On the Matter of Why Climbing Is Never Advised Over Delving Deeper
(A Clarification for Those Who Insist on Asking Anyway)
For anyone who spends more than five minutes contemplating the nature of the Underfold—usually while lost, injured, or regrettably sober—one particular question inevitably arises:
Why Delve deeper into danger when one could simply climb upward to the easier Dungeons and clear those instead, for neat profit and considerably fewer bite marks?
The answer is simple. Not pleasant, but simple:
The System doesn’t allow it.
Not in any convenient way. Not in any profitable way. And certainly not in any way you, dear reader, might describe as “fair.”
While the System cannot remove what you are, it can absolutely make your powers ruinously expensive to use. Costly in ways most individuals discover only once, loudly, and with a great deal of complaint.
To reiterate:
There are reasons Dungeon Masters and Delver Managers occupy such lofty pedestals within the Underfold’s hierarchy. They—and only they—can influence the outcomes of higher layers without racking up System debts so catastrophic they might as well come with a foreclosure notice.
So long as they play within the rules, of course.
***
Lionel could sense what was happening above them, even if he couldn’t see it. Not all of it, anyway. Just the choice, painful bits. The parts involving Annabell, for instance, along with several inconveniently dropped baubles, were crystal clear. Probably because they were currently visible through the enormous, architecturally significant hole that had opened up overhead.
While he had been trying to find an exit out of the cramped chamber—preferably one that did not involve drowning, being crushed, or discovering new and exciting allergies to deep-sea related violence—he hadn’t expected it to arrive like this.
Moments earlier, the very Core of Ashenmoor had floated past their faces, leaving them with two equally unappealing ways out:
- A water-filled abyss below, full of churning waves, hidden currents, and the strong impression that it contained Things With Teeth; and
- Whatever was happening above them: a rapidly approaching boss battle, located inside a burning, creaking church.
Lionel had never experienced a boss transformation in person before. He knew the theory, but theory didn’t mean much in the face of the surging energies overhead.
Even several dozen feet below ground, the storm found them—sharp droplets breaking against his face, snatching winds, and the general sensation that somewhere, the universe had rented a weather system that resented his existence personally. And then, there was Annabell.
In the middle of what was clearly a world-ending spectacle—lightning, screaming, possibly chanting in several dead languages—her head popped into view like an inquisitive squirrel.
And if that wasn’t outrageous enough, her next words certainly were:
“HEY!” she called over the roar, “DO YOU THINK WE HAVE TO SMASH THIS ONE TOO TO GET OUT OF HERE?!”
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Even if the Scenario’s invisible shackles hadn’t bound him—those faint, shimmering suggestions that kept hissing into his ear Don’t try anything funny; you know the rules—Lionel would have struggled to find any sensible response to the ridiculous question.
Fortunately—for him, not so much Annabell—fate decided to intervene before he could do anything unwise.
A fleshy appendage lashed through the air, slamming into Annabell’s side with the sort of velocity normally reserved for highland club sports. She disappeared from view in an elegant, if high-pitched, arc—her lingering yelp having barely vanished into the distance as the world resumed being once more.
A sharp inhale beside him was the only warning Lionel got, but it was also the only one he needed.
The moment the scenario moved on, forcing the Delver woman—still hunched against the wall beside him—to abruptly balance her own self once more, she nearly slipped into the crumbling void where the floor had once been. Only Lionel’s hand, finding her elbow at the last second, kept her from the grim fate.
“I wouldn’t suggest going that way,” he said, glancing down at the swirling vortex far below. Even if the churning waters hadn’t been filled with dark, hungering silhouettes, Lionel wouldn’t have fancied his chances going down there.
Behind them, meanwhile, the door that his shoulder had briefly taken a break from bracing, experienced a resounding impact with enough force to knock one of its hinges clean off. Jets of water shot through the gaps.
Up. That was the only option. And judging by the screaming, cursing, and general panicked debacle above, they had better do it quickly.
Even if Lionel wasn’t particularly worried about Annabell—not really; worry implied affection, or at least investment, and Lionel preferred to keep both well away from anyone who thought a boss fight was a fine opportunity for casual conversation—her dying would make getting out of this place considerably more—
In the corner of his eyes, a screaming, pink projectile bounced by within the chaotic church above.
—marginally more complicated.
“Are you able to fight?” he asked as another deafening impact rattled the door behind them. Several more jets of water sprouted into the air. Even so, Lionel kept his grip firm on the Delver’s arm.
It was only when she turned her head toward him—eyes sunken and frantic, face streaked with blood and grime, and hair fused to her skin in the way only sweat and a bad day could manage—that he realized how cruel the question was.
Even so, she tightened her jaw and nodded.
Lionel was starting to like her. Stubbornness of this variety—gritty, practical, and born of sheer refusal to quit—was the kind he could work with. It was the other variety (the pink, chaotic, and entirely associated with too many headaches) that caused problems.
“Good,” he said.
Dragging her upright, he found her standing about half a head taller than him, which he counted as another point in her favour. This is what Delvers were supposed to be. Big. Sturdy. Reliable.
“Then drink this and get ready to move.”
He shoved a glass bottle into her hand. Corked, sealed with wax, and needlessly shiny, it had the unmistakable aura of something that’d been made with the same out-dated methods for the past three centuries. HP potion. Ludicrously expensive. Worked about half the time.
Then again, cheaper than funerals, and far cheaper than Lionel getting involved directly. Too directly.
Able to sense another strike coming, he wedged his foot against the door just in time for another impact to shudder through him from heel to spine. The wood held—just barely—long enough for the woman to yank out the cork and down the potion in one determined swig.
This much interference ought to be fine, right? Probably. The System hadn’t complained when he was bracing the door earlier, at least.
The fourth impact he didn’t even try to prevent.
It blasted the door clean across the length of the chamber, where it struck the wall, wheezed in defeat, and tumbled into the foaming abyss alongside a gushing torrent of water and several wildly flailing, suspiciously fish-shaped limbs.
By then, Lionel and the woman were already moving—Lionel skirting the left side of the collapsing chamber, the woman taking the right, both grimly determined not to follow the door into early watery retirement.
“We need to get up there!” he shouted over the roar of wind, water, and whatever enthusiastic catastrophe was unfolding above. A quick glance upward rewarded him with the sight of several burning projectiles and a variety of airborne curses zipping past, none of which looked especially friendly.
Things were breaking. Quite a lot of things. And even if Lionel found it difficult to imagine Annabell ever actually dying—she had an uncanny knack for evading the consequences of her own actions—losing his first ever signed Delver like this would leave an undeniably sour taste in his mouth.
So, he added, “Hurry!” grabbed hold of one of the few surviving shelves, and began climbing