The Slide of Dignity

The Cleft of Minor Inconvenience lived up to its name. It wasn't a dungeon of fire and brimstone; it was a dungeon of lukewarm puddles, slightly uneven flagstones, and a pervasive smell of mildew that made one want to take a very long shower.

Barnaby the Bag-Boy adjusted the straps of the ninety-pound rucksack digging into his shoulders. His calves burned. His socks were wet. He was fairly certain a spider had just laid eggs in his hair.

"Halt, citizen!" Sir Chadric the Golden boomed, holding up a gauntleted hand. The sound echoed off the damp walls, startling a rat that had been eating a piece of moss.

Chadric was a specimen of heroic architecture. He possessed a jawline sharp enough to cut cheese, hair that maintained a perfect blowout despite the humidity, and a cape that defied physics to billow in nonexistent winds. He was also, in Barnaby’s professional opinion, dumber than the moss the rat was eating.

"What is it, Sir Chadric?" Barnaby wheezed, leaning against the slime-slicked wall for support.

"My danger sense is tingling!" Chadric announced, striking a pose that highlighted his pectorals. He pointed his sword, *The Sun-Kissed Justice*, down the dark corridor. "Destiny awaits! Forward, Barnaby! Scout the path!"

Barnaby squinted at the floor. Even in the dim torchlight, he could see the very obvious, slightly raised pressure plate in the center of the hallway. It was marked with a crude drawing of a stick figure falling into a hole.

"Sir," Barnaby said, pointing a trembling finger. "That’s a trap. We should walk around the edge."

Chadric laughed. It was a rich, baritone sound that vibrated in Barnaby’s ribcage. "Nonsense! Traps are for thieves and cowards! A true hero walks the center path! Destiny protects the bold!"

"Destiny doesn't usually cover dental," Barnaby muttered. "Please, Sir, just step to the left."

"You hesitate? Where is your spirit, man?" Chadric sheathed his sword and grabbed Barnaby by the shoulders. "Allow me to inspire you!"

"Wait, no, I really don't think—"

Chadric didn't listen. He never listened. With a shove that would have knocked over a draft horse, he pushed Barnaby forward.

Barnaby’s boot hit the pressure plate with a definitive *click*.

The floor didn't open up. Instead, the entire hallway tilted downward at a forty-five-degree angle. It turned into a polished stone slide.

"Aha!" Chadric cried triumphantly. "A shortcut!"

"It’s a chuuuute!" Barnaby screamed as gravity took hold.

He slid backward, the heavy bag dragging him down like a turtle on its shell. Chadric, attempting to strike a surfing pose, lost his balance immediately. He flailed, his golden cape whipping around.

The cape caught Barnaby’s ankle.

"Unhand me, varlet!" Chadric roared as he was yanked off his feet.

They tumbled into the darkness—a chaotic tangle of limbs, expensive armor, and camping supplies. They bounced off walls. They spun in circles. Chadric’s heavy boot kicked Barnaby in the shin. Barnaby’s bag smacked Chadric in the face.

Finally, the slide deposited them onto a pile of moldy straw in a circular stone room.

Barnaby groaned, checking to see if his spine was still aligned. He pushed the heavy bag off his chest and sat up.

Chadric was already standing, dusting off his cape. He looked pristine, save for a single piece of straw in his hair. He pointed an accusing finger at Barnaby.

"You fell incorrectly!" Chadric barked. "Your lack of grace nearly compromised my entrance! A hero must descend with style, Barnaby. Write that down."

Barnaby reached for his quill, his shin throbbing. "Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir. Falling with style. Got it."

He didn't write it down. He just drew a small frowny face in the margin of the inventory log.