Sword and Shield
A kilometre of forest, and twelve levels under it.
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A kilometre of forest, and twelve levels under it.
You wake on an island a kilometre across, in forest, at the top of a broken stair. The stair goes down. What is down there is worth carrying out, and you are one person with one torch.
A torch burns for an hour and you are carrying five. Light is the only thing keeping the level readable, and every minute spent on a corridor is a minute of it. The stair back up is behind you the whole way.
Twelve of them, drawn fresh from the dice: passages, chambers, doors, dead ends, pits, and stairs going further down. Most rooms hold nothing at all. That is what makes the rest of them land.
Six abilities on four dice, drop the lowest, and whatever they come to is who you are for this run. A dwarf, an elf, a half-orc. A fighter, a thief, a cleric who can send the dead back out of a room. Armour class counts down. A wight takes a level off you when it lands a blow, and there is no saving throw against that.
Forest, ridges, a shore, and ruins standing in it. Nothing is stored on disk: the ground is a function, so the coast is different noise every time the seed changes and the same coast every time it does not.