Sporemageddon

“Hello, sir. My name is... well, my friends call me McDiver on account of that being my pa, but you can call me Davy.”

I was in the Brasslight Ventures, Limited headquarters, which was a surprisingly busy place for such a late hour in the evening. The man I was talking to was hanging out behind a counter that ran the length of the room.

The place was a little strange. I had expected something more formal. A sort of office, maybe? With a reception area then workspaces at the back, and maybe a larger area for the delvers to congregate in and do their things.

Instead, the Brasslight headquarters felt more like... well, it reminded me vaguely of an automotive parts store? Not a garage, but one of those places you could go to and order a new set of wipers, some parts for your engine and a pint of blinker fluid. Maybe it was the smell of the place? Some sort of detergent mixed with oils.

The gear on sale here was all delver stuff. Grapples, pole arms, shields, a rack at the back had armour of all sorts, then there were shelves behind glass doors with tinctures, powders and potions.

It wasn’t exactly an apothecary shop back there. It looked like they only really sold five or six different kinds of medicines, and they were all very specifically designed to tackle problems in the Wendell-Smith Dungeon.

The tools section was larger. Picks and spades, secateurs and other material-gathering implements. They even had wheelbarrows stacked up to one side.

“What was that, lad?” the man behind the counter asked.

“I’m looking for work,” I said. “In the dungeon.”