Shadowcroft's Academy for Dungeons Chapter 7

Logan found himself in a classic dungeon hallway with only one way to go. He padded forward slowly and silently on his fat gumby feet. He had to move slowly, of course, because his little mushroom frame simply wasn’t built for speed; it was obviously built for sitting around on rotten trees and germinating. He metaphorically grit his teeth—unfortunately he was missing teeth too, so he’d be gumming all his food for a while. He was determined to show both Shadowcroft and this new gargoyle professor that he belonged here. That this fungaloid was going places in the academy, even if he had to take his sweet time getting there. 

The dungeon itself was all rough gray stone and flickering torch light that did little to dispel the gloomy pockets of shadow. Not a fun place to be, but there was a certain thrill in the notion that he was in a real dungeon. One with monsters and traps. One with loot. Or so he hoped. While he walked, he tried to figure out how to pull up his fungaloid character sheet, but he couldn’t quite figure out the trick of the thing. There were no buttons to click or icons floating in the corner of his eye. And all his verbal commands—open character sheet, examine core, stats—had accomplished nothing. 

He was sure he could do it, since he’d seen an overview in Shadowcroft’s plush office, but he didn’t have the fancy crystalline viewing screen to help him, and Shadowcroft hadn’t exactly given him a tutorial. Nope. He was in here, barreling headfirst toward death, without even a rudimentary idea of how the controls. But sometimes the only way to win was to button mash, and he could button mash with the best of ’em if it came right down to it. Not ideal, but he was a survivor.

Eventually, the twisting hallway spit him out into an octagonal chamber that vaguely reminded him of a Catholic cathedral. Vaulted ceiling, intricate pillars, carved stone featuring freakish gargoyles and other monstrous creature, and even stained-glass masterpieces that glowed with otherworldly light. Ahead were three heavy doors, studded with brass rivets, all in different colors, all emblazoned with their own unique crest. The first was brilliant electric blue with three spiked horns braided together to form an odd wheel. The second was the color of spilled blood and was engraved with a series of three interlocking triangles, which looked oddly familiar. The last was a brilliant golden door with a pair of stylized raven heads, facing away from each other. 

Above the three doors was a central stained-glass window, a kaleidoscope of color, with a cryptic poem running across the glass:

The TRIPLE HORNS calls to the scholar blue, a scholar true, gifted with wit

The THRICE-BRANDED TRIANGLE calls to the mighty dressed in red, wed to battle, married to grit

The DOUBLE-FACED RAVEN sings for the gold, for the lucky, for the bold, for those who will act instead of sit

They way out is through the ONXY DOOR, across the trickery rooms, through the danger doors, for those bound for glory instead of the pit.

Logan stood there, staring up at the poem, mulling it over, looking at it this way and that. Clearly, the poem was the key, or at least the instructions for moving forward. He folded his arms and frowned, rereading the script for a third time. He’d taken an intro lit class over at the community college, but he’d nearly flunked the poetry section. All those haikus, ballads, and sonnets did nothing for him. Nothing against them, but he preferred his literature to be more of the pulp variety. Knights riding dinosaurs fighting aliens were far more interesting than red roses and tears falling like April rain.

Still, this seemed simple enough. The way out was through an onyx door. To get there, he’d have to go through a variety of dungeon rooms, and they seemed to come in three flavors. One door for combat, one for puzzles—or maybe wits? —and another for… the lucky? Or maybe the bold. Perhaps both? 

Logan wasn’t entirely sure. But he knew how he could find out for sure. He could look. 

He headed over to the blue door inscribed with the Triple Horn symbol. The room he suspected was for puzzles, wits, and logic challenges. Since it was possible that once he opened a door the others would automatically lock, he chose the one he felt most likely to be able to defeat. Combat was certainly not his strongest suit at the moment, and he wasn’t known to be particularly lucky—recently being eaten by a mimic reinforced that notion. So, wits it was. He licked thick, spongy lips and pressed his hand against the door. There was no visible lock or knob, but the door swung silently inward of its own accord. 

On the other side was a room that looked equal parts fire hazard and Temple of Doom. Thick colored ceramic tiles, all inscribed with char black arrows, covered the floor in seemingly random intervals. Positioned throughout the room on glassy onyx squares were hulking bronze dragon statues that spewed gouts of flickering yellow-orange fire. As he watched, the statues groaned and creaked, rotating to vomit their flame in different directions. There were two doors leading out; a golden door on the far side of the room and a crimson battle door, positioned against the left-hand wall. 

Even though Logan wasn’t particularly good with poetry, he was a savvy enough gamer to know what needed to happen here. Use the arrow tiles to navigate the ever-shifting maze without getting charbroiled. Problem was, as a fungaloid, he was basically a walking soup mix, so one misstep and this would likely be the last room he ever saw. Just the mere idea of fire made him think of dried shitake mushrooms. Backtracking, he headed over to the next door in the octagonal riddle chamber: the crimson with its three, interlocking triangles. 

Nervous, and unsure whether the door would open at all, he pressed his pudgy, pale white digits against the metal. He let out a sigh of relief as the door swung inward, just as the first had, revealing a long hallway, straight as an arrow, made of the same gray stone as the rest of the dungeon. There were two doors at the far end, nearly side by side—this time the golden luck door and the blue wits door waited. He was starting to sense a pattern. Unfortunately, standing like a hulking tower of doom between Logan and the pair of doors was a balding, slope-shoulder ogre with a wooden club that was twice as tall as Logan.

Ogre boy gave Logan a spitty, gritty grin and tapped an open palm with his sapling-sized club.

Yep. Combat oriented. 

And Logan had no desire whatsoever to tangle with the thing standing in the hallway.

Once more, he repeated the trek and headed toward the final of the three doors, the golden luck door, waiting so patiently for him at the end of the line. 

This one opened just as the others had. 

This time, however, Logan’s jaw almost hit the floor in shock. There were no slathering monsters waiting to club him into mushroom paste or deadly traps ready to roast him to a crisp. Instead, this was a treasure room, filled with piles of golden loot, teetering with glimmering weapons and shining armor. He was sure there were no freebies here, so the fact that there was no obvious danger made him even more weary. Still. Of the three rooms, this was hands down the most appealing. Taking down the ogre was out of the question and chancing the fire-statue trap room was a risky proposition. 

So, maybe rolling the dice was the best option after all. Was it a risk? Sure. 

But you never got anywhere without a little luck and you sure as heck didn’t become a solider or make it long attached to an Infantry unit without a streak of boldness. 

Before he had a chance to second-guess his gut instincts, Logan stole forward and into the treasure-filled chamber. The moment he’d crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut and, against the laws of nature, vanished. Gone as though it had never been there. Cool trick. If he survived this whole thing, he’d have to learn how to pull that one off. There would be time for that later, though. For now he needed to stay focused on the task at hand. Survival. Narrow pathways carved their way through the piles of loot, leading toward a pair of exit doors, Crimson and Blue. 

He glanced down and noticed there was a flowing inscription carved deeply into the stone: Take only what you need, for the Journey is long.

Logan frowned at the line, tracing the letters with the edge of his toe. Take only what you need—good to know.

He moved gingerly through the stacks, pulling his arms in tight against his body so that he didn’t risk touching any of the loot—though the temptation to run his knubby fingers through all that gold was nearly overwhelming. He’d never been a greedy man and he’d always gotten by with what he had, but all that gold… Why, there had to be a hundred million dollars’ worth of the stuff, just laying around for the taking. And that wasn’t even accounting for the rubies, rough cut diamonds, and beautifully wrought weapons and armor littering the teetering piles. 

But his old life was gone, he reminded himself, and what good was gold or gaudy jewels to a fungaloid? He wouldn’t even be able to carry the armor on his minuscule frame. Besides, Aladdin had been his favorite Disney movie as a kid, and he knew what happened when you fell for the treasure. So, he ignored that greedy impulse and pushed inward, winding his way toward the exit. About halfway through, though, he noticed something that didn’t quite fit the rest of the room’s treasure vault décor. A simple satchel, well worn, the leather creased and cracked from age. A grappling hook, attached to a length of rope, hung out the side. 

Ding, ding, ding! His spidey sense was tingling. Take only what you need. The words burbled through the back of his head like a brook.

Messing with that satchel would be risky but even more risky would be to ignore it. If he was right, this was a room both for the lucky and the bold. The deck was heavily stacked against him and having a few tools could go a long way toward rectifying that. He needed to be able to carry items and every DnD player worth their salt knew you always carried rope. It was a dungeoneering essential. Logan took a deep breath, preparing for catastrophe, and swung the bag over his shoulder After a few seconds, when nothing terrible happened, he let out the pent-up breath in a sigh of relief. 

Running a real dungeon was a lot more intense than grinding through a dungeon in an RPG or board game campaign. He continued on, keeping an eye out for any other out of place items that might come in handy. Much to his excitement, he found a plain, rusty-edged dagger which had seen better days and a travel worn green cloak, frayed at the edges. Not exactly grand treasures, but practical and useful for a newb like him. He pilfered the blade without any dire consequences, proving once more that there were at least a few things in the room that were up for grabs. 

After nearly ten minutes, he found himself across the room and much richer for it—the dagger, rope, and cloak stowed safely in his worn traveling bag. Lucky and bold was definitely the right pick, though unfortunately he wouldn’t get to play the same card again. He had two doors to choose from, two options to move forward. Combat and wits. As a fungaloid, this choice was an absolutely no brainer. He pressed his hand against the blue door, wits, and it swung open, giving him a glimpse of what was to come.

He expected to see the arrows and the fire-barfing dragon statues, but no, this was a different wits room. So each door was different…interesting.

In a perfectly square chamber, an enormous crystal diamond hung overhead, the floor studded by a variety of colorful tiles. There was no obvious threat, and he had the opportunity to open another golden door. He would take another puzzle room over a combat room any day of the week. He might not have to face the smirking ogre but who knew what else he’d have to fight?

Still, though, he lingered, his foot at the edge of the threshold. He knew without a doubt that he wasn’t going through the combat room, but he couldn’t help but wonder about all the treasure piled up all around him. He was so close to the exit and some part of him needed to know what would happen if he touched the gleaming loot. 

Probably something bad. Probably.

But what if it was all just some head game? 

He couldn’t rightly live with himself if he passed over all these goodies without even trying. Nearby was a small silver buckler with a fist-sized ruby in the center. Small enough for him to use, which was rare. Something like that could go a long way later on in the dungeon. He had to try—had to know. Keeping an eye on the door into the wits room, he ghosted forward, one hand reaching for the buckler. The second he touched it, he felt a minute surge of power, almost like getting a static shock from a light switch. The shield came away with ease and was light as a feather. Perfect for his arm, with a trio of straps crisscrossing the back. 

Naturally, the floor started rumbling and heaving beneath him, enormous fissures cracking through stone and swallowing piles of loot in real time. 

Yep. Not a mind game after all. 

This had Aladdin Cave of Wonders written all over it and it was time to get out. Moving as quickly as his misshapen fungaloid body would allow, he turned on a heel and darted toward the open door. The floor buckled beneath him, accompanied by the sound of boulders crumbling and the tinkle of coins falling. He propelled himself forward, diving over the threshold and into the connecting room, landing on his belly with a meaty thud. He glanced back as the door slammed shut, just in time to see magma erupt in violent molten geysers, consuming everything in fire and heat. 

The door swung shut and disappeared from reality, banishing the image of the fiery room with its passing. 

Check. Bold not greedy. He’d have to keep that in mind for the next pass through a golden door—though, admittedly, his silver buckler was a pretty slick prize. He stood, brushing himself off, and examined his new shield in all its glimmering glory. The gem was fiery red and, if it was real, probably could’ve paid off his mortgage back on Earth. Delicately etched golden runes encircled the outer edge of the shield, the script flowing and beautiful. The shield thrummed with a soft power that seemed to radiate up through the metal, down his squishy arm, and into his center. 

His core. 

With a thought, he focused on the tenuous connection between shield and core and abruptly a flickering dome of red light blossomed from the gem. He wanted to cackle. An energy shield! Like magic. Real magic. The light flickered after a matter of seconds and disappeared, leaving a sense of hollow exhaustion behind. So, there was definitely a catch to using this stuff, but still, what a find. Maybe a little greed—in moderation, of course—wasn’t such a bad thing, he decided. Logan slung the shield over his narrow shoulders, letting it rest on his back, and turned his attention to the colored tiles room. 

This one turned out to be a relatively straightforward puzzle room, and not a terribly complex one at that. There were two doors—this time combat crimson and lucky gold—each on opposite sides of the enormous room. The walls were bare gray stone, though the floor was covered in hundreds of multicolored tiles in a riot of hues. Reds and orange here, blues and violets there. A spattering green and yellows. Overhead, an enormous crystalline prism hung from the high ceiling; it glowed with a gentle white light, projecting a wavering riddle into the air. Just a single sentence: The prism reveals the truth and lights the path to victory.

After scanning the floor for a few seconds, Logan quickly came to the solution. The prism was the key to solving the riddle. Since it didn’t actually shed any light, Logan knew that the answer was more likely metaphorical than literal. Thing was, Logan knew that a prism had a very specific purpose. His mind instantly flashed back to the classic Pink Floyd cover album, Dark Side of the Moon. Prisms broke up light, revealing the colors of the rainbow. The same colors as the tiles decorating the floor. He even remembered that silly little mnemonic device he’d learned in freshman applied sciences class, ROYGBIV.

Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. 

Honestly, he didn’t remember a lot from high school—he’d never used calculus and the importance of the War of 1812 had never come up in real life—but he did know three things: the quadratic equation, that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell, and that the colors of the rainbow are named Roy G. Biv. Sweet, sweet education for the win.

All he had to do was follow the correct colors of the rainbow and walk his way to either door. Easy.

He grinned like a maniac as he effortlessly blazed through the pattern… right up until he got passed the G. That’s where things went sideways. It was right about the time Logan discovered that fungaloids were apparently colorblind—at least partially. Try as he might, he could not tell the difference between the last three colors. They all looked like slightly differing shades of blue. Normal blue. Dirty blue. Light blue.

Colors had never been his strong suit even with human eyes. An old girlfriend had dragged him to a fabric store to pick out curtains. He’d not been helpful.

Logan squinted and took a chance. Light blue. 

That was a hard no.

He narrowly avoided being skewered by deadly spears that launched from the walls—only his ridiculously short height saved him there. He stumbled forward because it was too late to turn back. A section of the wall opened to cough out a blast of fire. He dodged the flames but felt like a marshmallow on his way to ‘Smoresville, USA.

Another wrong tile took out the entire floor near the golden door. Maybe if Logan had been taller or more athletic, he could’ve leaped his way into the clear, but as a sponge on legs with the vertical jump of a wobbly toddler, he never stood a chance. 

So instead, he made it to the crimson door in more or less one piece.

Logan equipped his pilfered shield, slipping his arm through the straps, then pulled free the pitiful pitted dagger. It honestly looked like a short sword in his pudgy hand. Better that than nothing, Logan supposed. He took one last longing glance at the golden door across the room, then pressed his free hand against the bloody red door. He was dreading this part, but he’d known in his gut that he was going to have to do battle sooner or later. Looked like sooner it was. Stealing himself, Logan stepped through into the unknown, ready for the first fight of his fungaloid life. 

Time to roll for initiative. 

 Keep Reading Here: Chapter Eight