Session #4 as told by Finn

“A month to die”

Eastshore Prison, Cell 11 — The parchment crackled like dry skin in Finn’s hands. Official seal. Red wax. A little flourish at the end of his name, as if the scribe thought dying deserved a bit of calligraphy.

“Finneas Slynt, sentenced to hang by the neck until dead. Execution to be carried out on the first sun of the new month, in the public square.”

“Polite bastards,” he muttered, tossing the scroll to the floor. “They always add the full name when they mean to kill you. Like that makes it ceremonial.”

He sat back on his cot, which had three legs and the fourth replaced with a prayer book. Not his, of course. Some hopeful sod before him. The only prayers Finn muttered these days were curses muffled by sore knees. 

Rosslyn scurried along the edge of the wall and stopped, tilting her head. Finn tossed her a breadcrumb, already hard as stone.

“Got a month, Ross,” he said. “Four weeks. That’s time enough to die slow or live quick. And I don’t fancy hangin’.”

He stood, crossed the cell to the small barred window, and squinted. The prison yard below sprawled out like a wasted life—grim, cracked, and patrolled. But the outer walls? Still thick. Built for war, not for chains.

He smiled.

“There’s a difference between a man who fears his death and one who’s ready for it, Rosslyn. But I ain’t either. I’m just bored. And boredom makes for wicked plans.”

He began to pace. Step. Step. Turn.

“The kitchens are on the west side. The walls there are hollow—I heard a guard talkin’ about how the rats get in behind the flour barrels. That’s your lot, innit?”

Rosslyn twitched proudly.

“A halfling’s got one advantage, Rosslyn—we’re small. Two, if you count charm. Three, if you count the fact that no one ever looks down.”

He knelt, inspecting the floorboards beneath his cot.

“They think cells are meant to hold us in. But most of ’em don’t remember this place used to be a fortress. Fortresses have secrets. Soldiers carve escape into stone better than any thief ever could. They just called ’em ‘strategic corridors’ back then.”

He patted the floor.

“I just need to find the kitchen. Then the corridor. Then the outer wall. After that—well, I’ll improvise.”

 —  Two weeks later —

Finn wedged himself into a wall seam, dragging his shoulder bag ahead of him with the slow, patient tug of a grave robber exhuming something valuable. Dust clung to his sweat. The bricks felt tighter with every breath.

“This? This is nothing, Ross. Back then, I had poison in my blood and half a spider fang in my calf, but at least I wasn’t crawling through the arse-end of a fortress pretending to be a spider meself.”

He paused as a rusted pipe groaned overhead. Waited. Then shuffled on.

“We’d just dragged poor Jonathan back down the stairs, sticky with acid and bad decisions. Little bastard had a heart bigger than his brain. Always trying to light things up that were best left in the dark.”

Finn sucked in a breath and wriggled under a support beam, dust sifting down like memory.

Re-enterin’ that weird room again, stone cups waiting for our stones like it was some fancy dinner party—somethin’ had changed. The torchlight showed a greenish fog curlin’ in the air like a sour memory.

We all had those moonstones—needed ‘em to work the magic of the room. Me and Jonathan dropped ours in the little cups on the table straightaway, but Inez? She held hers like it was a secret she wasn’t ready to part with.

Once hers was in, though, the room lit up again and the staircase vanished into the ceiling like before. But the mist—it got thicker. My iron medallion burned hot against my chest, so I wrapped my hand in a scarf and held it away from my skin. “Yer knives heatin’ up too?” I asked the others. Sure enough, every bit of metal was cookin’. Didn’t seem friendly. I figured if the spirits down there hated iron, they’d hate a blade more than a medallion, so I swapped my medallion for the big chopper from Aalborr’s dungeon.

Old Finn snorted, wiping a cobweb off his brow as he twisted sideways, bracing one foot on an old beam, the other on a pipe slick with mildew. The wall space narrowed; he turned onto his belly.

“Funny, isn’t it, Ross? That we pay attention to the weird only when it starts biting.”

That’s when I heard it—scratching in the walls and skitterin’ under the table. My gut told me straight: Harrows. Old bogey-stories from my youth, soul-stealers and wall-walkers. Crawling back for unfinished business. Told the others, but they just looked at me like I’d farted at a funeral.

Then the rocks cracked, and hairy legs came wriggling through the wall like death wearing a toupee. Jonathan, genius that he is, lifts his moonstone to get a better look—turnin’ off the light and droppin’ the stairs again. As if pitch-black spider hell was an improvement.

I didn’t have time to scold him. I was done waiting. I made for the door—almost tripped over a loose flagstone just as a spider bigger than my bloody head popped out. I stabbed it with my torch. Lit up like a festival roast.

He paused again, feeling the faint vibrations of guard boots overhead. Six steps. Two guards. Regular pattern. Good.

He shifted his weight, squeezing into a vertical shaft once used to pass messages between tower levels. Another breath. Another prayer. Another inch.

“You know what the difference is between a fortress and a prison?” he whispered. “A fortress keeps the world out. A prison keeps it in. But no one ever built one for someone who was both.”

There was a thud behind me, but I didn’t pay it any attention. There were more legs. More fangs. I fought ‘em off as best I could, torch in hand, dancin’ like a fool. Yanked the door handle—it moved like a lever and spun the whole room like some cursed carnival ride. When the spin stopped, two more spiders pounced. One bit my hand—vision blurred like I’d had too much of that plum wine Inez kept in her pack. I stabbed again—burned the spider and myself. Pain woke me up good.

Missed the next one, so I did the only thing I could: jumped up and crushed the bastard under my shins. Splattered my trousers in spider guts. Felt like a win. Painful. But a win.

I turned and there they were—Jonathan and Inez, both down. One of the spiders was crawling on Inez, and I didn’t think—I just ran and whacked it with the torch. The last one ran off when it saw its pals crisped and crushed.

I tried to wake them. Nothing. Spider poison’s a nasty thing. Jonathan, the healer, always the one needin’ healin’. Typical.

Old Finn paused, panting, his ribs scraping stone. From somewhere above, a guard’s boot clicked faintly. He didn’t move. Waited. Whispered low.

I tried the ol’ smuggler’s wedge trick—pinchin’ under the nose like we did back in Aalborr’s caves. Didn’t help. Though Jonathan twitched a little. So I cleaned his wounds with what was left of my water—he needed it anyway like you wouldn’t believe.

Inez though… still cold. Her leg was swelling, stocking clinging like death’s own bandage.

Had to peel it off—delicate work, I tell ya. Found two little spider teeth buried in her skin. Yanked ’em out with a prayer to whoever listens to bastards like me. Still no response.

So I did what any good halfling does—I improvised.

I looked through her pack—by all the gods, she was travelin’ in style. Wine, pickled quail eggs, soft cheeses. No medicine though.

I asked myself: What would Jonathan do? If he weren’t droolin’ on the flagstones, he’d probably whip up a potion. I had wine, salt, and an idea. Old Marda Slynt used to train the roosters for the Slynt’s Cockfight betting scam. One of the premier matchups was fightin’ poisonous giant centipedes. She’d mix a bit of centipede venom in with the bird’s feed to help ‘em with buildin’ resistance to venom.

I squeezed a bit of goo—might’ve been poison, might’ve been brains—from a dead spider and stirred it into the wine with my hot knife. Poured a bit into Inez’ mouth. Then Jonathan’s. Risky? Aye. But they didn’t die right away, which I took as a good sign.

Inez coughed like she’d swallowed fire. Crawled to a wall and looked at me like I’d betrayed her personally. Jonathan stirred too—sluggish, but alive. I gave him cheese and goat jerky. That did the trick.

Torch was dyin’, so I borrowed one from Inez’s pack. The green fog had thinned by then. But the room still stank of webs and fear.

“I’d like to leave this place now,” I said. And no one argued.

We collected our stones. I led the way up, Inez held the light, Jonathan stumbled along at the rear. The hatch wouldn’t budge for me—poisoned hands, I figured. Inez muttered a spell and it blew open like a bad secret. Wind whistled in and Jonathan started askin’ questions no one wanted to answer.

But above us? Our camp, just as we’d left it. Even the owlbear chicks were still there—bless their murderous little faces. Me, I was just glad it meant breakfast was sorted.

Crawled into my tent. Closed my eyes. Next thing I knew, it was tomorrow.

He winked at Rosslyn, who twitched her whiskers from a nearby pipe. And that, Rosslyn, is how a halfling survives a nest of magic spiders with nothin’ but a torch, some wine, and a dangerous idea. Now hush—we’re comin’ up on the kitchen vents, and if I don’t squeeze just right, we’ll both be spider food.”

He reached the junction where the corridor should open into the outer barracks wall—a door hidden behind a false panel in the supply room. He scraped away the chalky buildup, heart racing, and braced himself to pry it open.

But behind the stone… nothing. Not a hollow. Not air. Just more wall.

“Blocked,” Finn breathed.

He pressed his head to the wall. From the other side, faint echoing boots. Patrols. Guards.

He slumped, back against the stone.

“Well, Ross, that’s it then. Either I go out in front of a crowd, swingin’ in my best shirt, or I crawl back and wait for plan bloody B.”

Rosslyn squeaked and curled around his hand.

He closed his eyes.

“Back to the cell it is. But not to stay.”

Pre-prequel: Twiddling or the first diary entry by Inez

 Pre-prequel: Twiddling or the first diary entry by Inez

Dear diary,

Welcome to my life! As it’s my thirty-ninth birthday, my so-called Twiddling, which for gnomes in Nook means a big deal, and you’re my favorite gift I received on that occasion! Presented by Dr.Vexora, who hereby gets the honor of being the first person named in my diary to show my gratitude.

 Not saying I’m not grateful for all the other gifts. Every guest really had put efforts and thought into it, and I really felt twiddled. However, for a ‘Nook Twiddling party’ it was a really small affair with few guests. That all has hopefully nothing to do with me, and all with my father’s business and reputation, but that’s a story for another time,  dear diary.

So once more welcome, dear diary! Let me start by showing you our house. As I’m writing this I’m sitting outside on the stairs leading to our front door. Dr Vexara was the last guest leaving and let her out and waved goodbye, thanking her once more for getting me this nice gift. She was also the first guest to arrive this morning, insisting on doing some serious study like scheduled. That was a bit of a bummer, dear diary, despite that I really like her lessons; both the official and the other stuff, but that’s a story for another time,  dear diary. Still she insisted, stating that even a young gnome like me should learn to take some responsibilities, especially at this occasion. So, there I sat, doing serious arithmetics on my Twiddling day!

But her gift was perfect and she’s always good company, even as she’s my teacher.  My mother will certainly complain to me later on: “Not only did she stay for the whole day, but I have to pay her for a lesson as well.” My other teacher,  High keeper Ironmantle, also paid a visit. Luckily just a visit, no lesson in etiquette, but I’m sure my performance as hostess will be reviewed next time he comes over. And probably with lots of remarks and needs for improvement. Today he sufficed with a reprimand for both my dress and curtsy showing:  ‘Little lady, when ye curtone’s presentation should suggest dignity... not display, even gnomes should be able to achieve a certain level. This dress and the depth of your dip, I could near read yer future in the valley between your buttons.’ But though he is an old dwarven grumbler, I know he’s fond of me, and he too brought a great gift: a contract case. It’s engraved with dwarven runes to protect documents stored in it and even has a secret compartment. “Working for this office, it will have it’s use” he remarked with a wry smile. 

My parents gave me two binding ledgers, one engraved with the name of my fathers solicitor’s practice (‘Nook City counting house’) , the other one with my name. As my father handed the first one to me, he stated: “My daughter, this is not only to affirm that you have grown old enough to step into my footsteps, but also to express our thanks for your work in the practice in the last time.” Which was very sweet of him, dear diary! My mother handed me the second one, adding that: “We hope that your next steps will be wise, and that they will take you to where you need to go.” Which was also very nice, dear diary, since the three of us had some serious clashes lately. But that's a story for some other time, dear diary. Will this mean that they will grant me a greater license to do what I want and accept my choices? No matter what, it’s a much better present than a new dress or tiara to add to the package of ideal bride for a rich gnome son of a proper family! So this all ended with my mother and I crying together, my father pretending to console us and not at all being touched himself.

My dwarven school friend Thorga came over just to congratulate me, using the staff entrance. Her father does not want to be associated with fathers office, so her sneaking in was a big deal. Dwarfs, honour and grudges, still she showed up! She even brought me a gift, a self-made friendship bracelet! It’s in the same style as the one she wears herself (and that I was a bit jealous of), allegedly the runes on the bracelet hint that the two of us are now ‘bound forever’.  I thanked her as gracefully as my dwarven etiquette lessons have taught me, then hugged her in a gnomish way! It was good to see her, but sad that it had to be in secret and short.

You’ll probably have found out by now that I like to digress, dear diary. It’s great to have someone to write to! Sitting here, enjoying the last sunbeams of the day, I’ll try to get back to the promised topic: Our house. So, we’re now in the garden in front of the house. Looking from above it has the shape of a low gallow with one upright post on the left and a long crossbeam stretching to the right . Dear diary, if my mother would hear me describe the house like this, she would say: "You’ll never charm a suitor by whispering with the graveworms." I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to it, diary. 

The garden reaches from the base of the post to the lower right corner beam, creating a sort of strange sign pointing towards the cross road where several main roads of Nook are meeting. This bottom line of this triangle is formed by shrubbery, interrupted in the middle to allow a way through from the street to the main entry door. Our garden and its shrubbery wall are the last to stand in this street, other gardens have been taken over by stalls or are being used as parking spots for stagecoaches, ponies and horses. Being a solicitor has some advantages when it comes to guarding your property! Not only the merchants and coachmen stand by our gardenwall, also the schoolchildren and bullies obey this line.Which makes this little place a small safe haven where I, sometimes joined by my good friend Thorga, hang out and look out over Nook’s city life. For my parents (and our staff!) the few steps through the garden mean that visitors lose the dirt from their shoes before entering the office. But let us now enter the house ourselves!

The main door is huge, even for tall folk, you have to take the two step stair (one step for the long legs) up, step through and then go down the same height again, because the stair is only there to make an impression. And making an impression is what the whole ground floor is meant to do! Upon entering the hall your eyes would fall on the altar for Helm. Though not exuberant, Helm is about vigilance not spectacle, the granite stone construct is about my size, framed by stout carved wooden columns, like the gate of a fortress. On top of it is a with runes engraved dais, where offerings can be placed. Mounted on the stone Helm’s unblinking visage is depicted, a polished steel mask. Which I always find a bit odd for a solicitor like my father, he would never wear armour or ride to war. The gnome knight of Nook would not last long on a battlefield, dear diary!

Left of the altar is a normal door, small and almost undetectable for great folks as a bit of magic and trompe-l'œil is used to hide it for visitors. This leads to the parallel hallway, used by staff and ourselves to move quickly and unseen by visitors. To the right it leads you to the small stairway, leading to the first and second floor (only findable and accessible for small folk!). The whole wall of the high hallway is painted like marble and covered by big paintings of landscapes. All there to instill the idea that this is the most trustworthy practice to negotiate your businesses. Same goes for the big entry door directly to the left, leading to the main office. Here business guests are met and deals arranged. With an impressive collection of books on the inside walls and huge windows on the outside ones, this used to be my fathers kingdom. Nowadays it’s been more or less conquered by my mother and me, doing the paperwork and preparing meetings as much as possible. Only when guests arrive do we retreat, leaving my father to handle this and keep up the appearance for the outside world. Though sometimes I have to serve his clients, especially gnomish (‘Such a dutiful daughter, and the looks of a dancing queen, but no carriage at the door.’) and halfling (‘Your sure this little elven princess is your daughter?’) companies are apparently in need of my services. If things get too cosy I sneak out through the small backdoor, into my father’s study, the last resort where he spends most of his time nowadays.

From there, there’s a backdoor, yes to another backdoor, dear diary, leading to the true central hall. Our house is built on top of an old dwarven depository that sat itself on top of a depleted mine. This central hall forms together with the kitchen and stables the ‘upright post of the gallow’. Looking right (or ‘North?’) the hall ends with a door to the right to the parallel passage and an exit  to the left towards the staff entry (The third backdoor, our house feels like a collection of backdoors, dear diary). To the left (or ‘South?’) you’ll find the big spiraling staircase, leading both up, to the first and second floor, and down, towards the main room and sleeping quarters. In the middle of the hall there’s our kitchen. All rooms downstairs, together with the kitchen, form my mothers domain, still some of the kitchen staff might dispute this. As the ‘little lady’, I’m tolerated here by both mother and maids, the latter pretending to take orders from me. 

My father rarely descends the spiraling staircase anymore and neither do I, as I have found excuses (‘This document needs to be finished before tomorrow, father has not even started working on it!’) to settle in my study on the second floor. Achieving the privateness to do my own studying, but that’s a story for another time, dear diary.

From the sounds coming from the kitchen I conclude that our staff has reclined there, so let’s not disturb them, dear diary. We’ll use the spiral to move two floors up, towards my study. Only the ‘upright section’ of the first floor is accessible, as the segment above the public parts of the ground floor was broken away to make space for the heads of the tall folks. Leaving a narrow corridor above the parallel hallway, where you can sit and eavesdrop on the conversations taken place below. As I did many times, but that's a story for another time, dear diary.

The second floor is more or less compartmentalized the same way as the ‘crossbeam part’ of the ground floor. As the great hall is missing, both my study (above my father’s study) and the library (above the main office) are bigger than their lower counterparts. My study is so much bigger that a bed was easily fitted in, so I don’t have to use the one in the gnomish part of the house. And it’s here that I have found my kingdom. It’s quiet and dusty, with books and archived scrolls filling the cabinet after cabinet. Neither my parents or staff members will visit this part. Which suits me fine, and dear diary, this will make a perfect hiding place for the both of us. For all that, not the most ‘upper class’ part of the house, but I’m rather ambivalent about the ‘better sort’ of Nook’s gnomes, but that’s a story for another time, dear diary.

And here I will end our tour and the first entry, dear diary. Hope to write to you soon!

Session #3 as told by Finn

 Session #3 as told by Finn

 Read: Session #3 as told by Inez here..

Waiting for Time to Pass

 

Finn sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor of his cell, back propped against the wall, hands resting on his knees. The prison was quiet, save for the distant drip of water and the occasional scurry of rats in the dark.

 

One such rat—a plump little gray thing—sat comfortably on his knee, chewing on a stolen crumb. Finn ran a calloused finger down her back, watching as she twitched her whiskers.

 

“Y’know, Rosslyn,” he murmured, voice thick with years of cheap whiskey and worse decisions, “prison’s mostly just waitin’. Waitin’ for the next meal, the next piss break, the next time they remember you’re rottin’ away in here. Now, me? I don’t mind it much. The old, we’ve already had our stories. No hurry to make new ones. But the young?” He let out a dry chuckle. “The young can’t stand it. They need things to happen. Can’t just sit and let time do what it does.”

 

His fingers drummed against his knee.

 

“Jonathan and Inez—they always needed things to happen.”

 

Rosslyn twitched her tail.

 

Finn exhaled through his nose. “Jonathan, now he was a bloody disaster wrapped up in a cleric’s robes. They don’t always hand out divine wisdom to those with the strongest faith. Sometimes they pick the ones who can take a beating and still get up smiling.” He smirked. “Jonathan could take a lot of beatings.”

 

Rosslyn’s little beady eyes stared at him, unimpressed.

 

“And Inez,” Finn continued, shaking his head, “Inez was somethin’ else. Too sharp for her own good. City girl, through and through, but with a mean streak like a noble’s bastard daughter. Thought she was all refined and proper, ‘til you turned yer back and found her pickin’ a lock or makin’ somethin’ explode. And—” Finn grinned, tapping the side of his nose, “—secretly? Hot as the Nine Hells.”

 

Rosslyn let out a bored little chitter.

 

“Oh, don’t give me that look, Rosslyn. I’m old, not dead.”

 

He let out a breath and tilted his head back against the cold stone.

 

“Anyway. We were out lookin’ for moonstones. A simple job, right? Ha. Ha. Ha.”

 

Jonathan, Inez, and Finn had set up camp in the middle of the fourth field, their tents pitched beside a standing monolith. The moon hung fat and red in the sky, an eclipse creeping across its surface.

 

Jonathan was struggling to get a fire going. Finn was up to his elbows in owlbear guts, cursing his luck. Inez had kept the owlbear chicks around and Finn would fling bits and pieces of their mother at them. The critters had little compunction about eating their mother. Something was said between Inez and Jonathan, and they quickly wandered off to inspect the monolith.

 

“Can’t say I was too bothered about spendin’ a bit of time by myself. Inez never could keep her nose outta things. Somethin’ mysterious shows up, and she’s gotta poke at it like a cat with a bug. See where it gets her and Jonno”

 

Inez pulled out her arcane focus—a fancy little prism—and tried to do a bit of magic—the monolith wasn’t impressed. Meanwhile, Jonathan, in his usual manner, had decided to tempt fate and take a stroll around the stark monolith. Of course, he tripped over a rock and smacked face-first into the dirt.

 

“I’m tellin’ ya, the man had negative survival instincts. If he wasn’t gettin’ hit by somethin’, he’d find a way to trip, fall, or otherwise make life miserable for himself.”

 

Then, the wind shifted. Singing. Soft, eerie, comin’ from the field they’d just left—the one full of spiders. Sounded like marching music, like something was coming.

 

The two city kids were fascinated and moved towards the singing. Finn scowled. “Nope.” Unconsciously putting a hand on his father’s iron medallion hanging from his neck.

 

“We’d best stay put! The Harrows….” Inez, being Inez, ignored him completely and walked off. Jonathan, excitedly, following Inez like it was some grand adventure and spider hadn’t tried to eat him.

 

Finn, cursing under his breath, went after them. But decided to walk just off the road to be able to surprise a—surprise—coming at them.

 

“Bloody city folk—no sense of danger, no survival instinct, just straight-up walkin’ toward the creepy singin’ in the middle of the night like they wanted to die.”

 

Inez and Jonathan followed the song all the way back to the stone field. The stones had started glowin’, eerie blue light flickerin’ between them. Finn, must have caught something from Jonathan, tripped over a bush, tumbled out onto the road, and landed flat on his back beneath Inez’s dress.

 

Inez raised a single, unimpressed eyebrow before pulling him up.

 

“A woman of few words, that one. Except when she was givin’ me a headache.”

 

The field they had passed through with the unassuming stones all over it, now a several stone glowing with an earie blue, milky light.

 

“Guess that old coot in the robes, that was Jonathan’s Gran’pa wasn’t so crazy after all.”

 

Inez tried to pick up one of the glowing moonstones. Didn’t budge. Finn, glancing around at the creepy field, decided speed was of the essence. He didn’t want to stick around for whatever was singing aways further back.

 

“Right,” he muttered. “If I get ye a rock, can we leave?” Inez seemed to agree without too much commitment. Using his knife, Finn pried a stone loose and handed it to her. Strangely, where it had been heavy before and Inez couldn’t lift it, now as it was light as a feather. “As we were trying to decide who was bullshittin’ who”, Jonathan walked up and started yoking about how strong Inez was. “I guess the priest wasn’t just sweet of animals”

 

“Now Rosslyn—you may wonder—why didn’t you collect the moonstones for yourself?”, said Old Finn as he tapped his nose. “A grey stone, that lights up once a month under the Moonlight. Who needs that? A coal can do that too! When you want! And you can cook on coals!” Old Finn looking smugly at the moving rat that was scratching at his shirt.

 

Then Inez, being Inez, decided one stone wasn’t enough. She wanted more. Finn, exasperated, took a bite of his smuggler’s wedge to steady his nerves, turned on his heel and went back to camp.

 

“At this point, I figured, let ‘em have their shiny rocks. I had an owlbear stew to finish. Priorities.”

 

“Now Rosslyn, I’m not certain what happened out there. But when Jonathan and Inez returned, Inez was carrying three moonstones, big smile on her face. Jonathan came back empty handed. And I kid you not; as they walked into camp, the Friggin’ monolith began to lit up, runes burning across its surface!” The ground rumbled. Then, with a deep groan, the stone slid aside, revealing a spiraling staircase leading underground.

 

Jonathan, never one to pass up a terrible idea, yelled “Adventure!” and ran towards the stairs.

 

Finn sighed so hard his soul nearly left his body. “Halflings are supposed to be the sensible ones. I think he missed that particular gene.”

 

Finn cursed and clutched his iron medallion, wincing as it grew hot against his skin—uncomfortably so.

 

Jonathan, always eager for adventure, cast Light on his dart and, ever the optimist, prepared to head down. Inez and Jonathan each took a moonstone. Inez made hers disappear down the front of her dress—like magic—and tried to hand Finn one as well. But between the glowing sigils and his burning medallion, Finn wanted no part of this. Inez simply shrugged and set the largest stone on the ground before taking the medium-sized one for herself.

 

As Jonathan and Inez descended the stairs, Finn—muttering yet another curse—stuffed the large moonstone into his backpack, unwilling to leave it behind. Then, grudgingly, he followed them down.

 

Underground Chamber

The steps were human-sized, forcing Finn to climb down carefully. They led into a round chamber with a stone table in the center, upon which sat three cups of varying sizes.

 

“One thought crept through my head; Had we wondered back into one of Aalborr’s amusement halls?”

 

Cursing himself a fool, he turned to find Jonathan eyeing the whole situation like some grand puzzle, completely missing the gravity of their predicament.

 

Each of the cups matched one of the moonstones they had taken. Jonathan placed his small stone into the smallest cup. Inez hesitated, refusing to part with hers. Finn, with a long-suffering sigh, swung his backpack off his shoulder and pulled out the large stone. He set it snugly into the largest cup. Jonathan and Inez frowned at him.

 

Finn crossed his arms. “What? I thought we might bloody need it.”

 

Finally, Inez relented, placing her stone in the middle cup. The room lit up, and the staircase spun away, and the monolith above slammed shut, sealing them in.

Glancing around; one end of the room had a lever on the floor, opposite the lever on the other end of the room was a door. Jonathan, naturally, tried to open the door and immediately failed. Inez, not understanding the concept of how doors worked, ripped the doorknob off.

 

Finn stared. “Well, guess none of us know how doors work.”

 

The priest of good cheer—Jonathan—walked to the other end, laughing, immediately reached for the lever without a thought or care. Finn grabbed his arm. “Hold on.”

 

“Y’know, because self-preservation.”

 

After a thorough check for traps, Finn, satisfied there was no immediate danger, let Jonathan pull the lever.

 

Nothing.

 

Inez, ever impatient, yanked it back—sending the entire room spinning like a damn carnival ride.

 

Finn, cursing and slightly panicked, turned back to the door. Forget the lever; he could do this the right way. His lockpicks made quick work of it, and the door swung open with no resistance.

 

Beyond was only darkness.

 

Finn called for Jonathan to use his Light-spelled dart to light the way. The dart illuminated little—just a single flagstone. Annoyed, Finn grabbed the dart and tossed it further in. Still, it revealed barely anything before the light flickered out.

 

Inez, fortunately, had the sense to bring torches. Lighting one revealed a corridor leading to another stairway—this time going up.

 

They decided to take the moonstones with them. Strangely, their weights had shifted again. Jonathan found himself unable to lift the smallest one, but Inez, for some reason, could. She looked relieved to tuck it back into her cleavage.

 

“She had this way of keeping things in that dress of hers. I tell you, I saw her pull out an entire focus, two vials of ink, and a bloody notebook one time. Like a wizard’s personal vault, right there on her person. Fascinating woman.”

 

As Inez removed the stone from the cup, the spiral staircase descended once more. “I thought we could get out, but I should have known better.”

 

The Cube

Finn, wanting to get out of this mess, started up the stairs. But Jonathan, ever obsessed with treasure, insisted they explore further.

 

“Treasure?” Finn paused mid-step. Damn it. With a resigned sigh, he turned back, took a bite of cheese, and motioned for Jonathan to lead the way. “If he wanted adventure, he could walk in the front for once.”

 

That’s when they heard it.

 

Then, from the dark corridor beyond, came a wet, flopping sound.

 

Finn’s gut dropped. “Jonathan. Shut the door.”

 

Jonathan froze. And started to call for Inez.

 

“The door, Jonathan!”

 

Too late.

 

A translucent mass lurched out of the darkness—a gelatinous cube. It surged forward, engulfing Jonathan before he could react.

 

Inez, still in control of her senses, yanked the lever. The room spun, and the door slammed shut—and slicing the cube apart.

 

Unfortunately, that meant acid—which Jonathan took directly to the face. The poor bastard collapsed, unconscious. Inez started crying. Finn, cursing his entire existence, grabbed his water flask and started washing away the acid.

 

“A man gets himself melted, and what does she do? Cry. Bloody useless.”

 

“Tear cloth for bandages!” he ordered.

 

Inez, apparently still concerned with decorum, cut strips from Jonathan’s cloak rather than her own dress. “Typical!” Between the two of them, they managed to stabilize Jonathan. But lifting him was another problem. Finn, despite his halfling strength, found him far too dense. Inez, ever resourceful, pulled out an arcane focus and cast Unseen Servant—a ghostly force lifting Jonathan for her.

 

With their unconscious companion floating along, the three—now four—climbed the stairs.

Through sheer stubbornness, they got Jonathan back to camp.

 

A Different World

Emerging at the top, they expected to find their camp. Instead, they stood in the ruins of an unfamiliar place, in a field surrounded by trees. Above them, the moon shone silver—not red.

 

Finn’s medallion still burned against his chest, and now his knives, too, seared his skin. He quickly tucked them away in his satchel. “Let’s find cover,” he said, eyeing the treeline.

 

Jonathan began to stir, prompting Finn to shove a piece of cheese into his mouth. The halfling groaned back to life. Inez, relieved, kissed Jonathan’s forehead. Finn felt an unexpected twinge of jealousy.

 

Then Inez, thinking of her owlbear cubs, mimicked an owlbear’s call. A deep, guttural growl answered. Another call followed.

 

The three exchanged looks.

 

Finn paled. “Back inside. Now.”

 

Finn smirked at Rosslyn. “And that, Rosslyn, is why patience is a virtue.” Rosslyn twitched her whiskers. Finn chuckled, leaned back, and closed his eyes.