Dwarfs love dark. Dark is opportunity. It heralds a plundering. But for the just turned dwarf, an exception to many dwarfen rules, he slept through such bleak nothing in search of morning. Awakening, the dwarf did so to as much light as could be afforded, deep as the dwarf was. Sunlight slipped down to little merit, black veil unwilling to surrender fully. But the dwarf realized he could at last, at least observe his hands once again. His thick hands, he thought. His clothesless self, he only then realized. The dwarf at once regretted ever pondering his new figure and decided to never gaze upon a reflection if could be helped. Then he felt the beard that had survived the night hanging long from his face, and the dwarf pulled its length into view sitting up. He wished then to see it all.

Dwarfs love beard. Pull a dwarf off the side of the streets of Thumper and marvel at their diverse hair. It is not uncommon for even women to sport whiskers, though the practice is limited. Indeed, very few dwarfs have ever been recorded in history as sustaining shaves long term. The dwarf in the hole would be no different. It is possible this development led to the inspiration necessary to continue climbing out from his prison. It is also possible the dwarf became driven by hunger or thirst. Backed by whatever theory, for he could not recall himself, the dwarf put one hand in front of the other and brought his bearded body up. Then he fell, and he did so again.

Every so often, this is what the dwarf would see:

“ATHLETICS SKILL XP GAINED”, for the newly minted dwarf had unknowingly entered a plane of reality completely unlike his own--one governed by EXP. The more of this he earned, more frequent he would see:

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 3”

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 4”

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“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 5”

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 6”

Naturally, the dwarf too learned another sort of message could appear:

“HEALTH LOW”

He felt it. He lost track of the falls he’d endured. So willed forward his flesh had been, the dwarf realized his limits. He laid across dirt breathing, gasping. Meanwhile, the sun once above succeeded to rain. Darkness regained its strength under storm bearing clouds, and the dwarf found himself once more in black familiarity. Droplets falling a distance all too similar to the dwarf’s own descent pounded into his flesh without impact, a puddle forming under his cheek.

The dirt became wet. The dwarf was wet. When sporadic bouts of light returned to the hole, its walls glistened. The HEALTH LOW message had disappeared from sight and breath had returned to his lungs, so the dwarf stood yet again and resumed his escape. But this effort proved pathetic. He fell without ever grasping a handle for long, smacking into wet earth sickeningly, repeatedly. He thought of his father again, how low he’d think of him now. Tears continued from above. The puddle had widened, and the dwarf became conscious as he sat that he did so in a well. His leg hair caught the rising water and fell against its weight. His soles soaked.

For the first time in the dwarf’s life, the fear of death set in. As a farmer’s son, he had explored the countryside to a lengthy extent. He had not always been afforded the time to do so, but that did not stop the encountering of danger in his own plane. Once, the boy had rolled into a deep ravine filled with moss and web. A sunset had concluded as he re-emerged, and the boy ran home in a frenzy, a bloodied, bruised, filthy mess. Back then, there had seemed enough hope to guide the boy back to his farm. The dwarf looked upwards at the darkened gray that dominated the hole’s exit and watched it grow black. The rain trickled to a close as the dwarf’s collarbones submerged. It amused him somewhat to catch out of the corner of his eye, infrequently, “SWIMMING SKILL INCREASED”.

But for the first time in his life, the dwarf feared he’d soon die.