Ancient tombs never sat right with Barnabas. The dwarf stiffened, his nose still cold from the howling winds outside despite descending several staircases now. He knew human churches had graveyards and catacombs, it was where humans who couldn’t afford to house their deceased family put them, but the state of disrepair and negligence bristled him more than the icy winter above. Unlike the weather, he had no coat to protect his feelings. “It’s a disgrace,” Barnabas said aloud. Bahralpha, a white-scaled kobold with a sour look in the best of circumstances, glared at him. He shrugged. “It is. Back at the Tinsmit family hold we’d be considered laughing stocks if we let our ancestor’s resting place be covered in cobwebs and dust.” He waved his hand to the examples listed amongst the long tombs of humans. Cracked stone coffins or rotted wood for the ones stacked on shelves along the walls. Despite the many cobwebs that started to stick to his braided beard, he noticed an influx of insects. Roaches were the most common, bringing back unfavorable memories of his family’s view of elves. Without light the trio were forced to rely on their natural sight underground, limiting everything to hues of black, white, and gray. In shades of gray, he watched Bahralpha roll her eyes at his complaints. “Barnabas, not everyone cares so much about the dead,” She said. “And I weep for their ancestors.” The dwarf bowed his head to the closest batch of coffins they passed. “This is why humans always have an undead problem. You never hear about dwarven halls being infested with our long-dead ancestors walking again, craving dwarven flesh.” He shot his two arms out and mirrored the limping gait of a zombie, different from the skeletons that filled the halls but it got his point across. At least he assumed so with Blenafee, their cute goblin bard, chuckling in response. “You left my tomb to rot,” he bellowed, tongue lolling aside to slur his speech. “I crave retribution, grandson!” Bahralpha thwacked her staff across his hand before he reached the goblin. “Be quiet!” She hissed, finger to her lip, “There’s a reason we’re not walking around with a torch. Do you want to give us away?” He blinked. “No?” Sounding unsure of what she meant specifically. Seeing through his confusion, Bahralpha dragged a hand across her long scaly snout and mumbled under her breath. “Barnabas, why are we here?” The dwarf turned to Blenafee for answers but the goblin whistled quietly. Something about those soft cheeks of his made Barnabas want to pinch him. “Uh…it’s got something to do with the undead, right?” The kobold’s body deflated so much with the sigh she had to hold herself by the staff. “Why does this surprise me? This happens every time. Do you ever pay attention to my plans? Be honest.” He opened his mouth to comment but she continued, “As you should know, we’re here to find the puzzle box of the mad saint Kraigeist.” “Why was he mad?” Barnabas asked, leaving the kobold’s maw hanging open. “Because he asked for the firstborn child of his followers. Then the towns, until eventually the entire province.” Blenafee interrupted before she could answer. The goblin winked when she grit her teeth. “What? I’m a bard. If I don’t pay attention to stories then no one will.” “Why the saint was mad isn’t important,” she snapped, tapping her staff at the floor like a gavel in court. “What matters is his puzzle box, which houses a map to the treasure of–” “So it’s a guffin?” Barnabas stroked his beard. Both his companions raised their brow so he continued. “You know, an important item? Like some fancy wizard's book, a chalice of legend, or just a gem. Target of a job. Not really important to us, but important to our patron.” After a pause, he asked, “Who is the patron anyway?” “We don’t have one this time,” Bahralpha straightened herself, adjusting the thick layers of cloth and fur covering her body. While kobolds weren’t as cold-blooded as Barnabas was raised to believe, and Bahralpha had a closer connection to the cold than they did, the weather did not do her any favors. At least he and Blenafee could keep agile with cloaks of sheep wool over their armor. She covered herself in two jackets and a scarf which wrapped around her maw when her eyes shifted away. “I figured we could get the treasure for ourselves. Better for our coffers.” The dwarf shrugged. Like with the mission details, if she told him before he’d have forgotten so there was no point to being angry. Besides, patron or not mattered little to him when the adventure was what he craved. Writing wrongs, slaying monsters, and spending nights with his two favorite companions. If it weren’t for the decrepit state of the crypt, he’d jump into song. Instead, he returned to his gait, playfully wrapping his burly arms around the delicate goblin and nibbling at his ear. “Pay your respects,” he whispered. Giggling, the lithe goblin slipped free. “You know that’s just superstition, right? If the dead walked simply because of disrespect, then the world would be swimming in goblin corpses. Kobold too, right Bahralpha?” Bahralpha hazily shook her hand, being more occupied being the only acting adult in their party. The deeper they traveled the colder it felt. Barnabas hugged himself, fighting both the shivers and the urge to ask their leader to light a torch. Blenafee kept close to him on the steps, smiling softly with a look telling the dwarf he’d be his source of heat and more. He was sure the goblin was being his usual flirtatious self, but something about today made it feel like there was more. Past the cracked and moldy tombs stood a wide door with rusted hinges and a locked bolt. It was too tall for humans as far as Barnabas was concerned, but he’d seen enough towering doors in his family home to know the difference between a practical entryway and an affluent one. They still fell under the blade of his axe, with the rotted wood breaking apart like paper under his weight. Bahralpha lit a torch when she stepped inside, assured there were no enemies abound after the echoed chopping. Barnabas blinked, then rubbed his eyes to be sure they were not mistaken. There was a second church underneath the church they’d entered. Instead of wooden pews and brown carpets stained with dust and mud, gold and gems littered every facet of it. The pews were lined with golden plating, the ground littered, no, planted with jewels of various cuts and colors. Sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and diamonds glittered beneath their feet. Blenafee stepped between the precious stones as if they could cut through his leather soles. “For once I’m happy to be wearing boots.” Barnabas, blindsided by the decadence of this abandoned church, nodded absentmindedly. Humans always expected him to be frugal, obsessive even, with money because of his dwarven heritage. But not even the great mountain kings line walkways with gems. He knew dwarves that were greedy, but they hid their treasures behind vault doors or large homes. To put one’s gold so boldly on display felt hypocritical. For the first time tonight, he could blame his shivering grip on something other than the cold. Blenafee held his shoulder. The dwarf paused to collect himself, releasing a white wisp in exhalation. He scarcely noticed a difference now that a torch burned. “At least this isn’t a complete waste,” Bahralpha said, more to herself than her companions as she kicked away a discarded skull from the path forward. “Blenafee, see if you can find anything loose to put in the bag of holding. Barnabas, help me with the coffin.” “Is that a good idea?” The goblin asked. Barnabas, for once, shared the same peculiar gaze as their kobold leader. “What? I’m not against taking the puzzle box, but taking all this gold seems more like standard grave robbing rather than grave robbing with a purpose.” Their leader answered with a raise of her torch, revealing carvings across the wall etched in the image of stained glass windows. Her two companions surveyed each, following a story starting with the rise of the cult’s leader, the gathering of firstborns, the sacrifice, and the raiding. The vivid detail on the more violent pieces robbed the dwarf of any moral concerns. “I do not care for the opinions of long-dead murderers and fanatics,” Bahralpha stated, putting the matter to rest. Gold plating with inlaid gems covered the stone coffin. Already sick of the opulence, Barnabas jammed a crowbar between the wedges. Stone ground against stone, clattering to the floor with a metallic ring from the metal. Expecting a skeleton inside, Barnabas instead saw a withered body with lines of precious metals etched over the dried husk. Closer inspection revealed there was a purpose to it, though the exact reason why fell out of his expertise. He suspected madness needed no reason to fill the blood vessels with gold and the nerves with silver. “Something’s not right.” Bahralpha leaned closer, illuminating the coffin by torchlight. Rather than a pillow or cushion the body lay on a bed of gems. Between two hands crossed over its chest lay a cube of varied metals. Gold, silver, and platinum. The puzzle box. “What’s not right?” He asked, reaching for the box, “Isn’t this what we’re looking for?” Bahralpha squinted as she surveyed. “There’s a lack of–Wait!” He wrenched the box away before he heard her. The corpse’s eyes lit up, one socket filled with a ruby and the other a sapphire. Its neck turned with the sound of twisting metal, mouth open with gold-plated teeth shaking in a scream that rattled Barnabas. Dragging footsteps and lifeless breaths came from behind them. Blenafee shouted in panic, ducking under a wild sword sweep and weaving through skeletal hands trying to grab him. “There were no cobwebs!” Bahralpha shouted, taking the cube from the dwarf and stowing it in her pack. “No dust! They’ve been taking care of it.” “Who?” He knew the answer the moment he spoke. A cult leader as vain as this one, even in death, wouldn’t let themselves waste away like their followers. Barnabas drew his axe and shield, rattling the flat of the blade against the round wooden circle. The undead weren’t known to be intimidated, but loud noises did well to keep their attention. “What’s the plan?” He glanced back to the kobold, already making hand signs for a spell. His reflexes took hold before she answered. Twisting around he bashed the back of his shield against the golden corpse’s face, interrupting whatever foul sorcery it called forth. “Help Blenafee with the horde. I have the spellcaster,” She ordered. Barnabas jumped down to the pews right as Blenafee strummed his lyre. Four illusory copies of the goblin appeared, each a perfect mirror of the dancing bard from his determined grin to his skipping legs. A skeleton lurched forward with a spear strike through one of the copies, leaving it open for the back of Barnabas’s axe to shatter its spine. Unlike most battleaxes, his was designed to have a warhammer-like end opposite of the blade. A weapon for slashing and bashing, perfect for the traveling treasure hunter. “Your bones aren’t fit for a xylophone! Are you sure those are your feet or did someone replace them when you weren’t looking?” Blenafee threw barbed words left and right at every skeleton. The goblin wasn’t one to use physical weaponry. Fighting the mindless dead with words should have been a failing strategy but luckily the skeletons seemed to be taken aback by the insults, with some faltering to ponder their predicament. Perfect openings for the dwarf. Yet they kept coming. More entered through the hole the party made venturing in. Its small size limited the skeletons to one at a time, but that was faster than Barnabas’s axe could fall. Normally Bahralpha would rain down ice or send chilling winds over hordes of enemies, whittling them down as well as slowing them to a crawl. With her focus pulled to the high priest, it left them in a battle of attrition with unfavorable odds. He turned to check, battering another skeleton on his shield. The kobold and gold-lined corpse were locked in a staring contest, hands weaving spells their mouths uttered only to be interrupted by counters. They might as well have been children pretending, though Barnabas knew that even two master fighters facing each other could be ended in one strike. It stood to reason that magic was similar. Still didn’t make him any less impatient for support. “Hurry up!” “She’s got it under control!” Blenafee said, dancing over spears thrust low. He meant well but Barnabas guessed he hadn’t noticed the hands clawing at the door. Skeletons were squeezing two at a time now, their fleshless fingers dragging along the wood as a third tried to enter with them. Some turned away from approaching them and focused their attention on removing the latched door. Few of Blenafee’s spells were fit to hit large crowds in combat, and Barnabas couldn’t move forward lest he let skeletons stab their sorcerous leader in the back. “Bahralpha! We need something big!” He shouted as two spears pierced his wooden shield. Locking them with a twist of his arm he wrenched the weapons out and cleaved two heads, sprinkling the floor with spinal disks then the rest of the skeletons. “Now!” Blenafee tried to shout something but it came out as a scream. The dwarf’s heart froze. Everything sped up yet he felt faster and more observant, witnessing an arrow jutting out from the goblin’s shoulder. While he lacked the battle-rage of ancestral heroes, Barnabas felt their ghosts fueling him forward. With his broken shield up he rammed the skeletons asunder. “Bahralpha!” He shouted as loud as his lungs could manage. Not the last words he wanted, but poetic last words were the territories of epics and fables. The air boomed with her voice. No, not Bahralpha’s voice. The kobold had a feminine if raspy, pitch that was common amongst her kind. This voice was deep and eldritch, strumming the strings of the weave to utter arcane words. From her outstretched hands came a conical gale of freezing wind that harried the first line. Icicles and broken bones flung off them, impaling the second while the gust pushed back the third. The horde clumped up together, bones linked by the impact, turning the mass of skeletons into a singular mass of bones unable to move. Then came fire. Not from Bahralpha, but from the goblin underneath Barnabas’s shield. A scroll in one hand burned to ash while the other directed a great sphere of fire, hurtling it toward the writhing pile of skeletons. For the first time since entering the catacombs, Barnabas felt warmth. His shield was not meant for two but he raised it high, curling himself to as much of a ball he could to cover himself and Blenafee. The resounding boom sent bone shards ricocheting over the sanctum, embedding themselves into his shield. The kobold’s cry pulled Barnabas from Blenafee. The corpse rose from its tomb, wielding a jeweled scepter like a mace with flakes of white scales caught between the gems. Bahralpha was on the ground clutching her shoulder. The wealth-laden corpse raised its weapon to finish her off. Dwarf legs were not made for leaping but Barnabas defied the notion. Interposed between them he raised his splintered shield at an angle. It shattered upon impact, bouncing the scepter far enough to send the assailant off balance. With his second hand free he gripped around the heft of his weapon and swung the axe blade deep into the corpse’s flesh. Gold veins and silver nerves halted his blade. He pulled away but found the weapon lodged into its dried skin and muscle. With a breathless laugh, it looked down at him with jeweled eyes, raising its scepter to crush the dwarf’s skull. Barnabas could hear his ancestors chiding him for not wearing his damned helmet. “All this gold and…no account for…taste,” Blenafee called out, wheezing in pain. The cult leader paused, turning its head to the goblin lying at the pews. It opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. Instead, its head was thrown back, like lightning surged through the silver nerves. No. Not lightning. Fire. Bahralpha clasped the cult leader’s shin. Strumming the weave with her words, heat erupted from her palms. Barnabas knew her sorcerous origin was icy in nature, but the kobold was not one to rely on one trick. Precious metals melted off the corpse, turning the dried husk into a charred skeleton. It swung its scepter at her in panic, but Barnabas wrenched his axe out to parry. Droplets of molten gold and silver flew from the swaying corpse. Bahralpha refused to let go, fighting through the heat blistering her skin. Seizing the moment, Barnabas swung at the black skeleton’s midsection. The undead cult leader’s upper half fell away, arms scrambling in panic and fury. The dwarf flipped his axe to the hammer end and shattered the skull into pieces, silencing it once and for all. Crackling fire mixed with their haggard breaths. Barnabas felt adrenaline leave his blood, draining him of vitality. Were it not for training he’d barely stand on his own legs. “Is…Is everyone alright?” He asked, forcing a smile for another well-fought victory. Bahralpha glowered but raised her thumb. Blenafee didn’t answer. The goblin wasn’t moving. The worst played out in his mind as Barnabas leaped down, casting his axe aside to hold the goblin steady. “Blenafee, are you alright?” He asked, cursing himself for knowing damn well that wasn’t the case. No one but the undead could be fine with an arrow out of their shoulder. Except it was worse than that. Of the four spectral clones Blenafee made for distraction none remained. His clothes were torn with cuts and holes, blood staining enough to have Barnabas fumble for a potion. “We need a healer,” the dwarf said, pushing a vial of red liquid to the goblin’s lips. “Bahralpha, we need a healer!” “Can you walk?” She asked. Flabbergasted, he turned to her ready to argue but her tiny hand slapped him first. She grabbed his face. “Can. You. Walk?” He nodded. “Good. Help me make a sling. We’ll carry him out.” *** The puzzle box had nine options on each side in a cube that was just a smidge too large for her hands. Not surprising for Bahralpha as most treasures were built for humans, elves, dwarves, and whatever else fit that mold, never kobolds. Of the nine options, three rows could be changed by twisting the cube horizontally and vertically. Quick calculations in her head revealed the exact combinations far exceeded what she was willing to process. In other words, she had unlimited distractions from her worries about Blenafee. They dragged him through the snow on a hastily made stretcher. The nearest town was over a hill and through a small glade, but it took an hour of trudging to get there. Time spent trying to ensure the wounded goblin was warm and dry. Bahralpha had casted enough cantrips that she struggled to determine if the words were in her head or reached her lips. The town, a walled settlement with muddy streets and stone buildings, had healers. Enough of which did not understand the concept of goblins and kobolds beyond pesky threats to their safety. It reminded her of her first days as an adventurer, where people picked up cudgels to beat her like vermin in their grain storage. Even after joining Blenafee in the Underdark, she couldn’t avoid the hostility present in the glares of upperland townsfolk. Luckily the clerics of this town were open-minded enough to listen to her plea, as Barnabas was too focused on the goblin’s health to step in for them. “Can you stop that?” Barnabas asked. Bahralpah paused her hands. The cube was stuck between another combination, looking more like a mess of squares now. The dwarf took the drying cloth from Blenafee’s forehead, soaked it in a basin, and reapplied it all without moving from the stool at the goblin’s bedside. Not once did he look at her. She tried not to think about why, prefering her distraction. “I asked if you could stop.” “We were hunting for it,” Bahralpha stated. Her voice was cold with frustration. Frustration at herself. She led them down into the crypt and knew the dangers. They all knew the dangers but she was the leader, the one responsible for ensuring everything went as well as it could have. Adventuring was not a safe career path, there are as many varied deaths as individuals are willing to pick up a sword or cast a spell and venture into the unknown. All had their reasons; some for glory, some for fame, some for flipping the same coin of writing wrongs and getting vengeance. For most it was for wealth, which was why she wanted the puzzle box. Why she wanted them to have a comfortable score to enjoy themselves on. But the secrets of the cube might as well have been a lump of coal for all the good it’d do if Blenafee died of infection. If they were just a little faster or had a cleric in the party. Her fingers clenched into the symbols of the box, letting them imprint onto her flesh so the pain could drive away such thoughts. Focusing on the past would not make her close friend heal faster. Bahralpha hadn’t realized she’d started sorting the symbols again until he spoke up. “Put that stupid thing down.” “Do you want this to be for nothing?” She snapped without thinking and cringed inward. No amount of gold could be worth losing her first friend. Her first real lover. The dwarf’s seat skid across the floor. “For nothing?” Barnabas's voice was low. Restrained like a kettle lid holding back boiling water. He thrust his finger so violently that she assumed he was striking out at her until it pointed at the goblin underneath the covers. “Is that what he is to you?” The dwarf spoke in a rage foreign to him as if the hairy himbo was replaced by someone else. “Is that what we are? Just tools for your plans?” “How dare you,” Bahralpha leaped to her feet, trying to interpose herself between Barnabas and the sick goblin underneath the sheets. He didn’t let her, earning a pointed jab from her sharp finger. “I knew him before we met you. He’s saved me more than you know, and I him. You dare assume I treat him like some tool to be exploited? You, who lived your entire life on the labors of others?” “I had no choice in the matter.” “Oh, really? You were born with a silver spoon but you could have discarded it earlier. No, instead you were lazy. A loser roaming around in his family manner until we came along.” She spat at the floor. “We…bah, it was him that convinced you. Pretty green goblin feet were enough to tarnish your entire legacy.” His face softened, “You don’t believe that.” “I might as well?” Bahralpha’s vision grew hazy from tears. “You assume I'm some kind of heartless monster to endanger both of you for treasure, so why don’t I just give voice to your worst thoughts about me? Do I need to be by his bedside like you to show you I’m hurting? I can’t bear to look at him, Barnabas. I can’t bear thinking that he might not pull through and to know that it was my fault. While you’re both galavanting on these adventures I have to put in the effort. I make the plans. I manage the funds. I have to be the adult because neither of you will!” She hadn’t realized she was shouting until Blenafee stirred. Not enough to wake, his sweaty head just turned away with a struggling breath. Bahralpha left. She slammed the door behind her with a tenth of the weight hanging off her heart. Blind with tears, she wiped them away only to scratch her face with the puzzle box. The damned treasure. Her fist shook, imprinting symbols against her palm. Screaming from the depths of her soul, she hurled the blasted thing with all her might. It shattered against the wall. Pieces clattered across the floor, making a mess in the torch-lit hallway. Whatever secrets it hid were likely scattered around and Bahralpha was fine with that. Happy even. Better to lose it than one she loved. “What was that?” The cleric called. A kindly wrinkled elderly woman walked up the stairs, carrying a candle to illuminate the dark halls. In the oncoming light, she saw a rolled slip of paper in the mess and grabbed it without thinking, stuffing it into her cloak when the cleric arrived. “Are you alright, deary?” “Yes,” Bahralpha lied, “Just…just tired and worried for my friend.” “Oh, well I wouldn’t worry too much. He’ll be back upright as rain by morning.” She stared up at the old woman with blank eyes. “He will? But he looks awful.” “Aye,” the cleric nodded, “The infection does that. But my cures always work. It’s not the first time I’ve dealt with that sickness. So don’t worry.” He was going to be fine. She should have felt elated but more questions popped into her head. Doubts about whether he would be fine again after another close call. They were in too much risk with her and the adventures. It would be better if she left them be. So she did. Taking only needed supplies and the map before dawn cracked. The treasure from the crypt should be enough for the two of them. Enough to be happy without her. The kobold couldn’t help but laugh at herself when leaving. From selfish kobold chieftain to worrying about the lives of two fools. The adventuring life changed her. *** A headache and dry mouth were not foreign to Blenafee’s waking experience. Before Bahralpha, the goblin had a habit of partying excessively into the night. A tradition he planned to keep up with, preferably, less stabbing from undead servants of affluent-obsessed cults. He blinked twice. Once to see, the other to cast off the water that seeped into his eyes from the cold rag. Feeling himself cooked underneath three layers of blankets, Blenafee pulled himself up. As soon as he did so he hunched over, hissing in pain and bracing the wound at his side. “I thought clerics were supposed to fix these with a snap?” He muttered aloud. He wasn’t well-versed in healing magic but had seen enough clerics seal wounds with holy light and prayers. No such luck for him that morning. Not sure if it was morning, Blenafee raised his ear to listen for the telltale signs. Birds chirped on the nearby windowsill where light streamed into the room. Getting up he found the floor was cold to his soles and his legs were not eager to move. Whether they were aching from overuse or disuse he couldn’t be sure, it all felt the same. Beside him sat Barnabas, propping himself up with little more than a stool against the corner. His head hung forward, chin resting on a chest that rose and fell with every breath. When the dwarf wasn’t snoring he looked peaceful, but there were bags under his eyes and his fingers were pruned. Deciding it best to let the dwarf rest, Blenafee covered himself with one blanket like a shawl before looking for their dear leader. He reached the stairs when Barnabas stirred. “Blenafee!” He shouted in panic, racing to the door. Not even his beard could hide the exhaustion of the dwarf’s sunken features. Blenafee smiled and waved, not expecting to be nearly tackled by his companion. “You’re ok!” The dwarf buried his face into Blenafee’s chest. “I was so worried. The cleric said you’d pull through but I couldn’t help but…I couldn’t help but think that something would go wrong.” He was crying. Barnabas didn’t carry himself stoically like what most people believed of dwarves. He went with the flow of things, liked to laugh, and wasn’t afraid of enjoying every moment. Yet Blenafee could count on one hand how many times he’d seen Barnabas cry and they were always out of earshot. Weeping over his brother’s death despite his betrayal. These tears were for him. Blenafee’s pale green face flushed with color as he smiled softly and stroked the dwarf’s hair. “It’s ok, Barnabas. I’m ok.” “No.” The dwarf’s tears matted his beard. He fell to one knee, “Blenafee, before I met you I was coasting through life. Like a weight stone out of use, I sat around drinking and reading stories of dwarves who did more than me. Heroes. Legends. I wanted to be like them, but I’d have never got off my ass if not for you. And yet…” His grip tightened. The goblin saw pain in his friend’s eyes. “I don’t want to sound selfish. I thought that the adventuring life was the one for me. But the moment I saw you bleeding on the floor, I felt something. By your bedside, I tried to picture a world without you. Adventures where I don’t have your hand at my side. I couldn’t imagine them. I tried and tried, but the images never came. It’s not the adventures I love, it’s…it’s you. Both of you.” Blenafee, as any good bard, knew enough courting rituals to see where this was going. Yet he couldn’t pull away. His heart was gripped like a maiden smitten by a shining knight. “I don’t have a ring on me now. There might be some in the loot, but I’m not going to try any until we know it’s not cursed, but would you give me the honor, no, the privilege of being with me until death?” “Barnabas,” Blenafee cradled the dwarf’s face in delicate hands, reading the fear and vulnerable gaze staring back up at him. He didn’t expect to wake up to this, and common sense told him he needed to think it over. “I am honored to be with you, but I’m not sure if I can stop adventuring yet. There’s much of this world I want to see. Dishes to delight in, dances to learn, songs to both hear and sing. This brush with death reminded me that there’s only so much time I have compared to you and Bahralpha.” His lips met Barnabas’s and held for what may have been an eternity. “And I want to spend it all with each of you.” For a moment the dwarf stared at him, mouth agape and face flushed with red. Blenafee wondered if he said the wrong thing but then his companion giggled like a child. Thick arms coiled around the goblin’s spine, threatening to break it underneath the dwarf’s loving strength. They laughed despite this, thankful for each other. But a question lingered when Bahralpha didn’t come over to stop acting foolish. “Did Bahralpha get another room? I didn’t see her sleeping.” “She…” Guilt crossed the dwarf’s face as he set Blenafee down. “We argued last night. I haven’t seen her since.” “Oh…” That wasn’t too surprising. Of the trio, Bahralpha butted heads with Barnabas the most because he rarely took anything seriously and she was all business. “She must be downstairs then, enjoying breakfast. Come on.” She wasn’t. The first floor was bereft of any kobolds, let alone the white scaled diva that was their leader. When he asked the firbolg tending the bar of her whereabouts, the answer was worrying. “She left before dawn. Paid off your room for the next few days. She didn’t seem to take much beyond her clothes, her pack, and some map she was looking over.” Back upstairs the two pondered over this. The loot from the crypt was still there, yet to be sorted. It didn’t seem like she took anything from it. “She abandoned us.” Barnabas paced in a circle, knuckles white. “You were sick and recovering and she abandoned us.” “She’d never leave the loot.” “One fight. One fight where I stand up to her and she leaves. She’s stronger than that. Why’d she leave? Why’d she–” “What did you say?” Blenafee asked, eyes on the bag, “Exactly, what did you say?” “I…” In place of a tie, Barnabas tugged his beard, “I, well…I implied she didn’t care about us. That we were just tools. I-I was upset. Worried for you and she was playing with that incessant box.” “Because she was worried.” Blenafee did all he could not to snap because Barnabas didn’t know Bahralpha as well as him. “She thinks too much and needs to distract herself to avoid being overwhelmed. She…Barnabas, she left us to protect us.” “What? How’s that make sense?” A small green finger pointed to the bag of holding, “Because that’s enough money for us to retire on if we wanted. By a nice plot of land, maybe grow a farm. Or be merchants. I don’t know, the point is she left it all for us and took none of it herself.” “But she left with the map. To a greater treasure.” “If it was just about greed she would have taken the bag. She left for us.” Blenafee grabbed his discarded shirt, “And we need to get her because she needs us.” “But how are we going to find her?” Barnabas asked. “Sweetie, I’m a bard and Bahralpha’s sense of superiority would make a dragon blush. I’ll just follow the gossip."