Work Text:
This document was found late into an expedition of the Pit of 100 Trials, near the Thousand-Year Door below Rogueport. The letter, penned on a dried Frost Piranha leaf, was pinned below a wall-mounted sign with the inscription “Level 77”. Preserved in its original condition, likely from the time of the Legend of the Thousand-Year Door, before the fall of the Palace of Shadow. Author and date unknown: no name is given to match up with the few existing records of the time. Enclosed with the letter is a Dried ‘Shroom: whether it was intentionally included by the author or added by other means is unknown. The situation illustrated in this account lines up with oral traditions passed on through Rogueport today, giving significant credence to the word of mouth which comprises most of what little we know about this Dark Age (no pun intended). However, the "trophy collection" purported by the account was nowhere to be found during the rest of the expedition, and no other traces were left by the author. What an exciting find! Here's to hoping that there's more out there!
- ~ ~ Signed, Goombella
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To anyone who, as I do, exhibits the volatile compound of bad fortune and the wonderful will to live, I address this letter.
My purpose for writing is to encourage, and to make it known that I do not resent where I am now, nor should you. The choice between being thrown into this deep hole (which I will call, refusing to preserve its accursed name in writing, the Pit) and bending the knee to the Queen was no decision to me at all. I would rather fight in the dark than feel the light of day cast shame on my cowardice. To whom this letter reaches (I am certain that it will find you) I hope that you take heart in solidarity with my writings.
For whatever reason you may be here, I commend you: even if you might be a criminal or a murderer or even the most immoral of the surface peoples, your being here is enough. I was cast down among a multitude who are more righteous than I am, and just as many who I would have scorned in a different walk of life: yet I count them all who have fought as brothers, and so it is with you. Take heart! To lay down and be eaten is their purpose for the Pit: there are more than enough tepid souls who have not ventured past the first chamber, unwittingly executing themselves. What a shameful thing! The animals kept in this rotting, bloody labyrinth are the same from top to bottom: worthless creatures that deserve no honor as our killers. Fight for your life, even against hope: every drooling, snarling fool that you have put to death is another mark in Her pride: do not lose heart and regard it a petty matter! Was the foundation of Her reign not pride to begin with? Even if, in your next encounter, you are mauled by a steel dog, bloodsucked by a bat, or scalded by a green inferno, I admonish you to take this letter and do your worst to Her kingdom.
I will also dispel some mythology around the Pit. Myths and legends are at the heart of fear in the world above: people, confused and deceived, believe exotic stories that fuel their panicked “confessions” staring down the darkness of the pipe. Chief among these false ideas is that the Pit is a form of execution: this is plainly untrue. What form of execution may be survived if only you are determined enough? What form of execution would allow for me to encourage another, in writing, to survive amidst the process? Surely the Pit is not an execution ground at all: it is merely one of Her many tortures. Pain and humiliation abound, but for all there is, death is not necessary. That is what separates torture from execution.
Secondly, concerning the nature of the Pit itself: I have heard wild assertions that the monsters inhabiting it are, in fact, fellow victims. I can tell you this is not so! There are members of sapient races here-- in fact, they are a majority-- but they are dark-hearted, merciless and animalistic. I have seen the hollowed remains that Piders tend to; I have seen skewered bodies impaled by armored Koopas; there has not been a single moment of hesitation, as I encounter them floor by floor, for the animals to lunge upon my throat. Therefore, no one should be afraid to enter for the sake of their conscience: I have looked into their eyes time and time again and, as one who knew and loved their brothers and sisters above, I may say with certainty that there is no destination but the Underwhere for every enemy in the Pit.
Thirdly: the Pit is not endless, despite what is spoken of by its creators. I have not seen the bottom, yet I know it exists. I have sensed vague tremors in the stone walls becoming more intense and fearful as I fight my way towards their source: even now, I hear snarling and rage beneath me. We can know with confidence that the bottom is near, drawn from the simple fact of Her hubris. Nothing is more in line with Her character than to save the worst for the last, when the end is near enough to taste: her favorite beasts must never be touched by a man at full strength lest he strike it down. If I cannot persevere and destroy it, I will scar it: what more can be asked of us, a hundred fathoms underground, than that?
Now I must conclude: ink is lacking, though there is no want for paper with the various skins that the beasts leave behind. This particular letter is engraved on the leaf of a savage ice-breathing plant which I have taken for my own use. Do not neglect to keep trophies: I have amassed a collection. A borrowed shell, the spiked helmet of an armored fellow, and a Craw’s spear which is a delight to plunge back into Her demons. I urge you to pass a message forward and write to your successors as I have, so that others will continue to be encouraged just as we are. Every scratch, scar and wound is another piece taken from Her crown.