The dressing is Inscriptions, the enemy is Defiled- And the reward is Grabbing.

In the first room of the thirty day dungeon, Murkstav and his band of tricksters encountered the library of Esh- Cabal, its fantastic shelves filled with inscriptions of former power. Before the leader could fling the torch among the spoiled scroll, Isaz, the defiled carrier of knowledge appeared in a vortex eternal and ethereal in his madness. It was there that Murkstav decided to pull another one of his motions from his pockets.

Nature-Ruler-Sage

The druid acted first, bursting a wall of thorns from her fingertips. A Ruler of nature battling against something utterly man made- collected language and symbols. At the same moment Murkstav flung his flammables, a bottled concoction that touched a thorn and vibrated the room with an explosion which blasted the gut and slammed ear-drums.

The Defiled, locked away, forever to guard the hidden scrolls and tomes of the Empires greatest sages; countered with a revolution of books and papers slamming into the thorns and companions. In a whirl of counteraction fit for flasks of alchemy.

Myth-Sage-Shelter

The wizard dragged his staff and beard to herald a dome about the companions. Murkstav rushed, sliding into a shelf of books on botany, ancients scents of long forgotten flora blooming about his head. Injured, if not humbled he grabbed the nearest shield and vaulted toward the Defiled thing in a fury which the others could not catch. A mad dash toward the enemy, without sword and without a thing to behold. In essence all he wanted was to get to the next room. Grabbing the fire onto the skin of the shield and crashing heavy and burning toward the enemy. It rattled and kicked, burning like the great section of the library had done so. Fire the ultimate enemy of paper, Murkstav watched as the thing burned, its flames licking about the mercenary's armor until they died to a precious few.

"The shield," Murk said flinging it to his door-opener, the dwarf. "Its flammable, a good weapon."

• I've got it again,
  that feeling in my mind of crawling through subterranean promises of treasure.
• In the mood for the wondrous of snaking mazes and corners lit by torches. Just beyond the mist, minotaurs dwell around the corner.
• Their axes glistening in the hanging fire.
• Craving the graph paper with the unstoppable fog of war, never knowing what dwellings beyond that uninviting door.

It is a need that goes back so far, far into the unknown basement days of the 80's. Sitting for twelve hours rolling saves, eating pizza and drinking caffeinated stuffs that allow us to move through the corridors and chambers. There, beyond the torches and tombs, a lone god awaits for the heroes to arrive at the boss battle. Our lives held on a string at the end of a 20-sided die.

To die at the hand of dice, its what I crave. To be rogue-like with others, writing with others of my kin. With read packs of supplies and riches, going forth to plunder and loot. The master's tables declaring what we find, a list of fabulous adjectives linked to numbered faces.

To Crawl in a dungeon, to meander ad explore a place where treasure awaits. Surely in this world of so much, tis nothing to ask. For it all starts in a tavern, a space of words and kin. I seek others with the same under-realm need. A critical hit for those of like-mind, calling for a company of heroic sheets and stats.

A fire to light the way, a torch to bear against darkness, a chance to fight in an arena of imagination.