Roscoe the Flannel, the 12th level wizard, stood with his party on the third level of the dungeons of the mad lich Krendlezeit. The party consisted of Nanoc the barbarian warrior from the Hellblasted Hills, Sister Chastity the cleric, and Scroat the rogue. The first two levels had been troublesome with Scroat having to use his considerable skills to disarm many a deadly trap and Nanoc nearly entering his special bersarker rage twice when the opponents had come just a little too thickly for tactical comfort. Sister Chastity had used many a prayer to her patron goddess, Treetits Mossbush, to save Nanoc's life and now they were, exhausted but undaunted, staring at yet another locked door inside the third level, moving ever downward.
"I've got this, chums," declared Scroat. He pulled out his magical thieve's tools and began to work on the lock.
Nanoc had little patience for the finer points of dungeon delving, preferring instead the smell of blood, the sounds of battle, or the froth of ale served by full-breasted and pliable wenches. Sister Chastity flipped her cloak back to catch a cooling draft, exposing the metal plate cups of her brassiere, the sacred navel ring glinting as her bare midriff caught the light of the torch she held.
There was a loud click.
"I got it!" Scroat yelled.
Without warning a dozen Ogre-kin warriors appeared from the darkness.
"Battle!" Nanoc bellowed as he rushed headlong toward the enemy, foam flecking his manly lips.
I hate my fucking life, Roscoe thought.