BEWARE THE EDGE

Over the next few hours, they figured out a rudimentary communication of sorts, a swift up and down of the spear-tip meant yes, a slow side to side was no, a prod with the spear was an absolute no (or maybe a quit it, they didn’t really have the fine details down pat yet,) pointing gave the simple framework of a question (anybody who tells you it’s rude to point has clearly never tried talking in a situation where talking is impossible, and neither party knows sign language, in which case they need to shut the hell up and figure out their manners may be outdated. Miss manners was not made for first contact situations, as they are far too much of a snob to handle it. When you’re at the level of being poked with a spear and pointing, whether they use the good silverware to poke is hardly a primary concern.)

Eventually, *&$* returned (the non-spore speakers in the room settled on Shroomy in the absence of a mutually agreeable option) and started mimicking walking and pointing at them then themselves. Well, on the positive side, Mibbet couldn’t help noticing they hadn’t been disarmed, either of weapons or weapon supporting appendages, so clearly they weren’t that hostile (a few gentle spear prods hardly counted once she got the guards to calm the hell down. They got so uptight about it at first it was almost embarrassing.)

So after a little cross-communication, and due to the spear pokes some CROSS communication, the entire group set off following a few of the mushroom dryads down what could once have been a road. But now was full of so many potholes that even the worst of local councils would have called out for a repair team long since. Then into the ruins of a city, which one could only assume once overlooked a bit less mushroomy than now, each building had clearly been repaired by planting one of the oversized fungi in the centre and hollowing out the inside by some method that nobody else could possibly have pulled off. (For starters, most species, with the exception of mushroom farmers and maybe the odd hippy, consider excessive indoor fungus growth to be a negative trait and usually start whingeing about local property values or some such nonsense.)

Eventually, the trail thinned even further, leading up a steep winding hill, until eventually, at the summit, they found themselves staring at what can only be described as an ominous gateway. (Because a local weirdo art installation was unlikely to be quite so tall, cast as large a dark shadow, or have quite as many eldritch letters that try to squirm and defy reading. Something about this place just screamed, “coming down here is the worst idea since reading from a tattered ancient text, in a room with a basement, on the anniversary of ritual murder, all while being typical teenager, which as we all know is a recipe for ending up caught up in whatever the hell weirdness is taking place. Do yourself a favour, go away, find something less likely to get you dismembered to do, take up knitting, write to your mum, but not about this, never write about this, now go on a little mortal, get out of here shoo, shoo.” Then sigh in frustration because nobody hears it, or if they do, they choose to ignore the good advice on the grounds that they’re not very bright.)

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

As they drew closer to the gateway, the dryads started to widen the circle and draw back. Seeming more agitated by the minute, until at last only Shroomy was in close proximity, at which point they resumed their diplomatic duties, sketching a man in what had to be a wizards hat, then an unidentifiable... something. Then the wizard again with big pointy teeth, and decidedly unhealthier looking (the sword through his middle was kind of a hint on that front, there are not a lot of things that are made more healthy by a sword through the middle, it is generally considered a bad outcome in most circumstances.) Then the gateway, and the human pincushion being thrown through the gateway (what can I say, turns out Shroomy is a pretty good artist, especially given that their medium was twig in dirt, which is a seldom-used medium on the grounds that art shops haven’t yet figured out how to make it cost 50 gold a pack.)

The next image was somewhat more concerning, the wizard being chained down in Mibbet and the gangs experience. If a dead thing needed chaining down, then it was probably with good reason (or evil reason and neither possibility boded particularly well.) Which was verified by the next image, as predicted. He looked decidedly more dead, but unfortunately, it showed somebody removing the sword. Now removing a sword is not usually enough for a person to really get better, so the image of him up on his feet looking for the exit?....

“That’s not good”, Errol chimed in.

“Understatement much? Rosalind snapped. Does anything in this bloody country ever just stay dead? I mean, it’s not hard; you lie down and stop moving. Yet none of these buggers ever seem to figure it out. Well, sod that, just for once, can’t I go somewhere without the undead? It’s like I’m being stalked by the mortally challenged.”

She passed control back to Mibbet and went dormant for now, she really, really REALLY didn’t want to deal with this particular problem, and there was no reason she had to. That was one of the few plus sides of a timeshare body.

Mibbet gestured to the others and started towards the great stone gateway. The stone and obsidian pillars lit up as they approached, as glowing letters writhed and squirmed. Mibbet didn’t try to read them, they were hard to figure out for a reason, and frogs don’t bother trying to fathom the unfathomable. (Side effects may include small headaches, large headaches, small eldritch beings, large eldritch beings. Minor elder gods, frothing at the mouth, fishpersondom, speaking in tongues, speaking with extra tongues, madness, or wishing for madness. Or, in worst cases ending up looking more edgy than the sharpest chefs knife and more whiney than the biggest vineyard.)

As they stepped in, they were greeted by the worst sign, as the torches lit, lighting a path down into the depths.

“Oh, BUGGER”, Sir Leeroy muttered.