Note:
Design a dungeon with narrative around it.
Base dungeon on memory?
Grace
My pulse was racing, walking up those stone steps towards the old Venetian restaurant she had agreed to meet me at. I gazed about myself; I looked at the vines wandering around the high walls of some old Italian house with the sound of a laughing family faintly drifting over top. I looked at the stars in the sky, staring down upon the earth as gentle observers, solemnly guarding the secrets of the night. As I continued walking, I thought of what had led me to this moment, applying for and getting a job in marketing, getting stuck in that elevator with my boss for an hour where I had convinced him to let me have a meeting with one of our top clients; the promotion that had followed that success and the location transfer to Italy that came with it. Walking down that side street in Venice which my brother had assured me was the wrong way to go (I went anyway), and then finally immediately getting lost by myself where I had met Grace, the most perfect and beautiful person in the world.
Together we were lost in those dank, winding side streets of Venice where for hours we spoke of nothing in particular, our conversation jumping from one topic to the next, although we did not agree on much it was still one of the best conversations I had ever had. Eventually we stumbled onto a street we could both get home from. She was turning around to walk off, I panicked. I knew we would never see each other again. We would never have that conversation again. We would never even think of each other again. I took a chance...
She agreed to meet me the following day at a Venetian restaurant, up some old stone steps. That was thirty years ago. I topped the last of the stone steps at last, dragging myself out of those memories, I requested a table for two from the waiter who looked at my now withering and sun aged face in pity before leading me to a table where I ordered Grace’s favorite wine, Valpolicella 1994, and took a sip as I bathed in the now old memory, of my wife.
The Storm at Sea
For months it has been just the two of us. Me and my dog, my dog and me. Sailing aboard our boat, the ‘Victoria Punk’, a crafty little sailing boat with a saloon, cooking area and a captain's cabin that we tuck ourselves into every night or to wait out the latest storm going through. Today we had just left the Cook Islands in the South Atlantic, we wouldn’t see land for a full three days. Most people would be terrified at this prospect. The idea that for three days there would be no people, no infrastructure and naught but sea for hundreds of miles around; and it is scary sometimes. to know that if something bad did happen and I couldn’t solve it, that it could potentially be weeks before someone noticed I was gone. But. If you look a little closer, you can see the true wonders of this beautiful lady we call the sea. Her majesty is beyond compare. From the crystal skies of the day with a cool sea breeze that takes your troubles and worries far away. To dusk, where you can watch as the Sun is greeted by the horizon. To watch it melt into a beautiful kaleidoscope of oranges and purples swirling together in a way that reminds you of those happy memories of simple times. Even the night has its own way of robbing you of your senses as it bombards you with a sky of infinite stars, tracing patterns and pictures that no artist or poet could ever hope to recreate.
On the second day of this crossing, shit hit the fan so to speak. When you go on a crossing like this you take a look at the predicted weather report to decide when best to go, but sometimes the report is wrong, what was meant to be a sunny crossing with a strong southerly wind turned into a storm. The wind was blowing at 30 knots which meant I had to take down the sail all together and stow my dog below deck, much to his whimpering and barking dismay. It had also started to rain quite hard so I equipped myself with wet weather gear and prepared to brave the storm which could only have been the result of demonic intervention. Despite the sails being down the boat was rocking back and forth, battered by the waves and beaten down by the rain, clipped myself to the railing to ensure I wouldn’t fall off, I took the helm and started threading ‘Victoria’ through the waves, rising and plummeting as the sea threw us around as if we were nothing more than a leaf caught in the maw hurricane. The storm never let up, no end in sight and not a shred of blue in the sky to suggest anything but the storm existed. For three hours I darted around the boat, praying not to fall off while I secured ropes and tied down hatches only to have to retie them as the storm shook them loose “THUNK”. I heard a sound, I wanted badly to ignore it, I wanted so badly to believe I hadn't heard it, to believe it never happened, but the sailor in me knew it was bad. I went to the cabin entrance and looked down in horror, the bilge had been cracked, forming a ravine in the centre of the lower deck. And ‘Victoria’ was taking on water. Fortunately, my dog was still okay, having taken to lying under the table as the boat got tossed about. Without thinking I took the radio and signaled to any boat or frequency that was listening “MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY” I screamed into the radio, hoping to God that someone was listening. As I screamed the rest of the SOS, I started ushering my dog into his life jacket and onto the deck as I grabbed the life raft, a few personal belongings and prepared to abandon ship. At this point the saloon was half underwater and I knew I was about to lose my home of four years. I tied the life raft to ‘Victoria’ and threw it into the sea so it could inflate, and we could leave. It blew up with a loud flump and I practically threw my dog in and leapt in after him. I untied the raft and watched in horror as my home sank beneath the waves, claimed by the sea and swallowed whole. There was nothing left, no evidence that there had ever been a boat there in the first place, just me, my dog and our measly possessions that were grabbed our rush to get out. The life raft fortunately had a roof and a zip door so we could hide from the worst of the storm, but ultimately, we were now at the whim of mother nature, no control as to whether we lived or died. For a day we floated around, cuddled up close to share heat and comfort, my dog placed his head on my chest and his paws on my legs as we lay there in silence. The storm did die down eventually, and the sea flattened out.
“I don't know if we will ever see land again, all I know is that I should not have underestimated how dangerous the sea is, and how small I am”