Emory’s eyes were open, yet he saw only black. The breezeless air was stale with the scent of rusted iron, like a faint taste of blood. Emory blindly ran his fingers over the stone floor beneath him, and the wall to his side—the surfaces were cool and rough. He felt a thin linen tunic draped over his shoulders, a leather pack on his back, and a short studded club tucked through his belt. The darkness was quiet.
He wasn’t sure where he was, nor how he arrived there, only that he felt a sense of peril.
Players! I am your humble Expositor. The upbeat voice had no discernible origin, as if the words were forming telepathically in Emory’s mind. Your adventure begins in Dungeonderwurld, a vast subterranean network of caves, dungeons and underground cities!
“Hello?” said Emory. His voice echoed through the cavernous hall. “Is anyone there?”
There are one hundred of you players dispersed throughout this world, with randomly assigned character races, ability scores, skills, spells and equipment. Check your character sheet for more details! Grow stronger, explore, seek treasure, and tread carefully, for you share Dungeonderwurld with a host of predators and hazards.
Have fun, and try not to die too quickly! Best of luck!
The silence resumed. Emory called out again, but heard no response. Dungeonderwurld? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Emory’s memory was fuzzy. He recalled the packed hall of a gaming convention, and the excitement of winning VIP tickets with his sister, Maddie.
“Uh, what are my stats?” said Emory to no one in particular. “How do I view my character sheet?”
In his mind’s eye, overlaid onto the blackness, Emory saw the glittering image of a stat block.
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Emory
Human - Level 1
Acumen - +0
Agility - +0
Mana - +0
Vigor - +0
Skills - None
Spells - None
Inventory - Basic garbs, Clay flask of oil, Rations (1 lb), Hempen rope (10 m), Short club, Tinderbox, Torches (3), Waterskin
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“Seriously?” muttered Emory. “Base stats, no skills, no spells, no good weapons or gear… is this a joke?” He wondered if Maddie was in the same game, and if she had rolled any better. “How do I locate other players? Where is my sister, Madison?” Emory noticed an exploration section at the end of his character sheet, with empty subsections for players, monsters and locations.
There was a sound from down the cavern, like a viscous liquid dripping slowly over stone. The hairs on Emory’s neck and arms stood on end, a primal chill running through his veins.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Emory slipped off his backpack and fiddled with the fasteners in the dark. He got the pack open, and rummaged around for one of the torches that had been displayed on the inventory section of his character sheet. Tactilely locating the wooden shaft, and feeling the cloth-wrapped end lightly soaked in oil, Emory drew the torch before reaching back in for the tinderbox.
The dripping, slippery sound grew louder.
Emory pulled out what he thought was the tinderbox. The lid was stuck, and when Emory popped it open with a jolt the contents were strewn about on the cavern floor. He heard the clang of a small metallic tool striking the ground. Flint and steel. He dropped to a crawl, groping for the flint and steel, or something to spark the torch with. A few minutes in, his right hand closed around a stone covered in thin scratches at one end, but smooth otherwise. This must be the flint. The accompanying short steel rod remained elusive.
The air began to smell of vinegar. The slippery thing was close.
Emory gave up on the search for the steel, opting to find a substitute iron-rich partner for the flint. He pulled out the studded club from his belt. It was mostly wood, but, just as he’d hoped, the business end was studded with metal bumps. He half-crouched, holding the unlit torch between his knees and the club and flint in both hands. After several scratches, he produced sparks. After several sparks, the torch glowed to life.
Emory tucked the flint away before spinning around to face the ominous presence. He brandished his torch and club. The torchlight lit the cavernous corridor for about five meters in all directions. The walls were natural gray rock that glowed orange in the light. The rock floor didn’t appear to be well traveled. He was in a tunnel about six meters wide, three meters tall, and deep and dark in both directions. Emory had played his fair share of immersive VR games, and this one was the most realistic by a wide margin.
Emory smelled burning leather. He looked down, shining the torch at his boots, and saw the inky black ooze seeping over his feet. Emory jumped back, feeling the sting of a penetrating drop of acidic ooze on his big toe. His boots were marked with dark burns from the brief moment of contact. His club came crashing down, but Emory found that it did little to damage the black ooze, merely sticking with a splat and sizzle. Emory yanked the seared club away and started retreating down the tunnel, stumbling over jutting stalagmites in the bouncing light.
He tripped forward, and he would have dropped the torch had he not been clinging to it for his life. The flame faltered for a second before returning to normal. Emory swung it around to defend himself from the approaching black ooze, and the heat of the fire repelled it momentarily. The black ooze was too large and fluid to gauge its full size, but Emory estimated that it had a surface area of at least twenty-five square meters. He clambered back to his feet and continued his flight.
This is a game where you can feel pain. Emory’s toe still stung from the touch of acid ooze. He risked a peek back over his shoulder—the black ooze had melted into the shadows. The tunnel began to tighten around him as he ran. He was forced to bend his neck, then crouch, and then the sides of the tunnel narrowed so that he had to shimmy through sideways. He was reduced to half-crawling with one hand on the floor, the other holding his torch forward. The torch’s smoke burned his eyes and lungs, and he prayed that it was doing something to deter the black ooze.
The tunnel was too tight to advance any further.
Emory took out a second torch, lighting it with the first, then tossing it back down the tunnel. It flickered dimly on the ground. Emory pulled the clay flask of oil from his pack, and waited. He wasn’t sure if this maneuver would result in him burning himself to death or suffocating in smoke, but the black ooze seemed to at least dislike fire, so he had to give it a shot. The black ooze slithered into the light of the grounded torch, clinging to the wall and ceiling above it. Emory tossed the clay flask.
The flask shattered against the wall by the grounded torch, splashing onto the black ooze and the open flame. There was a whoosh of fire, and the tunnel was bathed in hot light. Emory had to shield his eyes and cover his mouth and nose. The black ooze curled back, but it did not retreat far—it waited just beyond the flaming oil. Emory’s attack had only slowed its approach.
There was nothing else to do but keep moving. Emory slipped off his pack so that he could contort his body to fit through the cramped opening. He pulled out his hempen rope and tied one end around the pack so that he could drag it behind him. Emory crawled down through the tunnel, deeper and deeper.