Beneath the Earth, I Slay Thee (excerpt)

To the Galapagos, and a secret dungeon therein. For those who are willing to pay a price, the adventures of such heartrendingly dull “role-playing games” as Dungeons & Dragons, Fighting Fantasy and Menacing Warlocks IV can be brought to life with genuine adventures in a custom built, artificially aged catacomb in this remote location.

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I scrimp and save to get the funds together – for journalistic purposes only, you understand. I have been approached by a small-time news rag to cover this new phenomenon (in so much as something that nobody has heard of can be called a phenomenon, which is to say, not at all). “You will pay your own way”, they said. I admired their honesty and fancied the challenge. Weeks later, they fail to publish my article, despite the ultimate dedication I have displayed in submitting all 100,000 words on enchanted parchment scroll. No matter, I suppose I started this inter-net web-log for a reason. As my own harshest editor, I present the condensed version here; only the best words survive.

An anachronistic shed provides the necessary safety precautions before descent. Metal plate armour is strapped to my torso, fine chain links allow some flexibility to be retained in my arms. An uncomfortable but vital helmet is forced onto my head. “It’s blessed,” says the guide. “Plus four against all attacks”. I give him a withering glance and move on to the weapons. Always a fan of axes, I pick the largest and most frightening, heft it like a victorious lion and then put it back on the shelf, chastened by the unbearable weight and size. I would struggle to navigate the wide aisles of St. Terald’s Cathedral with such a burden, let alone the twisted passages of a subterranean labyrinth. I take a fierce looking mace instead, with a short dagger tucked into my belt for cutting and stabbing purposes.

The employees of this place are barely out of school, hairless whelps with an hour’s orientation training prod me from section to section, stuffing my leather pouch with artifically coloured concoctions and bland, dusty provisions. Occasional attempts at “flavour” in their scripted babble bounce off my helmet like amateurish magic missiles.

Fully equipped and brandishing a flaming torch, I finally push through the wooden door to the dungeon, brush aside myriad cobwebs and begin my adventure. The minimum-wage minions had explained that the initial challenge was low, to build up my “experience points” – as such, I stamp on various defenceless creatures in the early passages but all I feel is a surge of guilt, and disgust at the mass of centipede innards that begin to stain my boots. Turning to investigate a noise behind me, I find a trainee restocking the corridor with bugs; it takes me out of the moment somewhat. I consider slaying him mercilessly but become concerned that it will affect my “alignment”.

In search of higher thrills, I plunge through two trapdoors and hurtle down a flight of stairs. I catch a sleeping goblin by surprise and stab him through the face – his death shriek would be comical if it didn’t pose such a risk. I flee before any other creatures come to investigate the noise, lurking behind an oversized, presumably-trapped treasure chest until the dust settles. I shiver slightly, the death of the goblin only now feeling true. What if he had children? A wife? I resolve to look for the up-stairs and exit this foul cavern.

Retracing my footsteps, I am confronted by two rat-faced apes – they refuse to bargain with me so I throw dust in their eyes while screaming and break into a run, sweating instantly under my protective layers. I swig from an unlabelled potion to quench my thirst and feel no effect whatsoever; presumably food colouring and tap water.

Eventually I break ground, to the evident surprise of the staff, who have broken character to watch a televised sporting event. They scramble for the remote control and stutter pathetic apologies as they slowly morph back into “humble shopkeeps”. I am disgusted by absolutely all of this. As I finally leave, changed back into civilian clothing but with filth and muck still staining my skin, I vow never to return to this despicable hellhole. Next year I shall remain in Hull, as is traditional.