Hall of Infinite Doors
It would be suicide to just go walking off into the undergrowth with the sun setting fast, no supplies and no idea of where you're headed. As unappealing as the idea of spending the night out here is, it's really the only option you have.
As you're casting about for fallen limbs, vines, or anything else you can use, something catches your eye. Looking closer, you see a crude clay jug and a long, machete-like blade lying half concealed beneath a patch of thorns.
The jug proves to be about half full of water, most of which you immediately gulp down with immense relief to sooth your dry and scratchy throat. The machete is somewhat curious, made of a light, strong, gleaming metal, but with the blade itself set in a hand-carved hilt and as crudely formed as the jug had been, with an uneven edge and hammer marks clearly visible.
Still, it's a comfort to have, and you set about your work with a renewed sense of purpose, wedging long, straight branches between the thickest, lowest limbs of a nearby tree to form a platform a short distance off the ground, and tying them in place with vines before adding a lean-to roof in the same manner.
What you wind up with is not pretty and not even remotely comfortable, but as you settle in for a sleepless night with the machete across your lap, you at least feel relatively safe, even as darkness falls and the howls and shrieks of countless unnamed wild animals begin in the distance.
When the first rays of dawn finally peek into your shelter, you try and decide what to do.
As you're casting about for fallen limbs, vines, or anything else you can use, something catches your eye. Looking closer, you see a crude clay jug and a long, machete-like blade lying half concealed beneath a patch of thorns.
The jug proves to be about half full of water, most of which you immediately gulp down with immense relief to sooth your dry and scratchy throat. The machete is somewhat curious, made of a light, strong, gleaming metal, but with the blade itself set in a hand-carved hilt and as crudely formed as the jug had been, with an uneven edge and hammer marks clearly visible.
Still, it's a comfort to have, and you set about your work with a renewed sense of purpose, wedging long, straight branches between the thickest, lowest limbs of a nearby tree to form a platform a short distance off the ground, and tying them in place with vines before adding a lean-to roof in the same manner.
What you wind up with is not pretty and not even remotely comfortable, but as you settle in for a sleepless night with the machete across your lap, you at least feel relatively safe, even as darkness falls and the howls and shrieks of countless unnamed wild animals begin in the distance.
When the first rays of dawn finally peek into your shelter, you try and decide what to do.