Dungeon-delving: The Truth of It All

Listen up, lad. There's nothing glamorous about dungeon-delving. When you're exploring dusty corridors, and you come face-to-face with creatures reeking of feces, creatures that seek to gut ya and eat your heart, there ain't no glamor in that.

When you're slogging through underground sewers full of ichor, mud, and misery. And, feces. **shudders** Ain't no glamor. Not when you're tripping through pitch-black caverns dripping with liquids so toxic, that just a whiff'll turn ya green and lay you flat.

Don't believe the stories, lad. Ain't no glamor at all. And, very little glory, too.

When you're not stinking of fear, or feeling the pangs of starvation, you're wounded and stricken with nausea. Being able to think at all, much less fight, is a monumental task.

No, dungeon-delving is not what they make it sound like when they sit around the tavern tables and boast about "adventuring." Most are lying about having done so. Believe me, it is hard, grueling work. And, not a business for but a very few.

Which is why I spit when I see farm boys and pickpockets and frail mages set off on ill-fated quests. Won't last long, them. So naïve. And, hopeful, they are. Hoping to strike it rich by helping the stronger in their parties to vanquish monsters, and plunder their treasures.

(laughing) Treasures... Bah! Most times, all they find for their superhuman efforts are bones, worthless trinkets, and occasionally, a handful of coins. Treasures are rare. As rare as demons and dragons. As rare as victory.

No, the very least you can hope to return with are lifelong nightmares, and scars of all sorts: physical and mental. And, worst of all, spiritual scars. Hear me. To be soul-stricken is to be condemned to eternal suffering. On this plane and the next.

So, cast away your foolish notions. Choose another line of work. Dig moats, or herd cattle. Serve a guildmaster, or take up metal-smithing. Anything. Leave dungeon-delving to the insane. Most never return. And if they do, we- they are never the same.

Trust me, young one. I beg you. Return to your shire and your stable, and never look back. What? What's that? (sigh) Oh, yes... Yes, that is an orc battle pick. Yes, orcs are real. Oh, bother- Yes! That is a Mythril shield. Owned, it was, by an elf I once fought along-side at Crownsforge. Yes. That land, too, exists. Though, not as described in fireside tales. It is a far danker and dire a place, indeed.

Oh, for Flarg's sake! Abandon this nonsense, boy! There is naught but despair in your future if you do this.

(sigh) Yes. That is a golden helm. Barely retrieved it was from the skeletal head of long-dead King Jerral, ruler of mythical Miralund. The realm of jewels and honey.

(sigh) Alright, boy... I'll sell you this sword, and that armor. Just know they come at a price far greater than thirty silver. Yes, that's what I said. Thirty silver. You won't find a finer sword and sturdier chainmail elsewhere. Not for a hundred leagues.

I'll throw in a coil of rope and some hard tack to nibble on. May Faeltha's blessings be upon ya.Farewell, lad. 

And, good luck. You'll need it...