The Underfold
Sometimes called the Greater Dungeon, occasionally the Infinite Pit of Poor Life Choices, and once (briefly) "Steve," the Underfold is what happens when too many worlds decide (usually not on their own) that the best place to put their trash, treasure, and terrifying beasts is down. Not just down some hole or down the road either—Down in the mythic, geological, metaphysical sense. Folded, layered, and occasionally crumpled like an old map, the Underfold stretches into the depths.
It is not so much a place as it is an idea with stairs, and lots of them. Imagine, if you will, several worlds' worth of caverns, haunted fields, catacombs, oubliettes, trapdoors, cold seas, secret doors, doors that are lying about being doors, and at least one suspiciously well-lit tea room—then fold them all into each other like a demented soufflé of danger.
No one quite knows what's at the bottom. Many have speculated. One famous explorer claimed they were close once but were last seen arguing with a pack of sentient mimics disguised as their childhood home. Most sensible folk eventually stop wondering. Most Delvers—a category that overlaps heavily with the terminally curious and the terminally unemployed—never really pause to wonder. They just keep going down.
Because the deeper you go, the shinier the loot is bound to be.
***
Lionel J’Khall was about as far from being a Delver as a tithe collector was from being a folk hero. To foolishly risk one’s life for glory and a quick buck had never been in the cards for him.
But that didn’t mean he was ignorant about the trade.
He’d grown up on the Fourth Layer. He’d studied on the Fifth, worked there too, and at one point had come within an ill-timed sneeze of becoming exactly what everyone expected him to be: a sensible, accomplished, terrifyingly competent person. Someone like Cassandra.
In short, while he had never set foot in a real Dungeon—and here “real” means one where the needlessly wealthy didn’t go as holiday resort—he was as well-informed as any non-Delver could be. He knew what to avoid, what to pack, and he also knew every Delver’s most sacred rule: never go alone.
The only problem was…
His current partner was—how best to put this—a brewing liability wrapped in whimsy and sprinkled with bad decisions.
Never mind that she’d detonated his once-in-a-lifetime opportunity with all the subtlety of a troll in a boom-shop. Never mind that she’d turned his apartment—his meticulously organized, single-bedroom, rent-stabilized sanctuary—into something that now resembled the losing side of a wizard’s duel. No, the real issue, the bit that made his eye twitch and his soul whisper unkind things to itself, was that as the System—cosmic, cruel, and terribly punctual—shunted them toward an uncharted, deeply unapproved path into the Underfold, she was still mucking about.
Not strategizing. Not packing. Not updating a will.
She was–quite eagerly, at that–flicking her goggles up and down by the help of the System interface, making them look like novelty eyebrows and giggling to herself.
He still hadn’t worked out who, what, or why this tiny creature of chaos was, but the fact that she’d seemingly only just discovered the System’s auto-equip function hardly spoke well of whatever shaky cooperation was being pushed upon them.
Some part of Lionel, a quiet, desperate part that still believed in logic and clean socks, had hoped what she’d worn when they met had merely been “sewer-specific trash gear”. But no. This was it. Pink hoodie. Aviator helmet. Torn leggings and boots that were even worse for wear. This was the finest in her arsenal.
“Merciful System,” he muttered, sealing the apartment door with a heavy sigh that sounded suspiciously like a eulogy, “at least let her have a half-decent skillset. Something useful. Anything that isn’t a joke.”
The door clicked shut behind him with all the finality of a coffin lid.
***
Annabell had feared, quite reasonably, that the non-voluntary and wholly unnecessary laundering of her clothes—conducted with the enthusiasm of a firehose and the subtlety of a riot—would leave them unwearable, unrecognizable, or, worst of all, non-fluffy.
Fortunately, her hoodie, a veteran of questionable environments and highly suspect habits, had endured with all the resilience of a particularly stubborn cat. It remained warm, pink, and unreasonably soft. The floral scent it had acquired was somewhat unwelcome but otherwise tolerable.
What she hadn’t noticed until she re-equipped them, however, (possibly because her relationship with clothing was largely based on vibe rather than function,) were the new tags. Not the itchy kind. These hovered politely in midair.
Certified Gremlin Hoodie
Appearance: Pink. Aggressively pink. Features bunny ears of questionable structural integrity. Tattered just enough to suggest either a hard-lived life or an ongoing argument with the universe. Recently washed—against its will, and it hasn't forgiven anyone yet.
Passive Effects:
- Grants a +3 bonus to Dazzling, Dramatic Entrances (includes arriving via window, rooftop, or inexplicably from underneath someone’s table).
- +2 to Shenanigans, Mischief, and General Revelry (stacks with sugar intake).
- Emits faint chaotic energy; causes pigeons to look at the wearer suspiciously.
Flavour Text:
"Some garments are made. Others happen."
Aviator Helmet (Goggles Included)
Appearance: The kind of leather helmet that suggests the wearer has never met a speed limit they respected. Comes with vintage goggles, permanently smudged with something probably heroic.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Passive Effects:
- Negates all Perception Debuffs from:
- High speeds
- Strong winds
- Extremely bad ideas (especially those beginning with “Watch this!”)
- High speeds
- +1 Armour to Head (does not protect against intrusive thoughts).
Active Ability — Courtesy of Gremlin’s Jury Rigged Arsenal
Propelled Headbutt.
Fuelled by momentum, misjudgment, and pure spite.
Cooldown: Once per chase scene.
Annabell wasn’t entirely sure who had taken the liberty to fiddle with her stuff—adding instructions they didn’t need—but they still fit, didn’t itch, and now included the ability to toggle high-velocity mode on her goggles with a mental command. Which was either technological genius or sorcery.
The important thing was that it was neat.
All in all, she didn’t have a whole lot to complain about. Besides the fact that her nap-time had been perpetually postponed. And that her meal had been rudely interrupted mid-way through (it had been warm, and cheesy, and perfect). And that it was chilly and cold outside, combined with the kind of damp that seeps into your bones and starts subletting. And...
Never mind. If Annabell put some effort into it, there were a lot of things to complain about. By all means, were one to catalogue her grievances at that precise moment, it would resemble a shopping list penned by a sleep-deprived poet:
– Nap: stolen
– Meal: half-eaten
– Blankets: tragically unoccupied
– Environment: rude
– Situation: legally unclear
That last one was the real kicker. She still wasn’t entirely sure she was off the hook in terms of legal consequences, and if there was one thing all Gremlins fear, it’s a lawyer with too much free time and self justification.
So, rather than catch up with her well-deserved naps and snacks, she had decided—just this once, mind you—to moderately comply with the-guy-who-seemed-to-know-what-he-was-talking-about. Partly in the hope that doing so would make the blinking, howling, deeply judgmental notification in the corner of her vision go away.
It hadn’t. Despite her dogged attempts at ignoring it, it was still there, blinking with the passive-aggressive energy of a toaster that knows you haven’t cleaned the crumb tray in months.
Flipping her goggles into what she had mentally labeled “Cool and Casual Mode” (name pending final approval by the Committee of Her), she turned toward her companion.
“So,” she began, glancing once left and then right, just in case the void had changed its mind about existing, “when’s our ride arriving to pick us up?”
It was a valid question. At least in her mind.
The mist was steadily creeping in like a miser spotting an unattended purse. Not a galloping mist, not a rushing fog—this one sidled. It wasn’t the kind that promised a scenic countryside walk.
Still, no sign of any taxi. No rickety old bus driven by a skeleton in a peaked cap either. No ghostly limousine, no spectral tuk-tuk, not even a rogue broomstick with a rebellious streak.
Annabell, for her part, was quietly hoping for the latter. Even before she was diagnosed with the terrible condition of Gremlinitis, she had harbored suspicions about public transport. Now, the very thought of sitting perfectly still in a sealed metal box with thirty-five other people pretending they weren’t alive made her ears twitch.
“Where we're going,” his voice carried over, “the only ride you'll need is this.”
While Annabell had been scouring their surroundings, he’d wandered over to a tragic-looking bit of crumbling wall to retrieve a large, lumpy, utterly untrustworthy-looking piece of concrete.
One that he now dropped into her arms.
Annabell’s knees promptly issued a formal complaint, and a loud wheeze escaped her lips.
“Hold firm,” he instructed, and before she could finish thinking the phrase what the actual–, she received a firm, no-nonsense shove between the shoulder blades and stumbled forward.
Straight into the puddle.
The puddle located where this world’s former Core had once hovered.
The one she’d been idly prodding with the toe of her boot moments earlier, out of that ancient human compulsion to poke shiny things that might be portals. It had a perfect mirror surface, the kind that practically begged to be disturbed. And disturb it she had.
For a puddle, it didn’t seem particularly magnanimous about the fact.
Now, her foot went in. Boot and sock disappearing with a betrayed squelch. Then the ankle, knee, hip—and that was about when her brain, working three beats behind due to lack of snacks and a surplus of weirdness, realized something was terribly wrong.
Puddles weren’t supposed to gulp.
The water, ice-cold, was actively pulling at her.
She barely managed a deep breath before the rest of her vanished beneath the surface, the chunk of concrete still earnestly clutched to her chest.
There was no bottom.
At least, not one that belonged to the world Annabell Smith had just left behind.
***
A stream of scream-filled bubbles trailed past her face, each one wobbling upwards through the watery darkness. If you’d been able to catch and pop one, it would most likely have released a long, drawn-out “AAaaaAAHhhhhh!”, possibly in a minor key.
At some point, it could have been argued that it was in Annabell’s best interest to let go of the chunk of concrete currently dragging her down. But Annabell Smith, over the past day or so, had learned the sacred art of never letting go of something once it’s in your arms.
Especially if it was heavy, possibly magical, and definitely not hers.
Besides, with her goggles hurriedly toggled to High-Velocity Mode, the view passing her by was... distracting to say the least.
Around her, in the cold, pressurized gloom that was one of the Underfold’s million unregistered entrances that’d flickered into existence, reality spun in directions that didn’t strictly exist. Lights flickered in uncertain colours. Shapes drifted by. Ghostly figures shimmered just long enough to make you question whether they’d really been there.
And then—just as her brain caught up with her eyes, and her eyes caught up with the realization that several of those misty figures, sized like cities or a mere speckle of dust in her periphery, were watching her—up became down in the same casual way a lift changes floors.
Her scream, previously muffled by several gallons of wet confusion, finally found its full volume.
“AAaaaAAHhhhhh!”
She exploded from the ocean feet-first like a champagne cork of raw panic, trailing water, foam, and the uncanny sense that somewhere, something had stamped her dimensional visa Approved.
For a brief moment, Annabell was airborne. Arms flailing, legs kicking, and her trusty lump of reality-warped concrete finally parting ways with her. For an even briefer instance, she hovered there, silhouetted against a vast midnight sea, flat and glassy as a conman's smile.
Blood-red moonlight scattered in sullen patches across the surface where dense fog swirled. And somewhere far off, the sorrowful toll of a bell could be heard.
Then gravity remembered its job.
Headfirst and mouth agape, Annabell plunged back into the ocean. She managed to inhale approximately three helpings of salty water before her sense of direction chose to return.
Coughing and hacking, she erupted from the water again, this time headfirst and not nearly with the same velocity, looking less like a majestic sea creature and more like a drowned cat.
The sea, for its part, was doing its level best to introduce itself to her lungs.
Those distant bells no longer rang, leaving only her own wheezing breaths, splashing arms, a chill wind, and the uncanny feeling of being observed in their wake. Somewhere above her—unseen, unread, but hovering with a cold inevitability—glowed an ominous message in flickering, baroque type:
First Layer,
Scenario #17cE14-9x:
《Welcome, Delver》
The Threshold has been crossed. Your descent is acknowledged.
Sanctioned Access Granted: The Veil of Ashenmoor.
This domain is unstable. Logic may not apply. Hope will be tested.
Tutorial Mode: DISABLED
Path Alignment: UNKNOWN
Initial Conditions:
- Status: Drenched
- Condition: Hypothermic Onset
- Cognitive Stability: 92% (Monitoring initiated.)
- Soul-State: Flickering
You carry no blessings. You are not watched by any known Patron.
Proceed with caution. The mist remembers.