"Blub, blub, blub," Bob appealed elegantly to the lord of the deep.
"Blub, blub?" He started gesturing.
"Blub, blub, blub blub, blubby blub."
White bubbles danced up out of his mouth and floated towards the surface (the cloak was letting the air escape and then sealing up behind it).
In the meantime, they were being dragged down further into the lake. Tentacle forest coming up on your left folks. It was a dark and mysterious place, with that soundless quality of the underwater. And then, there he was, in the flesh, Der Krakenbulle.
The head of this evil organization had finally came into focus. The head was a lot smaller than Bob had imagined. In other circumstances, he might have said comically small. A round, purple octopus head with the horns of an adult bull. Here we go. There's no point negotiating with the arms of an enterprise. You've got to go straight for the head.
"Blub blub blub."
Bob gave a mock bow. It was difficult given how tightly he was tentacled, but the attempt is what's important. The octopus blinked at him. The octopus turned away.
Oh Mr. HardBall over here. I get it. Words are cheap. A contract, an agreement stamped with the hard, cold seal of the system. You've got it. 50,000 credits. Don't be so stingy. 50,000 credits is hardly stingy. Bob, you're drowning to death here. Bah, you'll bankrupt me. Fine, 500,000 credits.
He clicked send.
The designated recipient is not eligible for system contract services.
Bob groaned. It came out as one long bluuub.
George was done waiting. He'd done the gentlemanly thing and let Bob have his go, something Bob very much appreciated, but now that his master's plan was a bust, the dog decided to settle things himself. A burst of underwater flame pillared straight for the octopus's head. The monster reacted instantly. It jetted itself backwards, catapulting George away at the same time, as it throw up a screen of tentacles to protect himself.
Water beats fire. The lake swallowed up the force of the mini-explosion, expelling the energy upwards in a pillar of steam and scattering tentacles in every possible direction. Bob too was sent spiraling downwards and puddled into the mud at the bottom of the lake. Annoyingly, the monster kept a firm hold on him. But where there's mud, there's hope.
Bob quickly grabbed hold of as much mud as he could, anchoring himself into position, as he tried to slip under the surface. The tentacles contested the move, but Lesser Excalibur went to work on them. The minor acid did wonders carving through octopus tentacle.
He was half submerged when reinforcement tentacles poured onto the scene. They were fresh, numerous and sticky. He just couldn't cut his way through all of them. And the clock was ticking; every moment, his evolved body burned through stored oxygen like wildfire. He was starting to drown.
In desperation, Bob threw up a mud screen. Visibility immediately dropped to zero. It didn't help. The octopus could tell Bob's position through the tentacles. Bob was losing. More and more tentacles latched onto him. He was getting dragged up and out of the mud.
Boom. George had let out another breath of fire. An underwater storm swept through: tentacles were blasted away or fell lifeless and inert; Bob didn't miss his chance. "Blub!" (Excaliborn), Bob wielded the legendary blade in a might sweep, shearing through the remaining tentacles. He trapdoored down into the mud.
He'd done it. Not. A split-second later the tentacles were diving after him, swimming easily through the soft mud. If only Bob had known how to harden ordinary mud. He didn't, so he dodged left then right, corkscrewing deeper, as he used his mud-sense to pinpoint the attacks before they reached him. He bottomed out at a layer of hard clay. The octopus was still in range and the tentacles kept after him.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
He was... There. That pulling feeling in his chest, that sharp, tight pain. He was drowning. He was dying. He felt his heart accelerated. Ba-dum, ba-dum. The first signs of oxygen deprivation. He'd run out. He'd flatline. Everything would go dark. Calm down Bob. Calm down. He started to count. Up to four and then repeating. He focused on the numbers. His heart quieted and his head cleared. His whole body slowed, he stopped moving. He was the mud. The mud moved.
He zigzagged forward. He could feel the shoreline. The pebbles that lit up as blind spots on his mud radar. One final push and he'd burst out onto dry land. But the octopus was two steps ahead of him. Bob collided into a wall of tentacles blocking off his path out of the water. He couldn't break through. He was trapped. He sank slowly down. He was done for. Somehow high above, there was another boom. The octopus refocused his attention, trusting to the strength of the wall. Bob was as good as dead.
Bob was dying. The pain flashed. It was too late. George was too late. The pain crept up his chest, along his neck, the pain reached his head and... exploded. Air, he needed air. He was deep underground, beneath the bottom of the lake. There was no air. The stuff of life. The vapor of being. Here was the silence and the darkness and the mud.
He was drifting away... losing himself... Sleep. Sleep. His camping pack! He'd been wearing it this whole time. He pulled it open. Yes, yes, they were still there. Two empty bottles of water, chock full of the good stuff, O?. He unscrewed the cap and breathed in. Oxygen flooded his system. He breathed again. There was a feeling of euphoria, of sheer bliss and an intense sensation as oxygen once more circulated. He was alive. But already the bottle's air was growing thin. His bloodstream hovered up every last particle of oxygen. He crushed the bottle, forcing more air into his lungs. Then the next. His last. He drank it all down, to the dregs.
Bob understood now. It had come to him with that first flush of oxygen. He'd been going about this all wrong (why the hell had he been wasting his precious oxygen supply negotiating). This here was a fight. Bob & Co. versus The Tentacle Army. Pop, Pop, Boom. George had the right idea. You want to kill the hydra, you've got to cut off the head. Bob had been running in the wrong direction. Pop, Pop Pop. Things were heating up. Bob better get himself into the action. Pop. Bob lined himself up. Pop, Pop. What the hell was George doing up there? Bob did some rough mental calculations. Pop. I'm coming for you George. Three, two one: blast off.
Bob missiled himself upwards, using the layers of mud to stack acceleration. He burst out into the water and kept going, torpedoing forward. He was the mud spear and Excaliborn was the tip. To infinity and beyond. Pop. He cut through the water. Pop. He sliced through the lake. Target sighted. Target sighted. Pop, Pop. He'd judged right (or he'd gotten bloody lucky). There was the octopus head. He was on course. Target locked. Target locked.
The octopus lazily dodged. But Bob was a heat-seeking missile. He could adjust course. Harry tilted their fins and put them back on a collision trajectory. Pop. The octopus froze. It was first time Bob thought he'd seen fear in the monster's eyes. They had him. And then whoosh and everything was dark. They were inside a sphere of black ink. Bob couldn't see. He was flying blind. On a mad impulse, he adjusted left. Crash. He'd hit something. Whoosh. They were airborne. Harry opened and Bob gulped down air. Sweet, sweet, air. Plunk. They were back in the water.
They jumped clean out of the ink cloud. Pop, Pop. Had Bob got him? Yes. No. The point had missed, but he'd sidebarged the octopus head and was dragging the creature in front of him. Harry swept out, tangling up the octopus in muddy tentacles. A taste of his own medicine. Pop. Bob got the knife around. Now to finish it. A thousand tentacles converged on Bob's position. Excaliborn was knocked away. The world was wriggling tentacles. It was a vision out of a Japanese nightmare and then, thud. Bob clutched his side. He was bleeding. The octopus had bloody horned him. Horned him. Bob grabbed the horn with his good hand, hanging on it with all the bitterness of a petty man.
What could he do? He'd blown his chance. Bob seethed. He was helpless. He had no weapon. Pop, Pop, Pop. They were somewhere in the lake. The tentacles were pulling at Harry, trying to reach inside and tear out Bob. Don't underestimate the mantle of the mud magician. The octopus-bull mooed in frustration. Pop, Pop, Pop. The tentacles changed tactic. Death by squashing. The pressure mounted. I'm going to splat. I'm going to splat. Someone help. I promise I'll stop torturing Raupenflieger, just let me out. Pop, Pop, Pop. And suddenly the ground fell out from under them. The whole writhing mass of them crumbled onto the lake bottom.
Bob caught a glimpse outside. They were on dry land at the bottom of a muddy crater. What the hell? A golden retriever was standing a few yards away, snarling in their direction. He looked ragged, barely managing to stand. He was soaked through. Good old George.
Where was all the water? No way...
The dog had gone and bottled it. He'd bottled the whole lake. What a hero.
This here, this here was their chance. Their last chance. The octopus was exposed. Its head, tentacles, its whole body was concentrated in one spot, vulnerable to a single, overwhelming attack. They had to risk it. Bob swallowed.
"George, George, do it, do it now, quick, before he can pull anything. George, fire us."
The dog whined, pawing the ground.
"Fire, George, fire." The dog howled. "Do it, George!"
George breathed in sharply and the world burned away.