“That should be fine.” Thistle put his waterskin into his pack then laid the whole thing down on the ground. “If anyone thought we were using the tunnels, they’d have killed us ages ago.”
“What if other minions are here?” Gabrielle asked. She laid a hand on the axe that rested by her side. “They might come through this tunnel and find us.”
“It’s possible, but unlikely. This place has no need for the sort of minions who would use these tunnels. It’s self-sustained through magic, and none of the monster types listed on the scroll would be inclined to need or know about the minion tunnels. I could be wrong, of course, but we need sleep, so if anyone is too worried, we can set a guard.”
“Forget it.” Eric pulled off his own pack and set it on the ground. It would prove to be a very uncomfortable pillow, but it still would be better than the stone floor. “At this point, getting killed in our sleep almost sounds like a pleasant option.”
“It is pretty strange to be sitting here, knowing that when we open that door the things on the other side are likely to kill us.” Gabrielle lifted her hand off her axe slowly, as though the act were causing her physical stress.
“Adventurers sometimes call this ‘the calm before the storm.’ Never did know why. Usually, before storms, there’s lots of wind whipping about and clouds in the sky, but they say it, anyway. I suppose it refers to the calm we get, the chance to take a breath and prepare before all hell breaks loose.” Thistle ran his hands along the new belt once more, his mind miles away from the dungeon enclosing them.
“That’s a pretty good segue to what I wanted to ask,” Gabrielle said. “We’re going to face almost-certain death in the morning. So, before we go to sleep, why don’t you provide us with a bedtime story, Thistle? The one about how you have so much knowledge about adventurers.”
A dark smile slithered onto Thistle’s face. “I thought you might poke for that. Well, I did say it would be after Solium, and we’ve left the city, so fair is fair.” He leaned onto his pack, letting it support his lower back and trying to find a position that was actually comfortable.
“My tale isn’t a very grand one, not compared to the other tales that live in our world. I was born as you see me: hunched, crooked, and misshapen. That might not have been so bad, however, I also had no talent for magic, and among gnomes such a condition is a far darker curse. I made my living as a worker for the local church of Mithingow, the god of the gnomes. While they had clerics and priests and wizards aplenty, there was still always a need for someone to clean rats out of the basement, or sweep the rafters. Those were my duties and I did them happily, for I was thankful to have a source of income at all, and I was always pleased to serve my god.”
“Wait, you follow Grumble,” Eric interrupted.
“Aye, but this was before I even knew of Grumble, or many other gods at all. I knew a few from the legends where Mithingow tricked or triumphed over them, but in a gnomish community, there was never any need for more gods. No, I would still be working in that church to this day, polishing the pews and sweeping the floors, if a group of adventurers hadn’t stumbled into our foyer one sunny afternoon.”
Thistle paused to take a drink from his waterskin, carefully soaking his throat.
“They were on their way to a nearby forest, where a lingering curse from an ancient necromancer was prone to turning deceased animals into undead monsters. I hid the first time I saw them, shameful as it was. I was terrified; they were so strong, so powerful. The adventurers requested aid; they only knew a general location, no real information about where the curse reigned. Our clerics decided that, for a healthy donation to Mithingow, they could spare some guides. One of their younger apprentices, who they felt could use the experience, as well as a gnome who was known to frequent areas near the forest on his days off: me. So it was that the adventurers set off the next morning with two new additions: myself and… Madroria.”
The gnome halted his story, this time, not because of a need for water. He pressed his hands together gently, willing back the tears that tried to form in his eyes. He couldn’t let the emotions break through now, not when the hard part still lay ahead in the story. At last, he succeeded in pushing away the sorrow and continued his tale.
“Madroria was roughly the same age as I, but she was not cursed with my crooked body, nor my lack of skill when it came to wielding magic. She was, in fact, perfect. Perfect to me, anyway. I’d loved her, silently and sorrowfully, since the first day she came to the church. As scared as I’d been of the adventurers, the idea of walking with Madroria, of speaking to her… I shook with terror all night and barely found the courage to go with them in the morning.”
“It’s hard to picture you like that,” Gabrielle said. “You’re usually so calm and clear-headed.”
“Well, this was decades ago, and I’ve gotten to do a lot of growing up since then,” Thistle reminded her. “Anyway, we set out on the road together. At first, it was quiet and awkward, but over time, I began speaking with the adventurers, getting to know them. It was actually quite funny; despite her beauty and power, Madroria was too shy to make much conversation with our strangers, while I soon gave way to my natural eloquence, surprising even myself. I’d never had much opportunity to talk with people, and I’m sure they assumed I had nothing worth hearing. It was a pleasant shock to discover I could hold the interest of these amazing people. Of course, it might have been because I asked endless questions, giving them the chance to talk about themselves.”
“Is that how you know so much?” Eric asked.
“Not quite. That was merely the appetizer that whetted my curiosity. By the time we arrived at the forest, we were all something akin to friends. I could even speak to Madroria without growing so fearful I stumbled over my own words or feet. In the forest, however, the monsters were far greater in number and power than the adventurers had predicted. It was horrible: giant undead beasts, eyeless sockets and snapping jaws, the stench of death snarling through our nostrils. In the end, they uncovered the necromancer’s lingering spell circle and destroyed it. However, it came with a cost. One of their own was killed, and Madroria was skewed through by the tusks of an undead boar.”
“Oh no.” Gabrielle put her hand to her mouth. “Did she…”
“No. She was horrifically wounded, but we were able to stabilize her. The real danger was the rot that began to destroy her from within. Left unchecked, it would devour her life force and leave her as one of them, the undead. We retreated from the forest and rushed back to the temple of Mithingow. It took two days, two days that I spent always at her side. She drifted in and out as the fever grew stronger, but she held on. My Madroria was always a fighter. Then, on the day we knew would be her last, we finally reached the temple. I was crying as we burst through the doors, certain her salvation was close at hand. We brought her up to Mithingow’s altar and screamed for the priests to come out. When I saw them, I collapsed in relief, certain she would be saved.”
“She should have been,” Grumph said, giving a small nod.
“Wait, they didn’t save her?” Eric asked.
“Couldn’t, they said. The priests told me the curse was too powerful, the magic beyond their capacity to undo. I lost my temper at that point, demanding they try. When that failed, I sat on the altar and screamed right at Mithingow himself, making promises, threats, and just plain begging for him to save Madroria. It was foolish, overly emotional, and accomplished nothing, but to this day I think I’d do the same if I were in that position again.”
“So, Madroria… she died?” Eric had his hands gripped to the side of his legs, clutching them in anxiety as he listened to Thistle’s tale.