Harold, secretary and barbarian, rubbed his chin stubble, some of it coming off on his hand in a grey smear. “Are you sure that this is the place?”
“That’s what the villagers told me,” said Winny, researcher and rogue.
Lurking beneath a rocky overhang that looked like some troll’s grotesque ale gut sat a door and a single window.
The other three members of the Dungeon Club, joined them on the plateau, each breathing heavy from the climb. Greta, treasurer and paladin, got to her feet first, adjusting her mismatched armour. Arnie, event coordinator and wizard, helped up Jeremiah, the club’s newest member and cleric — all the other good classes having already gone.
“Begone foul beasts from the infinite depths of hell,” screamed Jeremiah, brandishing a bent and battered holy symbol.
Arnie rolled his eyes at Winny in that universal unsaid way of ‘oh, not another one’.
“Jeremiah,” admonished Harold. “What’s the first rule of Dungeon Club?”
“Don’t talk about Dungeon Club?”
“No, that’s the second rule. First rule, remember to keep your best quips for the bosses.”
“Sorry just excited, still can’t believe I’m here,” Jeremiah said with a sheepish grin.
“It’s fine. Winny, are you sure this is the place?”
“It’s just that I’d thought the entrance to the Pit of Abraxxan would look…”
They all stared.
“I’m sure that’s a welcome mat.”
“They’ve some beautiful fuchsias in those hanging baskets, mine never look that good.”
“You wouldn’t think they’d need a letter box.”
“Or the net curtains.”
“Winny, see if anyone is in,” said Harold.
She rapped once. The door opened, heralding a monstrous vision of muscles, fangs and weapons. The thing roared out a challenge, bathing them all in spittle.
Winny wiped her face clean. “They’re in and this is definitely the right place.”