Progress was slow. Emory’s hands, elbows and knees were covered in cuts and blisters from the rock floor. He heard the sizzling of his pack dragging behind him, and smelled the roasting rations. The black ooze had managed to advance past the burning oil, and it threatened to catch up with him. The tension on the rope went slack, and Emory was left with his torch, club, flint, and the clothes on his back. The ooze slithered after him, dripping from the walls of the tunnel. Emory forced away thoughts of being burned alive from his feet up. He had little room to maneuver in the smoky tunnel, and there were multiple instances where he thought he was finally stuck and left at the whims of his pursuer. Only by shoving himself forward, the cave wall cutting into his sides and back, was he able to push on. The acoustics of the tunnel were changing, the echoing sounds of his frantic movements reverberating with increasing intensity. Emory feared that the tunnel was leading to a dead end. He heard a dripping wet sound from ahead, and shuddered at the thought of a second black ooze approaching from the front.
Emory’s right foot burned as the black ooze began to overtake him. It was digesting him alive, dissolving his boot and pant leg while he squirmed. Emory called out in the tunnel, shirt tearing against the cave wall as he dragged himself on. The acid crept up his leg, and the fetor of crisping hair and skin fused with the stench of smoke and vinegar.
The tunnel began to open up. Emory yanked himself free of the black ooze, and managed to swing his torch around in the more spacious cavern, pushing the body horror embodiment back. His right boot and pant leg were reduced to scraps of blackened leather and linen, and the surface of his foot and calf had suffered acid burns. The corrosive injury was painful, but he could still walk.
The low ceiling prevented Emory from standing at his full height. He backed away, sweeping the torch to and fro to keep the black ooze at bay. The tunnel was humid now, and the stone floor was wet and slick. Emory slipped and dropped the torch, watching his only light land in a shallow puddle and fizzle.
He was back in the pitch darkness with the black ooze.
Emory reached for the extinguished torch, drawing his hand back as it made stinging contact with the ooze. The torch was irretrievable. He stumbled over slick stones, feeling the walls and floor as his guide. In his haste, Emory fell headlong into a pool of cold water, the depth of which increased quickly to his chest. Can the black ooze swim? Will its acid disperse through the water? Emory sloshed through the chest-high pool.
He reached an impassable cave wall.
Feeling up the wall, there seemed to be no possibility of climbing to safety. Emory wondered if he had missed a passage in the darkness, not that he would be able to go back with the black ooze on his tail. Why create a game that’s impossible to win? The ooze was in the water with him, or rather on the water, like oil on the surface. Emory took a deep breath of pungent air and plunged himself underwater.
He figured he had about one minute of consciousness. For the first twenty seconds, Emory felt his surroundings in the pool, fingers running over underwater stones. What happens if I die in this game? I don’t remember. Would it be painful? Emory felt the opening of a small underwater tunnel, just large enough to crawl through. He squeezed through the underwater tunnel, lungs burning. Forty seconds into his dive, he was blindly squirming through the tunnel, clawing at the slick walls. He was getting dizzier with each passing second, lungs tightening.
The tunnel widened and Emory found himself at the bottom of another pool of cold water, connected to the first. He broke free of the tunnel, disoriented, unsure of which direction would lead to the water’s surface, keeping a hand on the wall for a frame of reference. He brought his other hand near his face and let out a mouthful of bubbles, blindly feeling the direction that they floated, with the knowledge that air would naturally rise. With the direction of the bubbles as a guide, Emory kicked his legs to the surface, hopeful that the pool was of a traversable depth. Seconds before the lack of oxygen would have rendered him unconscious, Emory burst up through the water’s surface.
He was still in a world of pitch blackness. Emory found the water's edge and pulled himself up onto the wet stone floor. He was reduced to coughing and shivering on the ground, fumbling about with no clear direction. He realized that he had lost the scorched end of his rope and the pocketed flint in the dark pool—only the club remained. Never had he played a game that was so immersive and lifelike. He had no idea that gaming technology had reached this level.
For what felt like hours, Emory wandered in the dark. He was cold, wet, hungry and sore. His studded club acted as a guide cane, clacking against the walls and floor as his waterlogged clothing and boots sloshed. Using the club sped up his progress, but he worried that the noise would attract more enemies. There was a lingering stinging pain in his leg and foot from the black ooze’s acid. His hands were blistered. His legs were tired. Five times he reached a dead end, and was forced to double back. There was no indication of life aside from the occasional scuttling of cave insects. He wanted nothing more than to find Maddie and ensure that she was ok. What else can I do but keep moving?
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Emory dragged his feet down the tunnel, unsure if he was approaching some sanctuary, or delving deeper into danger. He heard the clicking of exoskeleton legs from above seconds before a writhing twenty-pound centipede dropped down onto his shoulders. Emory smacked the insect away with his studded club before it could pierce his skin with its forcipules. Emory brandished the club wildly, swinging at every scratching, scuttling, hissing sound. He landed a glancing blow as the giant centipede scurried back at him. The centipede went at him a third time, Emory’s blind attack missed, and the venomous forcipules stung him on the wrist. Emory let out a yelp, and the club clattered to the ground.
There was a flash of blue light and heat in the cavern. A streak of blue flames illuminated the scene, temporarily blinding Emory, and striking the centipede dead center.
“Are you really as helpless as you look?” said a raspy female voice.
Emory rubbed his eyes. The cave was dark again. “Who’s there?”
“Can you see in here?” said the female voice. “You don’t even have Darkvision? You’re a Player, right?”
The cavern was illuminated by the soft glow of a small blue flame. The flame hovered in the air over the palm of a short-statured figure that stood a few meters from Emory. She was no taller than one-and-a-half meters, with grayish wrinkled skin, short white hair, pointed ears, and deep black eyes. She wore a dark cloak over a set of leather armor, and as Emory’s eyes adjusted to the enchanted firelight he noticed a sheathed shortsword on her hip.
“I’m a Player Character, not an NPC, and no, I can’t see in the dark,” said Emory. “How do you do that? And how did you make fire?”
“Darkvision is an innate skill for undergnomes,” said the diminutive woman. “And I started with the basic fire spell.”
“Some people have all the luck. My starting stats are garbage,” said Emory. “My name’s Emory.”
“Lyla,” said Lyla the undergnome.
“You have a light footstep,” said Emory. “How long were you following me?”
“Just for a little while,” said Lyla. “You intrigued me. I couldn’t imagine someone so helpless surviving in this environment.”
“Well I did survive,” said Emory. “Without any special skills or spells or anything.”
“Only because I took care of that angry centipede for you,” said Lyla.
Emory rubbed his swollen right wrist and flexed his fingers—the centipede bite was throbbing. He picked up his club with his left hand. Emory pulled up his stat block again, and he noticed that his exploration section had updated.
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Exploration
Players: Lyla (Undergnome Lvl 2)
Monsters: Black Ooze, Giant Centipede
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“You already leveled up?” said Emory.
“Yeah, I burned up some spear-wielding toadmen back there, before I came across you,” said Lyla.
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Lyla
Undergnome - Level 2
Acumen - +1
Agility - +3
Mana - +2
Vigor - +1
Skills - Stealth
Spells - Fire
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“What gives?! Your starting stats are way better than mine,” said Emory.
Lyla shrugged.
“Why were you following me?” said Emory.
“I told you, intrigue,” said Lyla.
“You’re just as lost as I am, aren’t you?” said Emory. “Have you had any sort of respite yet?”
“I’m not as lost as you,” said Lyla. “At least I can see.” She doused her blue flame for a few seconds before recasting it, emphasizing Emory’s reliance on her.
“Let’s travel together,” said Emory. “The Expositor said there are underground cities, I’m sure we can find one.”
“Hire me as a bodyguard and I’ll help you find a town,” said Lyla.
“Hire you?” said Emory. “We’ll be working together.”
“We both know that I’ll be doing most of the work,” said Lyla. “You can’t even see without me, and I can’t imagine many dungeon monsters will be intimidated by that.” She gestured to his charred club.
“Hire you with what exactly?” said Emory. “All I have is a club.”
“You’ll owe me,” said Lyla.
“Ok, but then I’m not just hiring you until we get to a town,” said Emory. “I’m hiring you until we find my sister, Maddie.”
“I get your share of any treasure we find until then,” said Lyla.
“Half my share,” said Emory.
“Or I could just kill you for the experience points right now,” said Lyla. “Though, I doubt you would be worth much, to be honest.”
Without Lyla, Emory was effectively blind. She had all of the bargaining power. “You made your point, fine, you can have any treasure you want until we find my sister,” said Emory.
He stuck out his non-poisoned hand to shake. Lyla shook with her non-flame hand.