Chapter 6: No Good Deed Unpunished

Jimbo-no had burned down many a fine establishment in his time. For good and for evil. Even before he rolled over in his grave a few times. But this was the first time he had managed to sleep through one burning down around him.

The walking, talking skeleton with an eyepatch and sailor tattoos took one long look all around, then let out a low whistle. Which he still wasn’t sure how he was able to do without lips or an actual mouth. Some noises just came to him naturally as the day he was unborn.

“Hey, Jellybee. You still kickin’?” To emphasize his point he kicked the other corpse. Affectionately.

Jellybee, let out a low groan, then rolled over - turning away from the other one.

Jimbo-no eyed the Dungeon Core sitting in the hearth, all aglow with ominous green light. Was it brighter now? He had no doubt that it was the cause of their wicked rest. Nor did he doubt that it let them go from its aura for no reason. He suspected it had been active while they were out cold. He was willing to bet the blasted death ball was concocting vile machinations at that very moment.

It was too risky to try to take it again.

He just hoped it wouldn’t try to take them instead.

“Come on, ya lazy bones! This ain’t time for a kip or siesta.” He kicked him once more, for good measure. Jimbo-no was not normally prone to violence as a solution for every problem. Just sometimes when he felt his unlife was on the line. Which happened to be a lot in his line of work.

Jellybee sat up slowly. He turned slowly to stare at the Dungeon Core. He then turned back towards Jimbo-no.

With tears? In his eyes?

His half roasted mushroom hat dripped from the heat. Liquid fungal gunk dripped from the front of the hat brim, landed precisely on both of his lacrimal bones, then dribbled down his cheek bones. The lingering residue gave Jimbo-no the impression that the other skeleton had been crying. It was honestly fitting.

“My babies.” Was all he said.

“Well, I’m sure they’re… fine. Bees like fire, right?” Jimbo-no asked.

“Not usually.”

Jimbo-no coughed and cleared his throat. “Regardless. We can’t stay here. The mission is kablooey. Mardy might be going to get help, but Sarge is dead. We won’t be able to do much without both of them.”

“And Spinemess,” Jellybee added.

“Sure, I guess. Speaking of devils, where is he?”

Jellybee shrugged.

“Well, that’s just great.”

Either Spinemess recovered faster than both of them and wandered off with a broken hip bone. Or the Merriweather Dungeon had taken him. Along with Sarge’s body. There was nothing left of either of them.

That was a bad sign.

“We’ve gotta skedaddle,” Jimbo-no said firmly. He tried to pull the sad boy up to a standing position.

Instead, the sad boy became dead weight in his grasp. Jellybee whined, “No, I can’t leave without my babies. Let me wallow in misery!”

He dropped Jellybee like a rock.

“Fine. Stay here next to that creepy dungeon core,” Jimbo-no replied.

As if the dungeon had heard them, the Core glowed ominously bright as yellowish, orange smoke drifted into it from the corner of the room where a pile of dirt sat.

That dirt wasn’t there before, was it?

A moment later, Jimbo-no heard a frantic buzzing noise followed by a bee's head popping out of the shallow dirt mount. It scrambled out and crawled towards Jellybee.

This was the first time Jimbo-no had seen this particular bee, but he knew exactly what it was based on its size. .

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“Queen! You’re alive!” Jellybee exclaimed. He leapt to his feet.

The poor creature’s antennae and wings very much singed, but it indeed was still alive. And with that, maybe the rest of the colony would survive too.

“What a sturdy bugger. Anyways. Glad that that's settled. Let’s get out of here.” He began to march towards the front door.

Then that sinking feeling deep in his bones flared up again: a powerful, dull ache in every part of his body accompanied by overwhelming exhaustion. He struggled against it, vainly, trying to trudge on. But it was no use. He was just so damn tired. He wouldn't make it to the Dungeon exit in time. Defeated, he gingerly took seat on the floor, lest he dangerously fall into a puddle of his own bone chips.

It had them. He couldn't believe it. An anti-undead aura. What kind of trap was this?

The gears in his hollow noggin spun in overdrive. He mentally fought back against the lethargy and tried shutting off the pain. There was no way an adventurer would weaponize an actual dungeon against a couple of skeletons. Especially in their own home.That would be suicidal. Unless, of course, they were planning on dying anyways.

Was the Dungeon Core the homeowner? It wasn’t impossible. Especially if it was…

An elderly, feminine voice interrupted his thoughts. “Excuse me, my dears, but before you go, would you be willing to help out this old bag of bones?”

Oh fuck, he thought. The dungeon is sentient.

****

Bonny Kettleflar adjusted her wide brimmed conical hat for the fourth time in the last half an hour. She was fully aware that her choice in clothing made her stand out as a Pyre Witch and drew whispered attention. The northern rot rains never swept this far south, but life saving habits were hard to break. From where she just left, one never left shelter without an umbrella, hooded cloak, or an oversized hat.

Besides, Poppymill was a small countryside town anyways. Bonny would stand out anyways, regardless of who she was or how she dressed. Why not embrace it?

It wasn’t everyday that a young woman took up residence on her own in search of new beginnings.

She sighed. Then the corners of her lips twisted into a smile. She breathed deeply in the fresh air as the ferry rocked gently on the river. The air felt so clean. The whole two week long trip after she left the Necropolis had felt so clean. No marching armies or mass graves. No blasted landscapes or war torn settlements. No Dungeons erupting from the earth behind enemy lines. Not a monument, obelisk, or mausoleum in sight.

Just countrysides, rivers, meadows, and woodland as far as her eyes could see. Interspersed between all that was the occasional small city, military fort, or trading post. None of them egregious enough in size to impede upon the natural landscape views.

She could get used to this.

The first signs of Poppymill were the occasional cottage or cabin along the banks, before the whole town popped into view around the riverbend. The town center nestled up against the Gemstone River, whereas the many quaint homes and namesake windmills perched upon the foothills leading up to the base of the mountain range overlooking the town. On the other side of the river, far, far in the distance, was another mountain range. And everything in the valley between was an abundance of countryside broken up rivers and lakes.

This was the perfect place to start over.

She spotted her uncle on the embankment and excitedly waved to him.

The watercraft sidled up to the pier. And a bell rang, announcing her stop.

She patted her coat pocket once again to make sure she still had the deed and the letter. And of course, they still were. Broken wax seal and all. Just like they had been there ten minutes earlier when she last checked.

Bonny hopped off her two luggage cases that she was using as a seat, then slowly hauled them across the deck. She struggled down the gangway, softly cursing herself for their unwieldiness. All things considered, she had packed lightly. These supplies were half the reason she was here.

Her uncle, Brill Fletcher, greeted her in his customary way. By barely greeting her at all. He didn’t need to do otherwise. He was roughly the size of a small tree. Which just made sense. He was a woodsman through and through: beady-eyed, burly, and bearded.

“Hello, Uncle. Thank you so much for meeting me out here.”

Brill grunted. “Well, yeah, you asked.” Then casually picked up both her suitcases under one arm. She was sure that her uncle bench pressed tree trunks. He had to. There was no way his chest got so massive just from pushups and hauling lumber.

“It’s good to see you. How have you been, Uncle Brill?”

He stroked his red beard for a moment, clearly in thought. She waited on him patiently, eyebrow raised. Finally he said, “I’ve been well. I suppose. How have you been, Bon?” The way he asked made it sound like a genuine question, rather than a customary greeting response. The way he said her old name was also awkward.

“Ha. Nervous as all the hells.” She had been internally screaming the entire trip. “But I’m happy to be here! Oh, and please, it’s Bonny now. Bon is the old me.” She chuckled nervously. She felt foolish saying it.

He looked her up and down. “You’ve gotten bigger,” he stated. “Bonny.”

“And you’re still the same. It has been, what, seven years? I grew up.”

A whole twenty-two years old.

She already felt old. Too old.

“Hm. Suppose you have. Ready?”

He didn’t make a lot of eye contact when talking. Something she strangely appreciated. Brill also never quite fit in with the locals, despite being the local woodsman and woodworker for countless years in Poppymill, It was proof that she and him were related.

“Yeah, let’s go see the cottage.”

They passed quickly through the town without stopping and began the long trek to the outskirts of town.