"Dead?" the barbarian asked.

"Dead!" the barbarian barked, "Who killed him?"

"Nobody," Pony explained.

"What do you-" the barbarian started.

"Your father lived to be a hundred and four. He passed in his sleep, surrounded by loving friends and family. His wife gave him last rites, blessed his soul as he left," Pony said, "He was a tough nut, maybe the toughest nut Death's ever cracked, but age always does the trick."

"My mother was also a barbarian," the barbarian argued, "Not some sort of priest."

"She was," Pony said, "But my wife," Pony pointed to one of the women in the painting. "Managed to convert her to a priestess back when we were saving the realm."

"You saved the realm?" the barbarian asked, "Not bad. That takes some real effort."

"It did," Pony said, "But I wanted to ask. Does it get less interesting the more you do it? Because the second time I saved the realm, it felt like a hassle. Mind you, it was still challenging, your parents, myself, and my bride to be had our mettle tested-"

"But it just felt like you had done all this before?" the barbarian asked.

"Pretty much," Pony agreed, "After the third go 'round, peace seems to be holding."

"When was that?" the barbarian asked, "Last week?"

"Nah, that was about ten years ago," Pony admitted, "The Postman's Guild, and the wife's order, have been keeping a close eye on the current Oligarchs. I spent that time marrying my wife, she had fulfilled her contract as a paladin! Your mother even officiated our wedding."

"Peace is holding?" the barbarian asked.

"It is indeed," Pony explained.

"How?" the barbarian asked.

"Well, I reckon that the oligarchs were given a stern talking to,” Pony explained, “That being kings tomorrow is a lot harder than being kings today, much more important as well."

The barbarian was quiet, deep in thought. The adventurers had been decapitating corrupt leaders, evil tyrants, and mad kings for as long as anyone could remember. There had always, always, been some lunatic who crawled out of the woodwork to take power while the adventurers were busy elsewhere.

Peace? The adventurers would openly laugh at the idea. Peace wasn’t going to happen. If the best of the best of the best couldn’t bring about peace, what chance did anyone else have? They were the best.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” the barbarian muttered. Peace. How could there be peace? If there was peace, what new quests would the adventurers take once they got back? They could finish clearing out that dwarven tomb, but what then? The tomb was only one job after all.

And if there really was peace, like the mailman was saying, why didn’t the adventurers create it? They were the best, they should have been the ones to achieve peace.

“Who are the people in this picture?” the barbarian asked, “And where is this?”

“Welp, that there’s your late mother and father,” Pony said.

“Mother’s dead too?” the barbarian asked.

“Oh yes,” Pony said, “Passed on just a few months after your father did. Musta been waiting to see him again, I reckon.”

“Okay,” the barbarian said.

“That’s my wife, those’r my two daughters,” Pony said, “Between you and me, I was hoping for sons. Anyway, that’s your father’s cottage. He left it to me, and we put a lot of work into renovating the place.”

“Why didn’t he leave it to me?” the barbarian asked.

“Cause he heard what you and your friends did whenever you were given castles,” Pony said, “You sold ‘em. Sometimes you just gave them away.”

“Castles are just more work,” the barbarian grumbled.

“Sure, sure,” Pony said, “But after you finish that work, you’ve got a nice place to lay your head.”

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“What about questing?” the barbarian asked, “You can’t take a castle with you.”

“Most people are finished questing once they have a castle,” Pony said, reaching into his poncho, “That reminds me, your father did leave you some money.”

Pony set a stack of paper bills down in front of the barbarian.

“I don’t know what you’ll spend this on, but I figure it’s better than nothing,” Pony said.

“They use paper money?” the barbarian asked, “Why?”

“Cause of how hard it is to run a material backed economy when six people have most of the material,” Pony explained, “Honestly, do you folks have any idea how much gold you carry?”

“No,” the barbarian admitted.

“Well you're sure not leaving much for the rest of us,” Pony said, “Anyhow, unless you have any more questions, I’m leaving.”

The barbarian said nothing as Pony left, ruminating over this new information. If peace really had overtaken the land, why would the adventurers go back there? His parents were dead, he didn’t have a home, and they technically didn’t have any money.

A chilling thought entered the barbarian’s mind. Peace didn’t happen while the adventurers were gone, peace happened because the adventurers were gone. The barbarian tried to push it out, to ignore the idea, but that was proving hard. The adventurers had always solved their problems with violence, and that was fine. Violence was swift, effective, and efficient. Their problems could be summed up as “This person over here is doing something incredibly evil.” It wasn’t just that the problems could be solved with violence, it was situations that should be solved with violence. The adventures knew that. The cleric knew that, and she was usually first to swing.

But then how had this happened? Did the mailman and his paladin wife solve things through mere threats? There was no way for the world to simply run out of evil people, were there?

“No,” the barbarian mumbled, “No, that’s not it.”

The mailman and his wife had stuck around. That was the ticket. They stayed to make sure whoever took power next was someone who would responsibly use power, while the adventurers wandered off to find their next target.

Was that really it? Stand around and- and talk to people? The bard was supposed to be good at that.

But peace was never really something the adventurers wanted. Sure, they would all admit that peace was a good thing, a righteous goal for society to work towards, but not something that was realistic. At least, that was what the adventurers had always thought.

That really wasn’t the issue though. The issue was that the dominance of peace meant there wouldn’t be work for the adventurers if they ever returned. Was the bard’s father alive? Or whichever parent the bard said didn’t died horrifically?

The barbarian looked at the painting of himself. Probably not, the barbarian realized. The bard had probably visited her father as often as the barbarian did his own parents, and the barbarian had left home at fourteen to set out for glory. How old was he? The barbarian had guessed that his parents had to be around thirty when he left, but his dad lived to be over a hundred.

“Well,” the barbarian said, “I guess healing spells really do slow down aging.”

Scholars and priests had often discussed that, but nobody had ever figured out how much healing magic someone would need to slow down aging. And how would you? To answer the question, you’d need someone with as potent healing as the cleric and constantly be in need of healing.

Still, the adventurers would need to hear about this new era of peace.

Barnabus pushed the plate of food back, and snatched up the two paintings.

“Wait,” Barnabus muttered. He had just thought of himself as Barnabus, not the barbarian. It was fair, the barbarian shrugged. Every tie he had to that life was gone. Barnabus wanted to meet his father again, wanted to make him proud, wanted to be seen as important to his father. To be remembered.

Yes, Barnabus stood up, and made for the warden’s office. He wasn’t going to get anything done around here, but hopefully he could leave with something useful.

The warden’s door was made from heavy steel plates, and required an eye scan to open. Barnabus wasn’t the bard, but he still had a way to get people to cooperate.

“Open this door or I’ll break it down!” Barnabus bellowed.

“Guards!” Warden Dallas called over the intercom, and to the warden’s credit, eight guards came stomping down to the office in under a minute.

The guards paused when they saw Barnabus, brandishing heavy clubs, riot shields, beanbag rifles, and gas grenades.

“If you start a fight,” Barnabus said during the stand off, “I’ll rip his arm off and start beating you with it. An arm is only really good for about four to five good hits before it breaks. Once that happens, I’ll need a new arm.”

“What do you want?” a guard demanded.

“Painting supplies,” Barnabus said, “Do you have any?”

“What?” Warden Dallas said, “No. Why would we have painting supplies?”

“I don’t know,” Barnabus said, “I was just asking. Anyway, if you don’t want a fight then listen close. I’m heading to the exit. When I get there, open the airlocks.”

“You’ll be crushed under the ocean,” Warden Dallas said.

“Maybe,” Barnabus admitted, striding past the guards, “But so what if I am?”

“You-” a guard started.

“I was told that everyone here was serving life sentences,” Barnabus said, “What does it matter to you if my life happens to end a bit early?”

“I’m more worried that you’ll live,” Warden Dallas admitted.

“I usually do,” Barnabus said, “But that would mean you couldn’t hold me here anyway. I want to leave, and I’m real used to getting what I want.”

This wasn’t going to be a journey, Barbabus thought, a torrential flood of freezing sea water crashing over him.

It was going to be an adventure.