's large iron gate with a bossy bang. The heavy doors groaned in protest, spilling the fog out like a ghostly tide. The fog rolled out like a thick velvet curtain, revealing the scene within: an eerie glade of mossy tombstones, swaying scarecrow, and flickering ghost-lights. With Splurg beside him, Malgorath surveyed the eerie tableau. Deep in his demon heart, there was an uneasy excitement. The Legion of the Slightly Undead would soon have its first performance, and Malgorath would be the star conductor of carnage.
By the time the decorations were fully dim and the traps armed, Malgorath began to feel a twinge of something foreign—uncertainty. "N-nonsense," he muttered, straightening his crown (as best he could with one hand). He repeated the forced laugh a couple of times until it came out convincingly maniacal. He practiced a booming laugh under his breath to steady his nerves. Splurg gave him an encouraging, if sideways, thumbs-up.
The dungeon's first floor had become exactly what Malgorath wanted: the perfect blend of terror and absurd theater. The stage was built, the props were in place, and the overconfident Demon Lord was hidden behind a mask of bravado. And as far as he could see, everyone was in character. Even the tiny skeleton at Malgorath's feet had finished its rock sculpture and gave it an approving nod. He thought, "Truly, they deserve a standing ovation even if I am the only one in the audience."
Malgorath took one last theatrical bow to his undead minions, then turned to Splurg with a smirk. "Let the show begin. May the bravest hero tremble before us—and if they manage to limp away, well, there's always the next act!" Splurg chuckled nervously. With that, the two retreated into the shadows, leaving the haunted first floor to its eerie fate. Malgorath even tossed a final bone into the air as if to toast the coming performance.