In the depths of the mountain, in a game world near you, the twisted, despairing tunnels which had – so far – proven the party’s greatest challenge gave way to the gaping maw of a gigantic antechamber.

As they approached, the remains of a single, sombre staircase brought what was left of Mendal’s… acquaintances into yet another stone-paved, column-bearing dungeon room.

Team morale was low and, if not for the death-defying glow emanating from the cleric’s prize possession: his silver coloured Corona of Sovereign Enlightenment – all would be black, and the dry air still ripe with nervous tension.

And yet… in spite of the dark mood, the soft light flickered on, illuminating both the Cleric’s shining, newly-healed head-wound as well as the dusty remains of the towering, ancient murals of dust, cobweb and gold. The nine pairs of footsteps echoed over the walls and high up into the eery, crumbling keystones of the archways overhead: an era of long-abandonment had come to an end.

And, all too soon, the Cleric's light-giving rite would follow.

Already it was dimming and the Corona’s repellant effect, useful to avoid the smallest of critters, was also nearing its end.

As the Corona’s s lustre dulled – its aura contracting every few footsteps around the nine – the night, once thrice-banished, blinked ever-closer into view.

This was, for Mendal and his handpicked party, a reminder of their urgent need to press forth, reach relative safety, and in all haste! Soon, fiery moths, the whole dungeon over – the miniature, leftover kin of the titanic versions the party had, floors ago now, slain – were, at this very moment, bloodthirstily honing in on their trail upon maniacal wings.

Grumbling, Mendal called up his status, dismally taking in the low health bar showcasing the red hue of his few remaining FIT-points the winged vampiric pests hadn’t already syphoned away from him. So far, all was going according to plan, his plan. Mendal Meddler was the brains behind this most ambitious of operations.

“It’s really, really not the time to check your pizzaz, you fool.” muttered his cleric companion, the one the party called Master Cleric on account of his apprentice who’d also made it, for good reason, onto the dream team’s limited roster.

“This is exactly the time for me to do that.” retorted Mendal without missing a beat. “I can’t feel how fit I am, hence my need to check my status.”

To the others in his party, Mendal was but a player in this world. The Great Baptism may have been years ago now, but his party was – and it was good for him to keep this in mind – stuck in pods, their minds a little on-edge from being confined inside Exile’s game-world. Now, the world waited with bated breath for the nerds at Dormant Entertainment to, with the supervision of the post-war council, arrange a much more permanent solution.

“Pizazz”, the only member with a bow said, “we call it pizazz you frivolous outworlder. You’re “checking your pizazz, not your “status”, life is not some game – and we’re real people bleeding and dying here, you know.”

“You’d better be.” Mendal answered honestly, “Now wouldn’t be a great time for me, for any of us really, to find you lied when you got poached you from your guild…”

The light dimmed some more around the nine, and they were minutes away from total darkness. As they finally neared the entrance to the next room, it was with profound relief that Mendal noticed the large stone door was not ajar. In his experience, ajar doors were never a good sign. Oftentimes they meant…

"We can take a ten minute breather here.” suggested the Cleric’s apprentice.

“Oh yeah?” asked Agent Skeptic, the team’s slimy rogue. He was a [physical description].

In the tumult of the battles of the previous floors, Agent Skeptic seized an opportunity to backstab his own teammate: their Soldier of Fortune. There were no signs of foul play though, and no one had seen the deed being done, but Mendal had planned the team composition around the fact this rogue, Agent Skeptic, who, given his track record and how pleased his guild leader was to be rid of him, would inevitably kill off one the party.

Unbeknownst to anyone else left alive, Mendal told the Soldier to make himself the juiciest of targets.

“Yes” answered the novice, opting not to notice the likely sarcasm in the Rogue’s remarks. “There are three minutes left on the rite. Then I figure five minutes until the first mobs catch up with us. Then they’ll likely wait until they’re numerous enough to overwhelm us – with the rounding error in our favour.”

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“The rounding error, eh?” panted the team’s Porter who’d been quietly doing his best to keep up with the group since [event cause of injury]. “I thought that wasn’t actually a thing?”

“This whole world is zeros and ones.” responded Mendal. “The forums abuzz with…”

“Cut it Outworlder.” interjected the team’s Enchantress as she displayed an all-to-common, aggressive, knee-jerk reaction to any reminder – or semblance of a reminder – of the nature of her existence, the superficiality of her world, the Great Baptism that preceded it, its events, outcomes,. etc. etc… “I’ll have no more of your shoddy insults.”

Inwardly, Mendal rolled his eyes. Outwardly, however – and as he ever endeavoured to be a consummate professional… – he decided it was definitely time for a distraction.

“Clerics, I think you guys can begin figuring out how much it’ll cost to replenish the Corona’s aura.”

His instruction elicited sharp intakes of breath from the six other non-clerics. “Let’s do our very best to get ourselves healed up here and then head into the next room… I’ll be back in a sec.”

With that, Mendal went idle, his in-game self dancing a merry gig as the team’s designated healer, the Master Cleric (referred to as such by the long-established convention of referring to players by their titles when in a dungeon) and the Cleric’s Apprentice, went about the task of doing the innumerable calculations involved in figuring out the optimal allocation of the party’s meagre resources. The duo then informed each member of the party in turn how much their share of the healing would cost.

Exile being Exile, no class type was more despised, envied, or accursed on a day-to-day basis – especially to the collectivists that lost the war – than that of the thieves that deigned called themselves healers. Never mind that, when checked by a third party, the medic’s math proved most sound; the druid’s decisions revealed themselves to be both intricate and economical; and the clergy’s actions… Well, they always seem neatly aligned with the wishes of today’s Sovereign-of-choice.

But never mind all that: the average man knows a thief when he sees one! The intricacy at play is, quite obviously, in aim to obfuscate. The econumerology referred, outworldly, as mathematics is, in fact, just a conniving rebranding of Great Stinginess itself… And when one has sixteen deities to choose from… Of course the two-faced brigands called healers would have their pick-of-convenience.

In essence, and according to many, a wardrobe change into a healer’s uniform is as good as a mask when it comes to diseases of the wallet.

“All right” began the Master Cleric, “you know the drill. We’re nine. We were ten. Our Soldier of Fortune went down in battle. His fault, your fault, our fault – it doesn’t matter one bit. We’re alive, thank the Sovereigns, that’s what counts. And we’re all pitching in equally for the healing now.”

Grumbles accompanied the prepared statement and the Cleric’s apprentice stepped forth to cut them off.

“Should – and I’m not saying it will happen – but should the boss (meaning Mendal) not show up on time, we should also be prepared to pitch in for a few minutes more for the trail masking effect of the Corona of Sovereign Enlightenment…”

More curses accompanied that particular statement, a clean, expertly done, redirection-of-resentment. The Master Cleric nodded his approval.

“Earthers”, swore the party’s hammer-wielding Sound Smith, his outburst echoing thunderously in the near total darkness.

Realising his all-to-loud mistake from the mirrored expressions on his companions faces, the Smith whispered an apology. Then, seizing this opportunity for a little tension-relieving humor, began a near-perfect, mock imitation of one of Dormant’s notoriously unhelpful employees: “We at Dormant Entertainment thank you for reaching out and your concerns are duly noted. We also wish to extend our deepest, heartfelt condolences for…” he hesitated then, looking around.

Beside him, the lasso-man snickered.

“…that, whatever that is.” he finished in a normal tone, pointing at Mendal’s less-than-ideal display.

“Earthers” repeated the team’s Archer with a sigh.

Moments later however, as time was running out, Mendal logged back into the game: his avatar suddenly stopped its outrageous swirling and infuriatingly jovial spraying of confetti. Now, if cringeyness could grant superpowers…

But no.

Back in the midst of his disgruntled party, Mendal caught the tail end of the team’s T.D.S., Terra Derangement Syndrome: and opted, wisely (he thought), to disregard it all.

Any Exile player worth a damn was used to in-game hyperboles of rampant toxicity. Such complainers were all venom, but no bite. The truth was that the mere fact he’d been able to assemble this team was a remarkable improvement over the overt hostility the Losers – because that’s what they were: they’d lost – the Losers had displayed in the immediate post-war era. People could mumble and grumble all they liked, Mendal Meddler prided himself in being flame-retardant.

And, in all honesty, there wasn’t really much to whine about in the first place: the Great Agreement signed into effect by the post-war council ensured that the game remained balanced for both guest accounts – “Outworlders”, “Earthers”,… etc. (whatever one wanted to call them) – and the now-local… talent.

With only moments to spare on the team-wide deadline – Mendal’s fingers zapped through air and various menus of his HUD. Panning and scrolling expertly through the windows, dismissing most tabs after but a perfunctory glance, and calling forth other windows with a thought and all-to-soon waving those off as well.

Observers, had any been able to see his set-up, may have – albeit only briefly – mistakenly believed they saw Mendal hesitate before tapping confirm on his pre-planned allocation of stats. Such an observer, however, would quickly have dismissed such thoughts as merely due to a trick of the light going out at long last.

Mendal, a purist Outworlder if there ever was one, did not allocate his stats as would the rest of his party. After all, what Losers called Luck; Real Gamers called hard work and the willingness to get into it.

All-to-smug in the now total darkness, Mendal ushered his party further into the unknown.