The sun was setting as Fred and Joan arrived at the ruined farmhouse and a chilly breeze swept across the hillside. Fred shivered in his threadbare shirt and ratty trousers. He glanced over at Joan, wondering if she was alright since she was still striding about in just her bra and knickers, but she didn't seem to be bothered by the cold so he didn't mention it. The twilight cast an eerie light over the tumbled stones, and Fred peered into the dark interior with some trepidation. Some of the walls were still standing and the shadows were deep and impossible to penetrate. The windows had lost their glass and stared void-like into the gathering gloom.

"If anywhere was a spiders’ daycare," he said, "this would be it."

"Yeah, but better than sleeping completely unprotected. We just need something to make a light...let's see if we can find some kindling."

"Oh, I've seen people do this on the telly!"

"The telly?"

"Nevermind," said Fred, hunting about for sticks. "It's a recent invention."

"Oh?"

"Pictures you can look at that tell a story."

"Like shadow puppets?"

"A little, I guess." Fred straightened. "I can't find anything that isn't a bit damp."

Joan cocked her head to one side.

"Damnit," she said. "I hate not being able to talk to plants. I can almost hear them. But right now it's like listening to someone talk in another room from under a thick pile of blankets. I'm hoping when I level up I'll get plant speech as a bonus. Oh, there's a pine tree behind the house. He might be able to help us."

There followed a short montage where Fred and Joan collected various bits of plant matter and Fred watched with wide eyes as Joan vigorously rubbed sticks together while she talked about the pros and cons of different types of wood. It's not that interesting, and the narrator is getting bored so we'll skip ahead to the bit where they explore the ruined farmhouse. Oh, and Joan got a skill point.

[Joan of Snark +1 Firemaking]

Newly created torches held high, they explored the ruin, finding nothing more sinister than a nest of dormice and a few, normal sized cobwebs. Together, they heaped wood into a pile in the centre of the tumbled down remains and soon had a roaring fire going. The flames did much to warm Fred, inside and out, and the light they provided lit the far corners of the old house casting the rooms in a golden glow. The whole scene appeared almost cheery. While large parts of the farmhouse were open to the elements, here and there protected corners had been left relatively dry. These included a few odds and ends of furniture, some bookcases, and barrels and one beaten up old dresser.

"Maybe we will find something to eat," said Joan, looking around. "I'd forgotten how annoying it is not to have roots. Or the ability to photosynthesize."

"I think that all the time," agreed Fred, casting his eye on the dresser. "Not having roots. This place looks like it has been abandoned for a long time." He opened a drawer carefully, ladle held high in case a spider exploded out of it. It was empty, save for a single, fresh red apple. He picked it up and held it out to Joan accusingly.

"Why on earth would there be a fresh apple here?" he said. "Do you think someone is using this place as a base?"

"Nah," said Joan. "It's fine. The dungeon likes to leave us presents, and clues sometimes, as long as we can be bothered to look. See if you can find anything else. One apple won't go far, I am rather hungry."

"Right," said Fred, "both of us together, one each end and steady as we...hang on! Why would the dungeon leave us anything?"

Joan shrugged.

"I'm not complaining, mind," said Fred. "Very thoughtful." He raised his voice, "and if the dungeon would like to leave us a couple of bacon sandwiches or a nice salad, that would be very nice too!"

He waited hopefully for a few seconds and then pulled open a drawer with a flourish. A couple of beetles scuttled out. There was nothing inside it but a few splinters and some dust.

"That's not how it works," said Joan, with a grin.

She turned to the far corner and began picking her way through a section of barrels, removing the lids carefully and feeling around inside with a look of concentration on her face. In short order she located a pair of old boots, and a holey blanket. The boots looked sturdy enough, although they were scuffed and worn. She popped them on her feet with a grimace and laid the blanket next to the fire to air.

"I hate wearing shoes," she said mournfully.

"So don't wear them?"

"Makes me harder to kill," said Joan. She checked her stats. "By one whole hit point, yaaaay."

Together they continued their inspection of the ruin and discovered a carrot, three potatoes and a couple of eggs.

"Great!" said Joan. "Now we just need something to cook them in."

They turned the place upside down but no cooking implements were forthcoming.

"What a pity," said Fred, looking at the food, his stomach growling. "I was really hoping we'd at least find a kettle. I would kill for a cup of tea right about now.”

Joan's eyes wandered up his face and settled on his bucket.

"No!" said Fred, aghast, clutching the bucket with one hand. Then he thought about it. "Well, why not," he said. "Although, I should probably give it a rinse first. I might have sweated more than is gentlemanly. Those spiders.” He shuddered.

"I've cooked on stranger things," said Joan. "Needs must. And we should read the books before trying to cook anything."

"How hard can it be?" said Fred. "To cook eggs on a bucket. Hmmm...although, I must confess I've never been much for camping. I prefer ovens, as a rule. And kitchens. With electricity."

"Electricity?"

"Another of those modern things," he said. "But what will happen if we just try cooking?"

"Maybe nothing," she said. "But it's more likely we will drop the eggs, or burn the potatoes and they will probably taste revolting. I mean, those mushrooms we had earlier, they were pretty good–"

"You say that because you used to be a tree."

"But that's as good as it's going to get without a cooking skill point."

“Fine,” he said. “I bow to your superior judgement and experience.”

Joan rolled her eyes and Fred fed a few logs to the fire before parking himself in front of the bookcase. A few of the books were soggy, sorrowful things, the paper mushy and the writing illegible. However several volumes had survived the elements and he looked at the various colours and textures of their spines with some curiosity. .

"So... we just read them?"

"Yes," Joan was already pulling a book towards her. "Don't worry about the history books or the fiction ones. I mean, they are fine as entertainment. Occasionally there will be some hidden benefit but only bother if you have time, let's focus on the practical for now. At least until our stomachs are fed and we have the basics covered."

Fred examined the books before him. He had a choice of three. The first one he opened was entitled "World of Cheese", with a bright, daisy-yellow cover.

"Oh this looks promising," he murmured as he opened it, eyes wide and eager to learn about the joys of cheddar and hopefully gain a cooking skill point. Printed in a cheerful round hand was the following:

World of Cheese, A Recipe for Disaster:

One Man's Tale of Dating and Devastation

by Upton O.Goode

("Uh-oh," said Fred.)

"I like my dates like I like my cheese! Smelly!" at least that's what I told myself as I headed to the club in my best gear and sneakers. The first dame I approached was a real looker, and she seemed to like me back.

"Did you just fart? Because you blow me away!"

For some reason, this did not seem to impress her. She walked away. Perplexed, I went over to the bar and ordered a drink, pondering my next move. Two beautiful dolls made their way over and I had my next line at the ready!

"Your breasts remind me of Mount Rushmore — my face should be among them."

The prettiest girl let out an audible groan so I knew she was dazzled. I pressed my advantage. "Kiss me if I'm wrong. But dinosaurs still exist, right? Want a raisin? No? Well, how about a date?

[The Fredinator -1 Charisma]

Fred slammed the book shut.

"What that seems... unfair," he said, shoving the obnoxious volume back onto the shelf. On second thoughts he picked it up again and wedged it down the back, then he stuffed some old rags on top for good measure.

"Oh no," said Joan, from the other side of the room, lifting her head at the sound that had echoed around the room. Unlike the ding of point accumulation this had all the musicality of a squashed lettuce.

"What happened?"

"Whatever you do," said Fred, "don't read "World of Cheese". Have you had any luck?" Joan tossed her book to one side and stared at him, a blush staining her cheeks.

"Oh my god, what?"

"I said have you had any luck?"

"Oh, I thought you said something else. No, not yet. Just dry old history stuff. And I'm having to remember how to read as I go. It's been a few centuries and I was never that good at it to start with."

"Right, right."

Fred turned back to the bookshelf, and with some trepidation picked up a thick scarlet tome. "The Great Game of 1263," read the title. "A History in Three Hundred Parts. Volume 96."

"Wow," said Fred, hefting it slightly. He opened it with a thump and a few motes of dust wafted into the air.

Great Game of 1263: A History in Three Hundred Parts

Volume 96

Bereft and grieving the loss of their friend, the remaining players approach the boss of the Third Dungeon, a magnificent three headed dog with a serpent for a tail. A profusion of snakes protrudes from all over its body in a fashion most menacing and irregular. It roars! Dante and Francesca charge in with swords held high, while Homer and Virgil pepper the monster with arrows from behind. Alas. Their plan is doomed to failure. The beast will not be slain and Homer is injured most grievously. He lies on the rock, his life blood spilling forth and it appears all will be lost.

But nae! Cleopatra, who had been waiting in the shadows emerges with a large chocolate cake, the kind with the really good icing. She offers it up to the three headed dog who is pleased.

The party passes beneath the Gate unharmed.

"How incredibly bizarre," muttered Fred to himself. “Now I’m really hungry.”

He flipped forwards a few pages but it just seemed to be more of the same – detailed descriptions of a dungeon crawl featuring figures he dimly recalled from Greek and Roman history. There were several descriptions of the characters stopping to eat but nothing that looked like it would be worthy of a skill point. Disappointed he returned the weighty book to the shelf.

He picked up the last volume, a slim brown book embossed in faded gold and titled The Surprising and Erotic Adventures of Sir Rigby Dickens. Fred’s eyebrows rose and he flicked open the thick vellum pages and glanced down. It was written in a flowing cursive hand, the ink a dark, satisfying sepia. Here and there it was blotted, as if the author had gotten a little too excited and mopped the page with a hanky.

The Surprising and Erotic Adventures of Sir Rigby Dickens

Volume 1: In Which Sir Rigby Learns the Value of a Polished Codpiece

On his way to slay the mighty serpent of Erinsford, the great knight Sir Rigby Dickens was caught in a summer storm. Forced to seek shelter lest he become a knight kebab, Sir Rigby rapped on the door of a lonely farmhouse, praying that the occupants would grant him succour.

The door was opened by a comely young milkmaid who was rosy of cheek, and a penchant for bakery. The maid was kindly disposed towards the travelling adventurer and bid him entry. Once inside she offered our hero a robe and the pick of her home-baked buns. Sir Rigby gratefully accepted and set his armour aside to dry.

Molly the Milkmaid: Please, help yourself to whatever you want. It's not often I have such charming guests.

Sir Rigby Dickens: I do enjoy a pair of steaming hot buns, especially on such a wet day.

Molly the Milkmaid: Such big muscles! I suppose you need them to lift that massive piece of weaponry?

Sir Rigby Dickens: Indeed.

Molly the Milkmaid: The size of your sword is very impressive. But surely you have not just come to eat my buns?

Sir Rigby Dickens: I have no idea what you are trying to imply? I am just a poor knight, wandering the countryside in search of adventure!"

Molly the Milkmaid: And such a great knight you are. Your armour is so shiny! So hard. But that sword! Good lord, sir knight! So filthy. When was the last time you polished it? Here, let me help you.

Sir Rigby Dickens: I had no idea the gentlefolk of this shire were so hospitable.

Molly the Milkmaid: It is a very large sword.

Enter Henry the handsome stable- hand, who had been working the yard outside.

Henry the Stable-hand: Oh my!

Molly the Milkmaid: My swain! Make yourself useful and hold Sir Rigby's staff.

Fred slammed the book shut.

"Not a skill book," he said, firmly and slid it back onto the shelf next to A History in Three Hundred Parts.

"Are you sure?" asked Joan.

"Yes," said Fred. He paused, then reached out and picked up the book one more time, staring thoughtfully at the plain brown cover. He slid it into his satchel and patted the cover closed. "On second thoughts, I had better make sure. I'll finish reading it later."

"Good idea, sometimes you really need to read them through to the end to get the skill point. Oh, I think I've got it!" Joan brandished her book at him, a green-covered book labelled in large bold letters Cooking Basics.

[Joan of Snark +1 Cooking ]

"Oh thank goodness," said Fred, "I'm starving. Although why you didn't start with that one I will never know."

Joan soon had the eggs sizzling on the hot surface of Fred's bucket, and the potatoes cooking in their jackets in the embers. As they sat side by side, nibbling the carrots and watching the flames rise and fall, Fred decided things weren't all that bad, even if he hadn't had any tea.