Dungeon Life
This sucks. I lost track of how long I’ve been in this cell. The manacles around my wrists and ankles weigh me down and have cut and scarred my flesh. At this point, my posture is positively simian. My hair has grown down past my stomach and turned a sooty white. The cobbled floor is cold and the rags I wear that once were clothes do little to protect me from the elements. The chains are covered with dust. One day, I will be too.
Don’t get many visitors down here, being a dungeon and all. I once befriended a worm I named Earl. For a while, they tortured me. I could tell you all about the omnibibulous bastard I once called a brother. Suffice to say, he betrayed me, and now lives in a hole I dug.
Sorry about the smell. There have been others here before you, of course. I remember hearing the ghastly moans of a man who had gangrene slowly ride up his leg until it consumed him. Maggots emerged from his toes. There’s nothing quite like the stench of rotting flesh. It’s a stain that never really goes away. These floors have drank their fill of blood spilled over the ages. These walls have listened to the screams and confessions and stark mad ramblings of its residents.
As for me, I no longer remember the taste of the sun and how it once caressed my face. Torch light speaks in whispers and riddles and announces the arrival of food. I’ll just go ahead and say it: it’s not…
