Shadowgate
"A little fun, fun, fun!"
The Sphinx exclaims with a tone like wine. You usher a breath of relief; proceeding to swivel uncertainly around the sand-drenched room. The Sphinx is gone. In the silence you reclaim your senses, treading lightly along the pulsating sand to the glimmering stairwell.
You slide your hand along the rail, torch in firm grasp as you climb the thin steps upward. Sand conjures and falls through the grating with every motion you propose. Soon the glittering pool below fades into unkempt darkness as you are greeted by a new vision of a quaint, wooden trapdoor in the ceiling. The stairs abruptly stop as suddenly as they would have begun, suggesting this is indeed your only passage.
Bending to refrain from smashing your head, you push the trapdoor up and cringe from the cloud of dust smothering your face. Resuming after a small coughing fit, you thrust the torch upwards into the square hole. You observe nothing but a ceiling from this angle, comprised of brick. Reassuring yourself, you gently stash the torch through the opening. As the room you're in plummets into a spectacle of infinite blackness, you quickly haul yourself up through the square hole.
Rolling onto your side, you recollect you are in a very small closet sized room with three large rectangular mirrors. They are beautifully decorated with vines and leaves encompassing the borders. The room, however, is made entirely of rustic brick. You choke from the dust and aimlessly wonder the impossibility of how these attractive reflections could stay so clean.
Reaching for your torch, you spot a hammer in the back left corner of the room. Gathering the miniature mace in your palm, you hold it steady between your fingers. A weapon at last; with little options, you observe the mirrors, running your fingers along the glass. As you stare deeply into yourself, you conclude you have only three options.
The Sphinx exclaims with a tone like wine. You usher a breath of relief; proceeding to swivel uncertainly around the sand-drenched room. The Sphinx is gone. In the silence you reclaim your senses, treading lightly along the pulsating sand to the glimmering stairwell.
You slide your hand along the rail, torch in firm grasp as you climb the thin steps upward. Sand conjures and falls through the grating with every motion you propose. Soon the glittering pool below fades into unkempt darkness as you are greeted by a new vision of a quaint, wooden trapdoor in the ceiling. The stairs abruptly stop as suddenly as they would have begun, suggesting this is indeed your only passage.
Bending to refrain from smashing your head, you push the trapdoor up and cringe from the cloud of dust smothering your face. Resuming after a small coughing fit, you thrust the torch upwards into the square hole. You observe nothing but a ceiling from this angle, comprised of brick. Reassuring yourself, you gently stash the torch through the opening. As the room you're in plummets into a spectacle of infinite blackness, you quickly haul yourself up through the square hole.
Rolling onto your side, you recollect you are in a very small closet sized room with three large rectangular mirrors. They are beautifully decorated with vines and leaves encompassing the borders. The room, however, is made entirely of rustic brick. You choke from the dust and aimlessly wonder the impossibility of how these attractive reflections could stay so clean.
Reaching for your torch, you spot a hammer in the back left corner of the room. Gathering the miniature mace in your palm, you hold it steady between your fingers. A weapon at last; with little options, you observe the mirrors, running your fingers along the glass. As you stare deeply into yourself, you conclude you have only three options.