The Warren of King Rustclaw

The hill is riddled with holes like a rotten cheese, and out of every hole peer little yellow eyes. The kobolds of the Roestklauw tribe are small, cowardly, and terrifyingly inventive. Ropes strung at ankle height, pits lined with sharpened stakes, falling rocks and poisoned needles, every step into their lair could be your last, and somewhere among those tunnels, something is giggling.

The tribe has made off with a gleaming dragon egg, the greatest treasure they have ever held, and they cradle it deep in their maze as if their lives depended on it, because they do: the mother dragon will come. The kobolds are betting you will die before they do, and under the command of their cunning king they have rebuilt every passage into a lethal puzzle.

You crawl through cramped tunnels laced with taut tripwires and suspicious tiles, dismantle one ingenious trap after another, outwit the snickering kobolds with their own tricks, and follow the trail of the egg deeper into the hill. Along the way you hear a soft, steady tapping, a tiny claw against a warm shell, for the egg is about to hatch.

In the throne room waits King Roestklauw atop his pile of stolen shinies, ringed by his nastiest traps and his bravest subjects, defending his loot with a thousand mean tricks and not a shred of honor. Will you recover the dragon egg before it hatches, or before King Roestklauw has you hacked to pieces, and will you dare to decide what to do with a newborn dragon?