Session #7, as told by Inez

Session #7, as told by Inez

Dear diary,

Yesterday (was it yesterday?) was the worst day of our journey yet. As I went down twice this time, augmenting my achievements in that speciality, my prowess in the use of conjury progressed too. But all of that at a high cost, let me explain.

Last entry ended with us crashing into a chamber. As I stood up after the pratfall from the slide turned stairs, it was encouraging to notice that though I had been stuffed between the two halfling men, none of them had this time tried to take advantage of the situation. By the light of Jonathan’s shield and the green gloom of the room itself, the place presented itself as a cul-du-sac. No apparent way out: the way we came in was now too steep to travel, and only some high up and barred windows; this was not looking well. 

Finn and Jonathan started examining the room and concentrated on the lunettes, using the enchanted shield trying to peek through. Not that confident any more in the skills of the rogue to spot danger, (And, in all honesty, dear diary, also getting a bit addicted to casting spells.) I took some distance and  kneeled down to concentrate. Picking up the spellbook, it felt almost as if it hailed me with a catlike shudder; then the pages seemed to flip by themselves to the correct spot. Reciting and gesturing the power build up in me. (Like, well, like magic, dear diary!). Again my heart rate increased only to be matched, or so I must have been imagining, by the moonstone stored safely and secretly nearby in my dress. Steering the flow of the spell throughout the chamber, the right corner returned a vibe, indicating that there a passage could be hidden.

Now I knew where to push, so I conjured up an unseen servant (You may have a point diary, not only my magic skills but also my magician's arrogance are increasing, thanks for pointing this out!) and commanded the creature towards the right corner, making it push against the wall. To no avail, alas. Not even the abundant growing moss was impressed by my attempt. At my request Jonathan tried to assist, but also to no avail. Finn ignored my appeal, off course, standing back and monitoring our fruitless endeavors. And to annoy me further, he started chewing on a piece of cheese, commenting that the iron scent of the room made it taste like ‘dwarves deep cheddar’. But after some friendly words from my side, the two halflings joined the search on that side of the room. On instigation of Finn, Jonathan started ticking and knocking on the stones, while the rogue listened intensely, every now and then poking the masonry himself.Then he drew a knife and drove it into the seam between two rocks. The blade got in quite deep, but the wall did not start bleeding or moving. 

Out of ideas myself, I set my magical creature to thrust the knife as well, with no real effects. Not only I lost it in my frustrations. Finn made some strange steps backwards, then charged in at the wall, kicking it violently. My father would have said: “He attacked like a wind-up dire wolf charging a mirror, lots of noise, all teeth, but in the end just headbutting itself senseless.” Finn however said something completely different, as his foot obviously lost the duel with the wall. Dear diary, luckily I’m trained rather well, by lots of gnomish suitors,  in hiding my smile when men do stupid things to impress me.

All in all, I was getting frustrated with the situation and my companions. They were walking in and out of the magical sphere I had created, breaking my concentration. And not achieving anything in the process either. That was until Jonathan pulled the hilt of the knife! Just as I was distracted by Finn bumping into me, the priest set the wall in motion like it triggered a gnomish coil spring. And like I always was taken by surprise by the jack-in-the-boxes at home, the rotating stones achieved the same: Hitting me flat out! Dear diary, this time my collapsing was far from elegant, and the cracking of what was probably my nose bone was the last I heard.

During the time that I was down, Jonathan deployed both mundane skills, setting my broken nose (Dear diary, sometimes it’s nice to be unconscious!), and magical ones, restoring my health. Inhabiting an unsubstantial state, I not only felt the presence of the priest, mumbling his rituals, and of the rogue, cursing and biting his amulet, but also these of the spell book, yelping like a raven fledgling, and the moonstone, somehow calming me. Then Jonathan’s voice started becoming real again, almost physical. His healing chants bursting into my skull, awakening me rudely. As I opened my eyes, I stared right into his sweated face: “Inez, you’re back! How do you feel?”

Dear diary, though by now I should have grown a routine of regaining consciousness, as this seems to be my major or even only, adventurer skill. This time however, I was so scared as I brought my fingertips to my face, trying to assess the damage to my face. Never I felt luckier and more impressed by the healing powers of my companion! Though I still felt a pulsating pain behind my eyes, there seemed to be no lasting traces or marks. As I stood up arduously, helped by Jonathan, I thanked him in the most sincere manner (Probably not entirely according to my lessons in Etiquette). Still a bit dizzy, I took some steps like a Owl Bear Cub fallen out of its nest, only to bump into Finn. The rogue and I did not manage to come to a common understanding who was to blame for what. In Nook I would have dragged him into court, here I only could use him as a target for all the disgruntlements of the day so far. Which were plenty. Turning his back, walking out on me, I got even more furious. So, I walked over to Jonathan, paused a bit and waited till I was sure that Finn was peeking at us, then kissed the priest on the cheek. Dear diary, I must admit, that was a bit more than he (and poor Jonathan) deserved. As Dame Tockwhistle would say: “You’re our local Witch’s Lantern; you lure admirers, wrap them in your roots, then digest them slowly.” 

The air was cleared by Jonathan. Even literally, as the opening of the passage had allowed a little breeze into the room. Cheerfully he led us through, into a new corridor. And as blind as him we followed, happy to leave the room and our quarrels behind. Only to walk into even more troubles! 

The new chamber had a door to the left, which we, entering like steaming engines without a safety valve, completely missed. The room and our journey ended abruptly in the open, where the construction must have fallen apart many years ago. Underneath was a stream of green acid flowing, where Jonathan now was hanging above, grabbing for a grip. As the priest tumbled over the edge, Finn managed to grab him, just holding him by the trousers, and sounds of tearing fabric could be heard.Yelling not to let go I tried to secure Finn's position, solely to watch in horror as Finn’s attempts to help Jonathan failed all; both lost their grasp and Jonathan tumbled down! The splashing sound was horrible! Reaching the boundary to look, green fumes greeted us, burning in our eyes, we found out that Jonathan had stunningly managed to get out the biting stream, onto a small swelling of the side. 

Dropping my backpack I started searching for a rope frenetically. Not finding any, I looked up to find Finn already in place with a line. Cursing and blushing, I took the rear position, wrapping the thread around my hands. Together we let it drop, calling out to the mortified priest to take and hold this lifeline. Infuriating, he shouts back that he won’t touch ‘this spider's thread’. After we retrieve  the rope as fast as we can, I come up with the idea to color it, hopefully removing any arachnoid association, and spending my cosmetics on it. The second try leads to the same result, Jonathan won’t touch the line like it’s more acid than the green bubbling torrent. “Lower me down.” ; I say to Finn, “I’ll catch him and somehow we’ll work our way up together.” The rogue looks wearily at me, but I’m in no mood to discuss or be talked out of it. Tying the rope around me, I step over the rim, rappelling down while Finn acts as counterbalance. And for a little moment it has the earmarks of success. Until failure strikes again. Jonathan’s grip failed, and as he dropped, so did I: The princess of downfalls following her court into the acid. 

Strangely, as I dove into the acid pool, my consciousness had left for other places already. The desperate look on Finn, the fountain of green that surrounds Jonathan and  me as we hit the surface are the last impressions before fading out again. Anew entering a state similar to that when casting spells, the moonstone was engulfing this realm with light as a fluid like energy, in slow waves. The spellbook was hugging and warming me, calling up memories of my birth pet hamster. The strange characters on its cover lighting up in slow pulses, mimicking the rhythm of the moonstone.  Drifting off, it felt like falling asleep in my bed at home, many years ago. Expecting my mother to tug me in, I looked up and there was: Light. Hard pulsating light. Pulses came faster and faster, brighter and brighter. The moonstone was physically hitting me with punches of light, one hit followed by another. Tearing the sphere apart, until the moment it all collapsed in an explosion of light...

And I was sitting up, on the ledge where we just had fallen from, Jonathan lying next to me, Finn sitting across. Strangely there’s no pain, only a small burn and bruise at the place where the moonstone was hidden in my dress. And speaking of dress, that is gone, only some rags and stitches remain of the clothes I was wearing! Dissolved by the acid, all the same, my skin looks untouched, even revived. Thereupon I realize that not an awful lot of my body is covered and Finn is planted next to me. Covering up with my hands I inquired: “What happened, how did we get here?” Even as I see that he’s relieved that both Jonathan and I are showing signs of life again, he makes sure his response deepens the crimson of my embarrassment: “Managed to pull you both out. You losing most of your ballast did help lift you up here, both in weight and motivation.” Rubbing my temples there’s Finn’s voice, not from the outside but from within: “Don’t you ever do that again, Red. Thought I’d lost you.”  I stare at him, flabbergasted: “What did you just say? And how did you get into my head?” He creates the impression that he’s as startled as I am. On occasion my teacher dr. Vexora would talk about this way of communicating: “Like gossip without the walking over.” And now the most unlikely of folk had just magically spoken-in-my-head. “Does this mean that you hear what I think?” I shouted at Finn. “Luckily I don’t, cause looking at your eyes it would not be much good.” He replied, this time typically through his voice and as typically combined with a joke at my expense. 

Calming down I regretted my harsh words, the day's events would also have left an impression on him. One more time this rogue has gotten me out of trouble and I had not shown a lot of appreciation, did I diary? So, a serious expression of gratitude was in place. However, my training in etiquette once more failed, as how to thank someone properly while not dressed, had never been an item in my teachings by High keeper Ironmantle. Still I tried and thankfully Finn accepted them gracefully, stating then that he would attend to Jonathan, and that my backpack was lying in the other chamber. Moving there, I put on my rain cloak, together with a pair of sandals that I had used at home to sneak stealthily through the house. Dear diary, now I look like a follower of Baervan Wildwanderer, but still, better than running around like a hairless Tabaxi. 

Getting back to the halflings, I noticed both of them sitting up. So Jonathan was also restored and fortunately, dressed. (Shut up, diary!) Apparently he had some spares with him or got stuff from Finn, or halflings textile is acid resistant? It’s not that they dress to impress, dear diary. 

But the three of us had somehow made it through, with no real progress to report. With no energy or initiative left, we decided to somehow camp in front of the door we had entirely missed by falling down. Enjoying the view and the hissing of the acid pit below, but most of all, each other and the realization how this could have ended differently. Or is this just the dizziness in my head I feel, going out two times like this? 

Well, dear diary, here it ends for me today. Personally, my theory is that somehow the moonstone was triggered, at first by the magic cast by Jonathan and me. After Finn managed to pull us out of the stream and somehow up, onto the edge,  the moonstone started resonating with the remains of the magic energies that our spells had left there. And when it exploded, it recast the last spell, boosted to such a level, that all effects of our baths were washed away. Luckily for us that had been Jonathan healing me (and not an unseen servant pushing stuff around!). 

Diary, I still feel awkward around Finn. First off I was quite harsh and mean to him (Yes, diary, point taken). In response he saves me while risking his life! But in the process he's seen and carried me around naked! To Jonathan he said that he looked awful, covered in blisters and worse. But he looked, almost for certain, also to me! That means he’s guilty ab initio (as my father would say). In his defence, he did save me and Jonathan and he was not responsible for my state of undress. And it could be argued that in order to save us, he needed eyesight on the situation. However, he kept peeking afterwards and kept pestering his innocent victim (me)! Which counts as a malum in se. Yes, dear diary, one could state that the corpus delicti in this case looks better than ever. Very funny and thanks for the compliment. 

Alright, I will stop rambling about this, but only for now. Ad persistit, we were saved by the moonstone; it saved us once, it can do it again… though I’d prefer without the nakedness!. Write to you soon diary! 

Session #7, as told by Finn

 “Ballast and Motivation”

 

Clever gets out. But it is patience that makes a man dangerous.

 

Something was off. Not the air this time — though it still stank of unwashed bodies and mold — but something in what just had happened. Think.

 

Silas had come into my cell after lockdown. After lockdown. No keys jangling. No booted guard escort. No alarm raised. Just the quiet, casual turning of a lock that wasn’t supposed to open. And when he left? He didn’t slam the door. Didn’t even lock it. Like it didn’t matter. Someone had given him a key. And not just a key — a permission.

 

This afternoon the guards hadn’t come running. Not even a glance in the direction of Finn’s bruised ribs and Rosslyn’s broken leg. He’d been trying to tell himself maybe Calder had paid off someone with debts and a weak spine.

 

But no. It was worse than that. Because during the beating — no footsteps, no shouting, no swinging doors. And guards were always keen to keep the prisoners quiet, passive, to keep feuds down.

 

Then the steps came. Not bootfalls. Lighter. Arvin Quill. You could always tell him by the rhythm — three steps, pause, then a fourth like he was changing his mind about where to put his weight. Always clacking that godsdamned baton against the bars to seek a reaction of some sort.

 

The sound stopped outside my door.

 

The door hinge groaned. Quill stepped in like he owned the place. Thin face, long nose, mouth and moustache like a catfish. He gave the room a once-over, lips already curling. “Well, well if it isn’t our little clever shit,” Arvin Quill drawled. 

Baton already in hand. “Still breathing, are we,” he said. Not a question. He sounded disappointed.

 

He didn’t wait for an answer. Swung the stick, caught Finn hard in the ribs. He grunted but didn’t drop. “Just a little love tap,” Quill said. Another blow followed, lower, into the meat of Finn’s thigh. “You think anyone’s gonna help you? You think Greaves gives a shit what happens in your cell after hours? This place belongs to men who pay their debts, Finn.”

 

He leaned in. Close enough that Finn could smell the pickled onions on his breath. Smug. He wasn’t hiding it anymore. “Next time,” he said, “I’ll bring Silas some tools.”

 

He stepped back. Knocked the stick once against the floor threateningly, then turned and slammed the cell door shut behind him. The lock clicked. Steps faded. Now the door was closed.

 

Finn sat there on the floor, pain blooming fresh under his ribs. Didn’t move. Not yet.

The worst part wasn’t the bruises. Wasn’t the knowing Silas would be back.

It was the certainty now. Calder had friends on the inside. That Warden Greaves had either looked the other way — or never looked at all. That Arvin Quill, the petty sadist with the cheap boots and flaking moustache, had picked his side.

 

The guards weren’t guards. Not here. And they’d make sure that Finn’s due would come in the worst way possible.

 

Finn glanced at Rosslyn. She stirred, barely, her whiskers fluttering as if trapped in some nightmare.

 

“You know, Ross…this isn’t the first time I’ve had to take a bit of pain to save a life. You’ll be surprised how much you can take if the stakes are high enough.”

 

Her black eyes glinted once before she settled again. Finn took a slow breath, let the pain in his ribs sharpen the memory.

 

* The three smallfolk tumbled down the stairs-turned-chute like dice in a cup. Finn got a knock to the head on the way down and though he was the last to fall, somehow ended up at the bottom of the heap with Jonathan and Inez sprawled across him on the flagstone floor. Stars danced across his vision as he rolled over trying to catch his breath. His lilac hand itched again — not like a rash, but like it was holding onto something it didn’t yet know how to use, some itch of potential that had nowhere to go.

He got up and dusted himself off, and tried to ignore the metallic tang in the air that crept into the back of his throat and made him want to spit. Finn shook his head to clear it and subconsciously thumbed his medallion again. Habits dies harder than a gnomish bookkeeper's daughter. He had discovered that fact himself.

Jonathan lit the room, light spilling from his shield. Inez’ face betrayed a flicker of envy before she covered it.

“You see Rosslyn: She still had to work for her magic, muttering spells over that precious book. Next to this halfling, pigeons seemed smart — yet here was this cleric casting light like it was no more trouble than breathing. It was enough to make a person’s jaw clench, if they were of the competitive sort. Not naming names.” Old Finn winked.

They had landed in a small, oddly shaped room, moss-covered walls, no doors, just a narrow window high on the wall to Finn’s right. Pointing out the window, the two halfling men walked to have a look.

With envy as a motivator, Inez kneeled on the flagstones and put her precious magic book in front of her. She started mumbling to herself, her hands tracing geometric patterns in the air. Her eyes did that thing where they rolled back into her head, and Finn turned away. He just couldn’t watch that. At the window Jon and Finn craned for a look. The was barely bigger than a ship’s porthole — even a Slynt couldn’t squeeze through. Jonathan tried holding up his shield to throw light through it, but the darkness beyond seemed to push back against the glow, swallowing it whole. All they could see was an old wooden floor, and not much else.

Inez had gotten up and walked over the small wall across from where they had fallen into the room. “What do you see?”, Finn asked. But the wizard ignored him completely. Jonathan waddled over the Inez like an adoring puppy. 

“Sure. Just ignore the guy that has opened every door for you. See where that gets you.” Finn muttered. He cut himself a thick slice of his spicy halfling jack. Cheese usually set him right, but not this time — the metallic taste in the air seemed to turn his favorite cheese into a Dwarven deep cheddar. Now that was an acquired taste that Finn never had been interested in acquiring.

His hand still felt strange, as if it was responding to the strangeness of this dungeon. He should never have left Nook with these two. He could have joined the Bonepicker crew of the Slynt clan back in Nook, he would have been out of Nook most of the year. Would have had good jerky — just wouldn’t have been free of the Slynts.

Finn could see Inez was doing some magic to ruffle the moss on the walls. He snorted at that, very impressive.

This place was odd and by the taste in the air probably haunted too. Surveying the space around them, there was something about the wall Inez was inspecting. You’d expect a passage in that spot. Who’d build a corridor leading to a dead end — unless it was a trap for nosy adventuring halflings, or a bad joke.

Inez didn’t seem to get anywhere. She gave Finn an annoyed stare; like “Why are you just standing over there, when I’m doing all the work?”

“Sure, first ignore me, then get upset when I’m having a nibble. Let me show you how it’s done.”

Finn made a show of investigating the wall. Brushing away moss, tracing stonework, looking for seams, triggers, any hint of a gap. There were subtle changes in the sound when he tapped the stones, so he got Jonathan to do some tapping on the sidewall while putting his ear against various stones. A faint draft tickled his ear as he shifted from one stone to the next. Tracing the draft it outlined roughly a door shape. He took out a knife, the thin blade sank a hand’s width into the seam and stopped — stuck. Inez asked him to step aside, so she could try something. Finn put up his hands, said: “You’re the boss.”

She murmured something under her breath. Finn could hear, but it couldn’t have been good. Under Inez’ attentions the knife sank another inch into the wall — and nothing more. “That’s it?” Finn asked. “If no one else has any ideas, I will try a thing.”

Finn gauged the distance to the wall, eyed the stone next to the knife. Time to show the others his mettle. He whipped back his leather duster, and round house kicked the wall with everything he had. Something snapped. It wasn’t the wall; a sharp pain stabbed his foot. Using all the curses he had ever heard at the cock fighting pits of his youth, he hobbled to the opposite wall. Jonathan made as if to fuss over Finn; not wanting to show weakness, he waived him off.

Sensing his mood, the other two made their own attempts at finding a way through the wall. They were as successful as a mole digging in a bucket. Jonathan was doing Chislev knows what in the corner of the wall. Annoyed (at the other’s incompetence, not his own) Finn limped over again. His knife was still stuck. Using a piece of chalk, he traced the area he thought held an opening.  “Can’t you magic this open?”

Jonathan stepped in to give it another go. Grabbing the dagger with two hands, he wrenched it sideways. This should not have worked; the dagger should have snapped — instead the wall swung open like a spring trap. Finn could sidestep and tried to warn Inez of the danger. He tapped her arm, but to no avail. Her focus as elsewhere and looking up the stones smacked her square in the face. With a stomach-turning crunch, she was hurled back like a ragdoll.

“No, no, no!’ Finn rushed over and turned the unconscious Inez over. Her face was just a mess: a skin flap hanging from her forehead, her nose so badly broken it was repositioned underneath her left eye. Upper lip split, with blood pouring from her face. 

To be fair, Jonathan kept his cool a lot better. Like a craftsman he looked at the task at hand and what he needed to do. He gripped Inez’ face in his hands and warm golden light spilling out over her. Underneath his fingers cuts knit themselves back together in seconds. With his thumbs he set her nose with a loud crack. And as simple as that, Inez face was whole again. Perfect.

As she came to, her eyes were still unfocussed. Her hands moved to her face, looked up to Jonathan with gratitude. He helped her up. Then she looked at Finn. A frown moved across her features. Typical! The cleric nearly kills her pulling a wall down on her. Brings her back. Finn gets blamed. What was that all about?! Whenever it came to this girl, Finn seemed to have two left feet, a mouth full of cotton and bad luck like he was cursed by a nighthag.

He turned to walk off; Inez quickly grabbed Jonathan and kissed him on the cheek. Making sure he saw it. Jonathan got that puppy love look back in his eyes.

Jonathan pulled Inez along to walk towards the newly opened passage, into the corridor beyond. Finn just followed the others with a limp.

“Rosslyn, you know — bad luck likes company.” Old Finn confided to her. “Though is it bad luck if it happens twice in what? 5 minutes?”

Like the last time; Jonathan stepped past the threshold and seemed to fall away. Finn dived down and reached for Jonathan’s flailing leg. Only Jonathan’s trouser fabric made itself available to grab, which held — for about two seconds. Then Jonathan fell out of sight, followed by a loud splash. As Finn looked over the edge a heavy acidic smell wafted up, burning Finn’s eyes and making him gag. The unfortunate cleric found himself in a pool of some acid. With a high-pitched yelp, he clambered onto a little outcrop but couldn’t climb up. 

Inez’ quick mind formulated a plan. “Quick we need to throw a rope down to Jonathan.” She started rummaging through her pack, but didn’t seem to find what she was looking for. Finn grabbed his pack, took out his neatly packed rope — silk, expensive — and looped it down. Inez shot him a look which switched between being thankful and being annoyed at — something about him.

“Now Rosslyn, if there is something I’ve learned. Travelling with idiots puts you into situations, no sane person could ever conceive. Listen.”

Jonathan took one look at my expensive silk rope and decided, hear this, it was a spider rope and refused to touch it. Inez then decides to dye it black and try again. And our holy nutjob thinks we’re trying to deceive him to do, Chislev knows what, and still won’t touch it.

This prompted Inez to climb down and try to pull Jonathan up. And that was when the fates decided to strike. A piece of the wall crumbled, and Inez lost her grasp and crashed down into the pool of acid as well. Fumes rising from her body and clothes — no movement. 

Finn looked about and found he was standing next to a door, neither of them had noticed stepping into the passage. He tied the rope to a brass ring on the door, lowered himself, and found Jonathan unconscious. Stuck in his position on the wall as if rigor mortis had already set in. Fine, Inez was the more immediate concern. Finn reached out to pull Inez’ unmoving body closer, but the fabric unraveled due to the acid.

There was— that moment of doubt — they’re gone. He should leave. Jonathan’s empty eyes seem to look at him disappointed. Unexpectantly that traitorous thought seems to squeeze his heart with a pain. A pain he hadn’t felt that often in his life. Maybe when his father died, maybe when Grint had threatened to end Kip’s life. Why now for these idiots?

He reaches out, grabs Inez’ ankle — the fumes burn his eyes, the acid eats his fingers raw, but he manages to pull Inez out, and haul her up, muscles straining.

By the time he gets the two of them onto the ledge again, they’re limp — skin red, raw, open and oozing. Clothing in tatters, sloshing away as Finn tries to flush the acid using any water he can find in their packs.

“And that’s when it happened.” Old Finn spread his arms out to Rosslyn like a stage magician unveiling a trick.

Through unravelling cloth, Inez’ precious little moonstone pokes out and erupts — not just glowing, but detonating in a bright, blinding flare of moonlight. It’s cold and warm all at once, spilling over all three of them like a tidal wave of silver fire. Finn flinches, eyes shut tight, but there’s no heat, no pain — only this deep, bone-deep change.

When it clears, Finn sits for a moment, blinking against the fading afterimage. There is a static in his brain, the same static that was in his hand, which now burns with a clean, razor presence. Then it hits him — a sharp pressure behind his eyes, like someone’s driven a spike into his skull. Finn winces, goes down to his knees, pressing palms to his eyes. And as fast as the pain came, it leaves again. “That can’t be good.” Finn says through gritted teeth.

In front of him Jonathan’s chest rises again, a golden halo flickering around his hands like the touch of some ancient prayer. Inez’s fingers twitch with threads of light, shifting and curling into floating script only she seems to read. Both look fully restored. Relief washes over Finn, something he never expected to feel for these two.

Inez is the first to awaken. A sarcastic voice in the back of his mind notes, she is the most practiced at coming back from the dead. Sitting up she takes stock of herself, looks at Finn and turns a deep shade of crimson and tries to cover herself up with her hands. Apparently, modesty was more important than being alive. “What happened, how did we get here?” She manages

“Ross, I could have taken the high road, but something of her earlier treatment of me still rankled.” Old Finn pulled his nose up at his rat.

“Managed to pull you both out. You losing most of your ballast did help lift you up here, both in weight and motivation.”

Her face went through ten different emotions in as many seconds, drawing in every detail of her face, Finn’s brain forgot it was supposed to belong to a cynical bastard.

“Don’t you ever do that again, Red. Thought I’d lost you.”

It should have been a private thought, but the thought meets another spike of that static that seemed to vibrate through Finn’s nervous system. Inez’ eyes go wide, she looks at Finn aghast. 

“What did you just say?”

The words come back into his mind with a clarity that spoken words could never have. Now it was Finn’s turn to look like a fish out of water, how could this be happening to him? Inez was firing questions at him in quick succession. This time spoken. 

“And how did you get into my head? Does this mean that you hear what I think?”

Close to panic now, Finn stepped back, holding his hands up as a ward, he just stammered. “I don’t know, I don’t know. There’s pain…” 

“Am I a monster?”

The thought entered his head. He hoped it’d stayed there. He looked down at Jonathan, to break eye contact with Inez. The cleric still happened come back to consciousness. This gave him an excuse to do something, to not think about it. Finn brought out his cheese, to try and revive Jonathan like he had done in Aalborr’s cave. Jonathan stirred immediately at the smell, like the good halfling he is. As he sat up, Finn pulled him into a hug before he could stop himself. Else the others might’ve seen him shaking.

* “That’s the thing about mortal danger; it motivates to keep going even when it hurts.” Finn rubbed his chin. “Not sure if any of this is making sense to you.” Rosslyn seemed to be sleeping again.

Moving his arm hurt his ribs, dragging him back to the present. “No pit now, just stone walls and bad company.” Then reached under his bunk, pried up the loose tile, and started checking his stash.

The game had changed and if you don’t like the company you’re keeping, clever gets out.

Session #6 as told by Inez

 Session #6 as told by Inez

 Session #6 by Inez

Dear diary,

We’re stuck again, I went down again and still it feels like we, perhaps even I, are doing better. Let me tell you all!

This early morning I was sitting lonely in our campement, shivering from the cold as the campfire was low. Fulfilling the Winders Watch, I had enjoyed a short night sleep until Finn had woken me, and the last part till dawn felt quite hard. While I shivered, I spotted a flicker of movement in the trees; too fast to place, too strange to ignore. Not sure if it was something I imagined or dreamt dozing off, I took a few steps in the direction of the tree where it had ended. Passing the Owl Bear cubs, who were still sleeping like babies, not impressed by this all. Therefore I slept myself in the face; was I awake, dreaming, imagining stuff? 

The fog that had filled up the patch in the forest where we had set up camp had thickened. As dense as our maids pudding, but with none of the cheer. It did not help getting a good sight on any of this either. Doubting whether or not to alarm and wake the halfling men, I moved closer. Once more a flash of movement; hard to pinpoint, but I was sure there was something! And to prove my point, our surroundings went dead quiet. This was not something to handle by myself, so I snuck over to Jonathan’s small shelter. Reaching under the canvas I found one of his feet and started pulling and poking: “Jonathan, wake up! There’s something in the trees!”

Though it took me a while to get through to him, when it did, he rushed into Finn’s tent, trying to wake the rogue as fast as possible. Since I did not dare follow him there, I could only try to make out what was going on inside. It was all too clear that waking up Finn is not without risks when Jonathan came out with a cut on his arm and Finn with a bloodied knife in hand. But both awake and alert, as my mother would say: “They fit like threaded gears; bite each other and still turn smooth.”

Pointing towards where I last saw whatever I thought I saw, I gestured towards my companions to remain quiet. From where I stood, a few paces out of our camp, I could see Jonathan grab his axe from the ground. Then I moved  towards the campfire, to light up the torch I had just picked up. The three of us now formed a triangle around the tents and campfire, as if we were performing a strange ritual. As my torch lit up, there once more was a fast movement, this time augmented by a rustling noise lower in the trees, heading towards Finn. Quickly he took a few steps backwards, using his tent as a bulwark between him and the ‘thing’. And that ‘thing’ then went on, quick as a pixie's prank, circling us, passing by Finn and Jonathan. Only to end its movement right where I was standing! Dear diary, for two seconds I thought it was Zephyr Lightfoot, one of the sons of a gnomish high standing family, who would pop up at the most peculiar moments and places to try to grope a girl. I almost wished it was him...

As the ‘thing’ approached me, I pointed the now burning torch towards it. This gave us a first look at its head, adorned with a collar like my father would wear in court, and like my father would do at court it produced a loud screech and charged! But here all resemblances ended! From underneath the collar, tentacles appeared, some even carrying a weapon! As it moved towards me, its skin color changed, matching the environment, explaining why I had not seen it when it first appeared. Using two of the tentacles more or less like legs, it was taller than any of us three, more or less the size of a long shanked human male. And here I was, standing alone in front of it!

Just when it charged in, I lowered the torch further, bringing it to its head and maw that were getting all too close. One of its feelers whipped past me, tearing my dress. Trying to help out  from a distance, Finn took a shot at the creature, missed it, just to damage my dress as well. Dear diary, things were not going well for fashion and looks! My other companion used his magic spell to create water to create a focused stream. This hit the creature so hard, even from as far as he was standing blasting the monster right into me! From nearby I had to see and feel that the tentacles were covered with little fingers! Feeling these on my skin was far worse than having to waitress drunk dwarves and halflings at my fathers office!

Luckily for me, Jonathan's blast had knocked the creature out or at least inactive! Four of the limbs were padlocked into a strange knot, allowing me to get loose. The two halflings, seeing the monster assaulting me, dashed over and joined the melee. Like a kettle with no whistle and too much fire, Finn steamed in and cut a long, deep wound into the thing, freeing a stream of purple blood. Myself, I managed to free my two knives from my dress, and tried to stab the creature. Only to annoy it in such a way, that one of its tentacles attacked me, resulting in another rip of my dress and me losing one of the knives! And moments later, Jonathan, who also had entered the fray, lost his axe. We were better at arming the creature than in wounding it! 

However, being attacked by three different opponents at the same time, was confusing the creature seriously. As Finn wounded it again by throwing his knives at it, the thing switched focus towards the rogue and advanced on him, bear-hugging my poor companion! Trying to set him free, I by some means, succeeded to plant my remaining knife in its back (if it even had a back?), wounding and distracting it. The three of us desperately keep on striking the creature, or at least trying to, while the thing itself also struggled hitting us (too small a target?). But when it did, it seriously hurt, and I felt battered and exhausted. Much more used to and suited for fights in cours, this little lady, sweet diary.

By hook or crook, Finn got a grip on one of the wounds of the creature, and it howled in anger. For all that, Finn’s hand got stuck in the wound, to the annoyance of both him and the thing. The monster now began buckling like a clockwork goat set off at the spring fair. Finn, still being stuck, hung on for a few pirouettes, only to be thrown off and crashing onto the field. Now freed of its rider, the creature turned its attention once more to us. And unfortunately for and to me, as a hit of one of its arms had me knocked out. Gone cogs and wheels! Dear diary, once more I had to rely on my companions to get me out of this situation.

Sometime later I felt myself again, coughing and aching, sitting on the ground next to a puddle of purple fluid in which the yellowish remains of the thing was sprawled. It looked a bit like something out of the books that doctor Vexora let me read when my parents were not around, and a lot like the creatures that haunted me at night. Even Finn and Jonathan were engrossed. While seated I was told the story of how Jonathan saved the day, first by beheading the creature with a heroic strike, like Arvoreen reborn! On top of that, he accomplished to bring me back to senses, like Sheela Peryroyl herself. Bruised and still confused, I entirely forgot to thank him properly. So much for my lessons in etiquette, dear diary. To compensate I courteously thanked Finn for finding my second knife back, what he mistook for me mocking him.

In the act of pulling myself together and getting myself up again, I could not miss noticing the damage done to my dress during the fight. Several rips and tears were visible, added by splashes of violet and purple where blood of the creature had landed. Under the wrong or right circumstances (depending on the judgement of either a gnome lady or that of two halfling men), the dress provided now a clear view of parts of my thighs and even the buttocks.If my parents would have seen me dressed like this in public, I would have been grounded for at least a year! Though I managed to fix things provisionally, the halflings had no trouble spotting my and my dress’ discomposure. As Jonathan inquired ‘if my dress had just surrendered’ and Finn wanted to know if ‘moonlit cheeks‘ were the new fashion trend in Nook. And you say, ‘I should just bare it?’ Very, very funny, dear diary!

Fortunately the halflings, being halflings, shifted their attention to food. With breakfast missed due to the fight, a small coffee snack was definitely needed. Giving me the chance to check on the cubs, who had so bravely ignored us fighting the thing. One was chomping on the piece of meat the creature had been carrying in one of its tentacles. The other two were busy finding their own eats, walking in and out of the now very thickened fog, occasionally disappearing from sight. Before I even could get worried about the gloom closing around us, I was invited by two enthusiastic companions to join the second breakfast.

With the three of us sitting together eating, I noticed Finn’s right hand had taken the purple color of the thing’s blood. According to him it did not hurt or bother him, in fact, he wore it with pride, like it was the key to a dragon's hoard! Back in Nook I have seen stranger tattoos, dwarf fighters covered in runes and elves with magically moving ones, but not with halflings. It somehow seemed to fit him, adding rogueness to the rogue. Would it have happened to me, dear diary, I would have probably worn evening gloves for the rest of my life! Which would have been such a disaster for my collection of rings.

After finishing our meal, more than enough for a gnome lady, a bit on the small size for my companions, we broke up camp. Over our coffee and snacks we had decided to continue to Magki, despite the fog. In spite of that, when clearing up our settlement, Jonathan found a stone structure on the ground. This edifice was evidently uncovered from under the leaves by our encounter with the creature. After further unearthing by the two men (well, I contributed too by brushing off some leaves and twigs, dear diary, since you ask), an elongated floor was laid bare. Contained within it was a metal door, as if there was living a very secluded gnome family who wanted to make certain that visitors stayed out. Mole-friends tend to dress a bit old fashioned, but I know them as polite and friendly customers, who would welcome visitors, and I would have welcomed a bath. But I’m afraid there would be no gnome family here, inviting us in...

As I sat watching the men further exposing the gateway, I tried probing the rusty pin the creature had dropped during the fight. It was more or less an attempt to do something with my skills, a bit frustrated with the ease and power of Jonathan's casting. To my surprise, investigating the old piece of metal did result in the appearance of  a strange purple aura around it. All of a sudden I came to the idea of using my opera glasses. A gift from my father, fully foldable and very useful for spotting nice looking specimens of the male gnome population of Nook. They allowed me  to focus and now I could see that this was not my imagination. The pin was actually radiating a small amount of purple light persistently when I cast my spell. Dear diary, am I truly becoming a wizard?

Not that my companions were much impressed with it, as one of them (you can guess which one, diary) commented: ‘Well that was shiny. About as useful as butter on a burning log.’ With the gate finally fully exposed, Jonathan called out for ‘Adventure!’ Though Finn opposed his proposal to find out what was behind the closed doors, I seconded the priest. Not only did I owe him for patching me up, it also gave me an opportunity to annoy the rogue. Which made me feel good, much more than I had thought it would. As soon as the decision was made, the halfling men started trying to open the gate. And failed miserably. Grabbing my chance, I took my booklet and laid my hand on the stone surface, probing magically into the structure. To my own surprise and that of my companions, a small spot lit up. Using the glasses I found the exact light source on the floor and positioned the pin into it. A loud click could be heard, followed by Jonathan trying to open the hatch. When both halflings failed at lifting the iron construct, I summoned an unseen servant. Though it was hard to cast the spell in quick succession, a magic being was summoned and succeeded in lifting and opening the gate. Dear diary, I am truly becoming a wizard!

Priest Jonathan then also cast a spell, illuminating his shield and stepped onto the stairs. Seeing Finn’s displeasure I smiled at him, then followed Jonathan downwards. Groaning and moaning the rogue dragged behind, like good old Dame Velindra Tockwhistle would have done at home. The stairs led us down into a corridor. Not a gnome house or building by any standards, strange heigh ceilings, but well crafted and in good condition. Our path was blocked once more by an iron gate, this time conventionally vertically placed. And once more both men were not able to open it, and it was the small gnome lady who had to use her magic skills to help us pass. Yes dear diary, I’m aware that I’m gloating. But as my mother would have said: “While they were still fiddling with the cogs, I had the clock chiming.”

The next room was smaller, with an even higher ceiling and two doors on the opposite side.Illuminated magically and greenish this one felt radiating with magical energies. Not entirely unpleasant, certainly giving goosebumps, keeping you on the edge. Finn must have felt the same, I saw him kissing his medaillon before opening the first door. And we were right, as a dart was shot by a hidden mechanism as he lowered the knob. Missing him and Jonathan, grazing me, adding another rip in my dress. Luckily nothing painful or revealing. Letting out a hiss of discontent I looked at him, seeing that he was clearly unhappy and ashamed, I waived it. The rogue then tried opening the door, found it locked and after his attempts at lockpicking failed, we moved to the second door. Checking the door for traps, then once more trying to pick it, then trying the grip. The door opened smoothly, no darts shot out, and Finn took a step back, gesturing us to step through. 

We were now standing on a small platform in front of stairs leading down to a floor some meters below. Then Jonathan took the lead once more, placing one foot on the first step, and the floor fell away! Leading to a poor deja vu of our first adventure, ending up at the floor below, the three of us together forming a bad imitation of the creature we killed this morning. With the nice distinction that this time no halfling man had his nose sticking in my dress. All in all, we were stuck in a dungeon again.

Dear diary, have to break off my writings, hope to update you soon!

Session #6, as told by Finn

 Survival rule #27

Finn came to with his face pressed into the cracked yard floor, air still hard to find. The pressure on his throat was gone, but the ghost of it lingered, pulsing like a warning. His ribs ached. His back flared with pain. But worse than all that—he didn’t see Rosslyn.

“Ross?” he rasped. No answer. Just the drag of feet, muttering inmates, the echo of a guard’s laughter like iron grating on nerves. He looked around from where he lay, trying not to draw attention. Half the yard had seen it: Silas Cray—Calder’s little monster—had choked the fight out of him like he was snuffing a candle. Some of the boys turned their faces. A few watched with grim eyes. No one helped. No one ever helped.

Rosslyn. Where was she? He didn’t shout. Didn’t panic. Just blinked the sweat out of his eyes and started to crawl. A scrap of shadow behind a water barrel caught his eye, and there—tail twitching, one leg bent wrong, breathing fast—was Rosslyn. Hurt. But alive.

“Don’t you die on me, sweetheart,” he muttered, scooping her up. “You’re the brains of the operation.” He tucked her into his shirt, close to the warmth of his chest. She didn’t struggle.

Lights Out. Doors clanged shut. Keys turned. Voices died down to murmurs, then nothing. Finn sat in the dark of his cell. Rosslyn lay curled on a scrap of cloth, her breath shallow but steady. He’d made her a tiny sling from a strip of his sleeve, tied loose around her leg. He’d stitched up worse. In himself, anyway.

Now came the hard part. Waiting. He kept his eyes on the corridor. Listened. Counted footsteps. The shuffle of other inmates. The guard rotation.

And then…Steps. Too soft to be guards. Wrong rhythm, bare feet. Silas. Of course he came. Finn had expected it. Bastards like that don’t leave threats unfulfilled. They come back to remind you.

The lock turned, smooth and confident. That bastard had a key. A private one — and there he was. Silas. Grinning. Finn’s stomach sank. Not just because Silas was back — but because someone in the prison had knowingly let a prisoner loose in the prison with a key.

“You sleep light, old man.” Silas stepped in, closed the door behind him.

“You ain’t gonna see the rope,” he said. “You’ll wish for it, long before it comes.”

He grabbed Finn by the shirt, shoved him hard into the wall. Head hit stone. Cray’s fist followed—a heavy thing like a hammer. The first punch knocked the air out. The second was just punctuation. The big hands started to choke him again. The edges of his vision quickly started to darken. “This is it”, was the traitorous thought that entered his mind.

Finn was flying — like a bird — the land stretched out beneath him. Fields gave way to ancient forest as he angled his arms and dove. His small form shot between tree trunks at breakneck speed, zigzagging as he laughed like a madman. Then he heard his name, though it sounded like Jonathan. A dark form slammed into him mid-flight, shoving him down. Finn crashed into the forest floor with a hard thump.

 

Heart hammering in his throat, he yanked the dagger from beneath his pillow and jammed it upward between himself and the dark form. The blade met resistance—flesh and cloth—and someone yelped in pain.

 

Jonathan.

 

Finn blinked the sleep from his eyes. “What in all the gods’ left bollocks are you doing in my tent, you daft twat? I could’ve killed you, knocking me out of the bloody sky like that!”

 

Jonathan stared down at him, wide-eyed and bleeding. Neither quite knew what to say to that. “Listen!” the cleric hissed. “The forest’s all wrong. No sound. Inez says there’s something in the trees.”

 

Still half-dreaming of flight and foolish enough to be half-dressed, Finn grabbed his knives and sling and followed Jonathan out into the morning sunlight. Fresh blood on Jonno’s arm. Not too bad—but still, Finn owed him an apology. He didn’t like owing people. Especially when it wasn’t his fault.

 

Their tents were ringed in silver-grey mist—not the sickly green from yesterday’s chamber, but a quieter fog. Survival rule #27: When the fog rolls in, two things follow: monsters and bad decisions.

Inez stood a little way off, pointing silently up into a tree. Jonathan, ever the curious one, walked over to her. Finn hung back near the tents. From where he crouched, he could see the tree clearly but stay hidden. Something moved from Inez’ tree to the tree in front in Finn. He had heard the movement, but didn’t see it other than some shaking branches and leaves. Inez quickly walked over to the campfire and lit a torch. “Taking precautions, she is learning,” Finn muttered.

Still no visible movement, but the stalker crept on to the next tree. Finn thumbed his iron medallion. “Harrows,” he warned. “We’re being hunted.” Jonathan blinked. “What’s a Harrow?” Finn looked at him like he’d just asked what rain was. “The kind of thing your god won’t save you from.” 

Inez approached the tree with the torch raised. Finn still didn’t know why they called her the brains of the outfit. Up there, part of the tree, was… something…Finn didn’t know what to make of it. It looked like some part of the tree bulged out and moved of its own accord. Two frickin’ glowing yellow eyes blinked at Inez. She lowered the torch, trying not to threaten it, but it leapt—landed—and shifted. Its skin changed from bark to something murky, ground-coloured. For an instant they got a glimpse at a thing that had stepped out of a nightmare. 

Tentacles—eight, maybe more—each clutching different objects like a deranged hoarder: a branch, a charred stick, a meaty femur, a metal spike, a rusty axe… It balanced a bulbous head, a frilled collar, and a mouth full of tendrils on — more tentacles. And the most disturbing feature, the tentacles were lined with rows of fingers. Because of course it had fingered feelers. Why wouldn’t it?

It was a merci when it blinked from view, cloaking itself again — but not silently. It made this wet sucking noise that was freaking Finn out to his core.

 

The thing was twice Inez’s height. A tentacle lashed out — missed her leg by a hair, but cut cleanly through her dress. Jonathan ran forward. Finn fired a stone from his sling — but the shot passed through he though the creature was standing. Finn cursed, drew his chopper, and charged. He might as well have swung blindfolded. The creature dodged with uncanny ease. Fighting this thing felt like punching through a dream. Luckily for them, the thing seemed just as lost, its blows missing the smallfolk darting underneath its reach.

Jonathan tried water. (Of course he did.) He transformed into a halfling geyser and blasted the creature with water—straight into Inez. Her torch hissed and died, leaving her soaked and defenseless. The creature lunged, but the slick water made her too slippery to grip. In the mess of limbs and squirming, it tangled four of its own tentacles. “Hah!” Finn grinned. “Should’ve gone for suckers instead of fingers, eh?”

Now they were serious. Inez pulled her blades. Jonathan picked up his axe. What followed was a blur: steel flashing, appendages whipping, spells and swears and the sharp tang of blood—purple blood. Gods. Finn could tell Inez and Jonathan hadn’t been in many fights. They were focused on dishing out, but were a bit too static, leaving themselves open for the occasional nick from a tentacle. Finn was fighting angry with his heavy knife and had a hard time getting hits in against this monster. Inez, the bookworm and barely blooded in battle was fighting with her brain. Using statistics and increasing her chance to hit by fighting with two blades. What good does it do you when you are decked out knives on every limb, and don’t think to use them.  Finn created a bit of space between him and the monster and quickly threw two knives, one penetrating deep into the beast’s torso — tentacle stem — whatever. The creature screeched and charged Finn, grabbing the halfling like a rag doll. The stink — rotting meat, sweat, decay — that wafted over Finn threatened to choke him by itself. The tendrils in its mouth reached for his face. Inez jammed a blade into its back, if that was even a thing. The creature howled. Finn, using the pain as distraction, gripped his buried dagger and yanked it downwards with a roar. It dropped him. 

Now it was angry. The fight turned. It struck Inez hard. Jonathan and Finn pressed in, blades flashing. It ducked Jonathan’s swing. Finn tried to leap on its back but slipped. His hand plunged into the earlier wound halfway up to the elbow—and stuck. The beast spun wildly, bucking and flailing about, spinning him around in circles. Luckily the hand tore free, Finn was flung across the clearing. He landed hard. Dirt in his teeth. Head spinning.

Inez got back into the fight, knives stabbing. Jonathan’s axe swooshing through the air, but neither of them connecting; the creature’s veil messing with their sight again.

 

Finn, furious, grabbed a fistful of dirt and threw it. “See how you like it!” Maybe luck, maybe divine justice—but it hit. Right in the “face”. The thing reeled. It couldn’t see, but it didn’t go down. A lucky tentacle struck Inez. She crumpled. Another hit Jonathan square in the chest. 

 

And that did it. The cleric, calm no longer, channeled something ancient and holy and swung. The blade cut clean through the creature’s neck, purple blood spraying in an arch. The head and body plopped separately on the ground.

Whatever it was—spawned, summoned, or born— the body deflated, folding into itself like a leaky bladder. Its strange veil dropped, revealing garish yellow-orange skin beneath.

 

The horror lay still, dead. Over. Done.

 

Finn, still rattled, cracked a breakfast joke. Poor timing—Inez was motionless at their feet. Maybe dead. Jonathan, at least seemed to have his wits about him, he knelt, prayed and pumped some healing magic into Inez. She gasped awake, wild-eyed, as if Jonno had dumped another bucket of water on her.  

 

Finn slumped, coughing dirt and spit, every part of him aching like he’d been chewed and spit out by an owlbear. His left hand still throbbed where it had lodged inside the beast’s wound — felt like it had been pickled in nightmares. Around him, the clearing was quiet, save for the low, raspy breaths of the others and the lazy slosh of something viscous. That’s when he really noticed the puddle. Purple, like blubber left out too long in the sun. It shimmered strange in the light of the morning sun, pooling around what remained of the thing — the horror. Yellowish flesh now slack and crumpled, like a tent made from rotten leather and stuffed with nothing. It had deflated, literally, the moment its head came off. No bones to be seen. Just a heap of soft tissue, twitching slightly, as if it hadn’t quite gotten the message, it was dead.

It looked — wrong. Not just dead wrong. Born wrong. Like a fever dream from a madman.

They’d killed it. Barely. Finn stayed sitting for a moment longer, catching his breath, hand twitching as the purple stain dried into his skin. It didn’t feel right. Felt like something had stayed with him.

Inez apparently just needed a new mystery to forget about her torn dress. She started rooting through the creatures’ strange gear. She claimed the metal spike, pulled out the book she’d bought off Finn at the start of this disaster. (Cursed, probably.) Laid out the book on the floor and held the spike above it while muttering her strange incantations. Then she started peering at it through some ridiculous theatre binoculars.

“Priorities,” Finn muttered.

Finn recovered his blades, sliding them back into hidden sheaths. Returned Inez’s knife. She took it like it was his job.

The owlbear cubs had dragged the monster’s meaty femur off to one side and were gnawing at it like puppies with a soup bone. “Wonderful,” Finn muttered. “If we could just train them to do that before the murder starts, we’d be golden.” Inez gave him a look that said she agreed—while reminding him it wasn’t his place to say so. Fine. If she was gonna treat him like hired help, he’d at least do what made him happy.

Breakfast.

He pulled out some leftover Elkzilla meat. Added a wedge of dwarven deepcheddar he’d meant to save. Stale biscuits rounded it out. Comfort food.

Jonathan ate like it was a feast. Inez had just picked at hers. Her thoughts were somewhere else, her hands went instinctively over her dress — or what was left of it. Bless it, the thing had taken more damage than Jonathan’s shield. Torn up the side, mud-slicked, bloodstained, and worse, there was now a very particular rip that left — well, let’s just say the moon was out early that day. Jonathan, to his credit, kept his jaw from hitting the ground and tried to be polite. Failed. “Did your dress just surrender?” he asked, all priestly innocence.

Finn wasn’t quite so charitable. “Moonlit cheeks,” He said, with a grin he absolutely deserved to be slapped for. “Didn’t know that was the new fashion in Nook. Very daring.”

She shot the halflings a look that could’ve curdled milk. Yanked the fabric around herself like it owed her money. Mumbled something about provisional repairs. Probably would’ve used a fireball if she’d had the spell slots.

Finn caught Inez sneaking glances at his right hand. The bloodstain hadn’t come off — it had soaked into his skin like ink, staining his wrist, palm and fingers a kind of haunted lilac. It didn’t hurt or itch anymore, it just — was. And frankly, he liked the look of it. Mark of survival. Of victory. Maybe even luck. “Probably means I’m blessed by some forgotten god of mischief or — knives. (Lame) Could be it unlocks ancient vaults. Might even glow when treasure’s near.” He leaned in closer, stage whispered to Jonathan: “Or when someone’s lying.” Inez snorted, but didn’t argue.

Funny thing though: Inez kept eyeing it, the way you might a tattoo on a dangerous man you’re not supposed to be thinking about. She went all quiet after a while. Probably imagining how awful it’d be if she had a stain like that. I pictured her in elbow-length gloves for the rest of her life, hiding it away like shame. She’d still find a way to wear her rings, though. Probably layer them up the gloves. Fashion doesn’t die easy in that one.

finished eating — not nearly enough, but that’s halfling problems for you — and started breaking down camp. The fog hadn’t let up, but the party agreed over lukewarm coffee and Jonathan’s version of “morning hymns” that Magki was still the plan. While the others were packing, Jonathan, ever the accidental prophet, was idling about and tripped over something half-buried the water spray had revealed: Stone. Square. Worked. A hatch, or something like it, right next to their campsite. Of course, he didn’t ask why there was a hatch in the middle of nowhere. He just shouted “Adventure!” That seemed to put a smile on Inez’ face.

Finn groaned. Fools attract fools. Trust us to nearly die on top of a bloody mystery.

 

Finn did his thing and checked the hatch—no traps, no lock, closed. Maybe they could just leave — No, Inez had other ideas.

Mumbling to herself, she made that magic that makes doors open, or just rattle in this case. Her face did that thing where she bit her lip and arched her eyebrow in annoyance, which Finn loved if it wasn’t directed at him. She pulled out her binoculars again and inspected the hatch. She “Aha!”ed and grabbed the spike the creature had carried and slid it into a hole that Finn had dismissed as wear and tear of a century of decay or so. With a loud click, the thing seemed to have opened. Damn. Eager Jonathan pulled open the hatch and proudly announced he was the party’s strongman. Leading the party in, he cast light on his shield again like a proper lantern-boy. Inez seemed almost as eager to follow into another underground lair of doom. Finn thought: “Let them stumble ahead, I’ll just watch their backs for now.”

At the end of the corridor, they found their way blocked by a metal grid. Finn couldn’t open it. The party’s strongman hurt his wrist trying to force his way through. Finn felt a small bit of satisfaction at that. Inez started mumbling under her breath and the grid opened. Magic does have its benefits — sometimes — maybe.

They continued onwards until they came upon a small room with a high ceiling. There were two doors at the end of the room, which was lit with a strange green light. Weird static in the air. Finn’s teeth tingled. He kissed his medallion and asked his ancestors to protect him. Best get out of here. He tried the right door. Declared it safe.

 

It wasn’t.

 

A dart flew out, missed his head, and ripped another hole in Inez’s dress. She sighed her disapproval. Fiddling with the lock, Finn’s picks couldn’t find any purchase. Switched to the other door. No traps. Tried the lock—no luck. Grabbed a better handhold and the door swung open — not locked. Cheeks red, he stepped aside. Let the others enter first.

The party stepped into the space beyond the door. The floor vanished.

 

They slid—screaming, cursing—into darkness.

 

When Silas was done—or bored or satisfied—he left Finn bleeding on the floor, not dead, not whole. Blood dripped from his nose. His lip was split. He touched his ribs—maybe cracked.

But he was alive. 

Rosslyn stirred, sniffed at his face, squeaked low and worried. Finn managed a smile. It tasted like iron. He held up his hand, a small, blackened iron key in his palm. Compact. Had the look of a master key.

“I’ve still got it, Ross, he said,” Finn muttered. He spat a tooth fragment into the corner.

He reached under the bunk. Drew out the loose tile he’d been working on for months. Behind it, the stash: a stolen hinge pin, two lengths of wire, a spoon ground to a point. Small things. Sharp things.

He set them on the floor like cards in a game. 

He wasn’t strong. He wasn’t big. But he was clever.

And clever gets out.

Always Has.