Small Synopsis: This story is about a gnome named Pech who becomes the new foreman in maintaining a dungeon, which includes resetting traps, maintaining monsters and workload, and other shenanigans to keep it running. Cause who else would do it, right?

Genres: Fantasy, a bit of action, and Comedy

Here's a rough first chapter version of the story.

Dungeons are the centre of gaining power but are inhabited by treacherous monsters and powerful boss mobs. Loot, money, powerful boons or legendary artefacts await those brave enough to enter them. 

However, after the adventurers conquer it, the dungeons remain in ruins until the next batch of adventurers return to try their luck. No one bothers to think about the guys keeping the places in check behind the scenes.

Those who rearm the traps, replace the various mobs with new ones, restock legendary loot, keep the environment balanced, and scout for new bosses ready to be killed for glory! We are the minions who work in the shadows and do everything in our power to keep the places running. 

I'm not a human. Nor a therianthrope, a Dragonborn or anything special. I am no one special, just a gnome who lives underground, in secluded areas of towns or villages, in fortresses or inside dungeons like many of my peers.

And today is just another ordinary day, maintaining one of the many dungeons in the world.

“Someone bring a bucket!”

“The foreman is on fire!”

“Screw the foreman! He's dead! Save yourselves from the dragon!”

Just another day working in dungeon maintenance. 

The smell of burning gnomes on a Tuesday is rather aggravating. Not that I mind seeing a fellow gnome getting incinerated, but my bet was on Wednesday. There goes my money… sigh, whatever.

After I got over my moping, I took up my feet and evacuated with the rest back to the first levels of the dungeons before sealing away the lower floors—for good! I always hated being assigned there. 

Gathering in our storage/break-rooms/do-not-tell-the-foreman-where-we-slack off, we discussed what to do since our foreman's death.

Or rather, I rescheduled my plans for today while the rest partied because of the half-day work leave—and because the foreman was dead—seriously, no one liked that shmuck. 

Unpaid overtime on us or crappy wages were his go-to. Also, the entire work environment was hazardous. There was no hazard pay that warranted enduring acrid smoke or spreading dragon fire—not to mention a working health insurance plan for us. 

“Good riddance, bastardo.” I clicked my tongue disparagingly over the late foreman’s death. “I’ll need to find a different job while the dungeon is on lockdown. It might take weeks till they find a new foreman, and I need the money. Can’t work in Oceanus’ underwater dungeon—again.” 

Gnawing on my ballpoint pen, I bent the metal with my sharp and crooked teeth—a bad habit I never dropped since I was a babe. Instead, I distracted myself by tugging at my small and scruffy chin beard before I ruffled my messy, black hair in frustration. 

“This is a fucking mess— Pargh!?” Someone hit me from behind, making me run a deep line through my notebook. “Party quieter you bastardos! Hit me one more time and I'll tear your innards out and— EEeek!?”

My undignifying yelp was caught in my dry throat as the clawed hand of one of the dungeon guards gripped me. The party stopped abruptly, and my lanky feet dangled in the musky air.

A snarling werewolf with black cuffs hanging from his wrists and dark red, scruffy fur growled before me—dunno what his original hair colour was but the smell of adventurer blood was pungent!

“Jimmy! How are you? I see you brushed your fur— KUCK” I squeaked when the werewolf tightened his grip around my throat. My head turned to my other old friend, a two-meter (6 feet) tall Dullahan in black armour with azure flames sprouting from its neck and coiling around his baby-blue cape. “D-dennis, ol' buddy o pal. How's the headhunting going?”

“GROOOOOOOO!”

Dennis the Dullahan blasted a puff of smoke from the top of his neck like a steam locomotive. I forgot how sensitive he was about his missing cranium.

Jimmy pulled me closer to his snout and growled—the smell of dead adventurer was evident. “Come with us. The Overseers want a word with you.”

“What, no!” I shrieked. “No, let me go! I have workers’ rights. Please, don't take me with you!” I screamed desperately, fighting futilely from being dragged away. “Guys, help!”

All the coworkers with whom I've spent years surviving with at the dungeons, those with whom I spent blood and sweat, turned their heads away. All of them whistled innocently like they didn't hear or see anything, or collected bets if I got cooked or beheaded by the Dullahan, eaten by the werewolf, or both.

“Bastardos, all of you! I curse you all in HEEEEEELLLLLLL—”

I bit my tongue when I was pulled away. My luck finally ran out. There are only so many reasons why the overseers would want to see someone—and it's not for a promotion because my performance is lacklustre or below mediocre at best.

Motivation is a worker’s worst trait. Especially working in dungeon maintenance. I carefully crafted my image as a low-profile worker with no ambition to rise to the top. Yet, I instinctively feared my suspicions to come true. 

Thrown before the Council of Overseers, I knew I couldn’t count on buttering up my fellow gnome compatriots there. 

“Pech Rußbach.” Ingrid Stahlblick, gnome and Overseer for Personnel Management fixed me with the unmistakable cold stare of a veteran manager. Her icy blue eyes stared me into my soul as she fixed her silver hair. “It is with great enthusiasm where we want to—” 

“I DENY ALL ACCUSATIONS!” I immediately yelled out, baffling Ingrid and the other overseers. “Yes, I pissed into Jimmy’s water bowl—” 

“SO IT WAS YOU!” Jimmy the Werewolf howled. The only reason why he didn’t rip my face to ribbons was because Dennis always had my back. 

I fixed my dusty old coat. “And I incited the coworkers to print the ‘Kick me’ sign on the last foreman’s back, and I brought poker night among the coworkers to the point where we all were hangover to work, and I—” 

“Shut it, Mr. Rußbach,” Ingrid growled at me slamming her arm on the table and showing me her sharp, golden teeth. Wished I had her salary to have at least one golden tooth. “We are all aware of your recalcitrant CONDUCT!”

That woman’s yelling was as shrill as her steeling eyes. It took two Overseers to stop her before she jumped off the high podium and pounced at me. Evidently, I had the best reputation among everyone—and I wore it with pride. 

“Watch it, Pech, you oaf,” warned me Bragg Rustfoot, Overseer of Trap Design. He was a rather simple gnome with explosive black hair, a braided beard, an eyepatch and a shrewd grin on his scarred lips. He delighted in giving us the most fantastical and impractical new trap designs to implement. “Don’t want you to step on a trap, hehe.” 

“Can we finish this?” gruffed Harrik Blackgrin, Orc exceptional and Overseer for Security and Defence. He wore his usual heavy plate armour and boorishly made notes of the last incident in his logbook. “I’ve got work to do.” 

“Speaking of that,” I intervened rather smartly and inched to the door. “I gotta go. Let’s discuss anything else through the mail—” 

“STOP RIGHT THERE!!!” A large automaton bellowed as its heavy, bronze feet landed right before me and my escape from this meeting. The glass compartment of the large, round torso opened, revealing Filda “Fizz” Thunderspot, Overseer for Maintenance and Mechanism. “Hey, Pech, how are you, are you, are you!?” 

She jumped off the automaton and invaded my personal space. Her frizzy white hair was streaked with oil and grease with goggles perched on her forehead. She was a rather bubbly gnome with the most ADHD-driven mind I had ever seen. 

“Hey, hey, you were there at the outbreak, no, yes? What happened? Did the mechanism fail? Did the others tell you about your promotion? How many died? What about the dwarven chains we commissioned? Did they hold up *GASP*” 

I dodged out of the way as Fizz keeled over from the lack of oxygen—ain’t no way I touch her as greasy as she is. 

Wait. 

“PROMOTION!?” I cried out in outrage. “No, na ah, I know where this is going. I REFUSE!” 

“Pech, you don’t understand.” 

“I SAID NO!” I yelled at Fizz and pried my arm away. “You want to promote me of all people? ME!? I am not fit to become a foreman. You all know that. Look at my statistics! What about Charlie? Charlie would be PERFECT for the job!” 

“Charlie is dead.” 

“Oh, right, I watched him burn… my mistake… WHAT ABOUT—” 

“Now listen here, Pech!” Ingrid could barely be contained to rip me to shreds to the point where her silvery suit got wrinkled. “You want statistics? I give you statistics, you stick of a gnome!” 

“Now you are getting personal—” 

“Shut it!” She broke free and screeched, stunning me and the rest. Combing through her hair with her nails, Ingrid’s composure returned—almost. “Your performance is subpar, mediocre, and utterly unsatisfactory.” 

“Thank you!” I beamed. “Which means I am totally unfit to become a foreman, right? Right!” 

“No, that’s precisely why you are fit for this position, Pech Rußbach,” Ingrid snarled and clicked her tongue as she went through her papers. “Your performance is the reason why no one is a better fit than you. Sure, the performance of some exceed yours, but no one has the consistency of maintaining their tasks as you do. And we all know you are faking performance, Pech.” 

Sweat rolled from my face. I adjusted my collar. “F-faking? W-hat would you mean, haha…” 

“Stop pretending, Pech.” Ingrid crossed one tight-covered leg over the other, her silvery high heels glinted threateningly at me. “Each of us agrees that you are trying to do the bare minimum to not go under our radar. Like covering for who actually pissed at Jimmy Ironfang’s bowl. You will make a fine foreman, Pech Rußbach. Congratulations on your promotion, meeting dismissed.” 

“Wait, I can do worse! Please, don’t make me foreman! No, no, NOOOOOOOO!” 

And this, children, is how I became the Dungeon Foreman of this decrepit dungeon. Don’t be like me. Get your feet AND FLEE THE SYSTEM BEFORE YOU GET STUCK LIKE ME. 

… 

I don’t want to die.