Disclaimer: The disc and all its environs belong to Terry Pratchett and that's cool by me.
It was dark. Really eye-bendingly dark. Which was a blessing really, considering the unpleasantness of the visible landscape.
Not that Rincewind had much time to enjoy the view.
The occupants of the dungeon dimensions were strange, sad twisted creatures, products of the imaginations of absinthe soaked nutters, shut in their room too long and with an unhealthy attachment to their mothers. They were twisted, tentacled, clawed, some had their insides on the outside, others had three heads or were gigantic, pulsating eyeballs trailing, for some reason, bits of multi-coloured string.
All of them lived a terrible half-existence, all of them craved only to find the warmth of reality and rip a whacking great hole in it.
The sprinting wizard reeked of the reality of the world from which he came and therefore was a magnet for every toothy, oozing thing which he passed.
They lunged and slithered and hissed as he desperately swerved, ducked and once, crashed right through their sticky embrace. This last creature he reflexively apologised to as he frantically ripped what appeared to be its stomach off his face and robes.
The thing was he felt sorry for them. He was desperately terrified and horrified by them as well of course, but still he could see their point of view.
They had no proper existence. They were miserable failed creatures clutching at any chance for hope. It wasn't a million miles away from his own situation.
He was a wizard, that was one of the few things he was sure of, but a wizard cruelly unable to do magic. He had blamed the spell, and other things in the past but in his heart he knew the truth. He just had no talent for it. He was an eagle who couldn't soar, a penguin that couldn't swim.
And, being dragged around the disc and through hideous perils, travails and Twoflower, he had got used to the idea of being the universe's favourite practical joke.
He ran steadily and almost without wincing over something or others putrefying organs, a spiked tentacle just a whisker away from ripping distance.
He'd given up asking Why me? Why not him if anyone?
In any case, at the moment he was just too scared, knackered, scratched and preoccupied with fleeing to rebel. It would be a lot easier to just stop, he thought. Sooner or later they'll catch up with you, the dungeon dimensions are endless. There seemed little chance of there being a café or a nice little three star hotel to catch his breath in. There was no hope of escape.
An octopus thing leapt with flailing suckers and a mind wrenching screech. He ducked most of it and kept running.
Death was inevitable. Why keep going, through the pain and the fear and the horrible, horrible décor?
Death was inevitable but it wasn't inevitable yet.
Determined and screaming, Rincewind kept going, never stopping, never giving up.
He could be a stubborn idiot, sometimes.