“Welcome to Atlantis,” the guard said, and the barbarian already knew the guard was wrong. The barbarian had been to Atlantis, and it was pretty awful. Keep in mind, the barbarian didn’t have much experience in architecture, but so much of Atlantis was made out of seaweed or… something. All just a bunch of glowing bubbles of seaweed, magic air bubbles, fish, and sea elves.

Ugh, elves. The wizard had told the barbarian that he planned on doing an in depth guide on elves, with a theory that elves and goblins had a shared ancestry, something he wanted to support with how many different breeds of elf there were.

Either way, this New Atlantis was made from steel panels, a material the barbarian approved of. There were lights made from lightbulbs, instead of torches or braziers, and had clearly marked rooms with lines along the floor for directions. It was a massive improvement, even with the three guards escorting the barbarian.

“Report to the Mess Hall,” a guard said, jabbing the barbarian with a heavy truncheon.

“Don’t do that again,” the barbarian said, “That’s the yellow line, right?”

“Yes,” the guard said.

“You’re breaking protocol,” another guard said, “We don’t treat prisoners nicely.”

“You hit him then,” the third guard said.

“Ooh, get me in the bicep,” the barbarian said, flexing one arm.

“Sorry, protocol,” the first guard said.

“It’s to establish hierarchy!” the second guard said.

“Can we just get to the food?” the barbarian asked.

“No!” the second barked, swinging his truncheon up towards the barbarian’s groin.

The truncheon snapped. The barbarian didn’t even blink.

“You know, I think you’re right,” the barbarian said, putting a hand on the guard’s shoulder, “I think a lot of hierarchy has been established. Now, I’m going to get some food, you three do whatever.”

The barbarian wandered off, searching for wherever the food was, while the trio of guards poked at the metal core of the broken truncheon.

As the days passed, the barbarian found that even the structure and scheduling in New Atlantis was better than Atlantis. The barbarian woke up at the same time as everyone else, ate the same food at the same time as everyone else, was allowed into the exercise yard at the same time as everyone else, bathed at the same time, and was escorted back into his cell at the same time as everyone else. There were no hours, or even days, of pretentious elves reading pretentious poetry. There was nobody saying nonsense like “follow your heart” or “like your instincts guide you” or “try to be one with nature.” The barbarian knew how to make someone one with nature, and it involved turning them into worm food. The elves always got so upset when he followed his instincts, it was amazing they still said that around him. The food wasn’t always salad, as though the elves had never heard of wolves, or lions, or tigers, or hippos.

Everyone was big, muscular, and prone to violence. The barbarian liked violence, he was quite good at it, and when threatened would tell people to give it their all. Some people fought to live, the barbarian lived to fight. He didn’t want a scrap, or a scuffle, the barbarian had no interest in rough housing or bouts. When people told the barbarian that they were going to fight, the barbarian told them to make sure it was a proper fight. This meant that a number of people had to be scraped off the walls, but the barbarian was fine with that.

He wasn’t worried about the rest of the adventurers. They’d show up. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but they would show up. That was the interesting thing, no matter what tried to keep them apart, the adventurers always came back together. In the meantime, the barbarian decided to enjoy a structured life and mauling people.

Deep beneath the black ocean, a lone shark swam for Atlantis. The gold plating that covered Atlantis was lost in the darkness, but the shark didn’t need the shimmer of gold to find its way. It poked and prodded around the outside, pausing when it found the docking bay used when submarines brought new prisoners.

Warning alarms blared in the warden’s earpiece as the shark swam into the docking bay, morphing into a human that slid between dimensions to bypass the heavy metal door.

The man pivoted mid air to land on his feet. He was clad in rough, leather clothes, along with a poncho covering his top. A pair of swords rested on his back, and a multi-string crossbow lay hidden beneath his poncho. A wide brimmed, leather hat covered his young, albeit weather beaten face, and he carried a messenger bag across one shoulder, emblazoned with a horse logo. A cigar hung from his mouth, and as the man raised his hands in surrender, he took a long, slow drag from it.

“Howdy there,” the man said, “I don’t mean no trouble. You’re doing your job, and I’m doing mine. Why don’tcha just let me slip on by, and I’ll be out in a jiffy.”

“State your name,” a guard captain ordered, rifles raised as guards carrying heavy truncheons and riots shields began to circle the man.

“Pony,” the man said.

“Pony?” the guard captain asked.

“Yep,” Pony said.

“Like the kid’s show?” a guard asked.

“Kid’s show?” Pony said, “No, like the express. Y’all got a Pony Express ‘round here?”

“Alright, Pony,” Warden Dallas said, shouldering past the guards, “What do you want?”

“I’m a mailman,” Pony explained, “I’m here to deliver mail. Been tracking a delivery for some weeks now. I’m fairly sure he’s round these parts.”

“This is a maximum security prison at the bottom of the ocean,” Warden Dallas said.

“I’m well aware,” Pony said, “See, some years back I took a binding oath that I would, without fail and in all due haste, deliver all mail from a father to his son. At the time, I had no idea just how much trouble that’d get me into. I figured you don’t have much in the way of visiting hours, so I had to let myself in.”

“What are the packages?” Warden Dallas asked.

“A pair ‘a paintings,” Pony said, reaching into his pack, “I assure you, nothing magical about them. Just plain ole paint and parchment. All I need to do is deliver these, and I’ll be on my way out.”

“Are you aware that you just broke into a maximum security prison?” Warden Dallas asked.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“I am, and rightly so,” Pony said, “I’ve had to break into all sorts of places to make these deliveries.”

“And just want, exactly, are you going to do if my men detain you?” Warden Dallas asked.

“Well, if’n y’all mean to stop me from fulfilling my vow,” Pony said, “You’d have a fight on your hands. Now, I don’t mean to be short with you, but delivering these packages as lead me to all sorts of danger. Fearing for my life, I would step over your corpses to fulfill my vow.”

Warden Dallas let out a low growl, eyeing up Pony.

“We’ll need to be sure you’re not carrying any contraband,” Warden Dallas said.

“Fine by me,” Pony said, “So long as I get to make my delivery.”

Pony was led down a hall, surrounded on every side, towards a large, heavy machine with a circular opening on one side.

“Place the items in the machine,” a technician instructed.

“Sure thing,” Pony said, “Both? Or one at a time?”

“One,” the gruff technician said.

Pony slid the painting, still in its protective tube, into the machine before sauntering over to the technician.

“Odd bit ‘a gadgetry here,” Pony muttered, “What’s it do?”

“Scans objects at a molecular level for any irregularities,” the technician said, “And I ask that you not smoke near me.”

“I can lend you a stick,” Pony offered, reaching into his poncho, “Got plenty of ‘em.”

“As much as I’d like to pick up that habit again,” the technician said, “A lifetime of smoking means I only qualify for desk duty.”

“Really?” Pony asked, genuine curiosity in his question, “Well, what’s in cigars around here?”

“Tobacco,” the technician said, “Rat poison, nail polish, chemicals. Gave me a fight with lung cancer.”

“Well,” Pony said, producing a clean cigar, “This here’s a Long Saddle Rider, my own personal, patented, brand. It’s a blend of twelve various healing herbs, and a bit of choke weed for body and flavor. Designed to rejuvenate, restore, and re-energize the body. Not as fast as a healing potion, but it comes in a longer lasting, much more convenient package. Now, tell ya what. Why don’t you try just one puff, and then tell me what you think?”

The technician looked from Pony, to the offered cigar, to the machine, before growling and swearing under his breath and taking the cigar.

He really knew he shouldn’t, producing an old, worn out lighter. He really shouldn’t get back into smoking after all the effort it took to drop the habit, but he wasn’t getting any younger, he wasn’t getting any better looking, so why not?

Memories of lazy, summer afternoons came flooding back to the technician as he took a long, deep drag from the cigar. Then, the technician took a longer, deep drag then he remembered his lungs were capable of. Then, he realized he hadn’t turned to a nasty coughing fit.

The technician twisted his neck to one side, feeling the satisfying “crrk!” and then stretching his back out to do the same.

“You got a mirror on you?” the technician asked.

“Always keep one handy,” Pony said, pulling a small hand mirror from a pocket, “Never one who might be a vampire.”

The technician stared into the mirror and smiled. His teeth were whiter.

“Is that the face of a satisfied customer?” Pony asked.

“How much for a case?” the technician asked, a beep coming from the machine, “This one’s clean, put in the next one.”

“Much obliged,” Pony said, gently setting the second painting in, “Now, I reckon that once I’m done here, I won’t come back round to these parts. With that in mind, I have developed a very special product. May I interest you in a Pony Express?”

Symbols that the technician didn’t recognize crisscrossed the cigar, with a gold inlay. The technician reverently took the cigar before looking to Pony in confusion.

“What does it do?” the technician asked.

“It does everything my standard cigar does,” Pony said, producing a small flame on his thumb, “With a small, added benefit.”

Pony lit the cigar for the technician, and the technician took another drag of the new cigar.

“Now, behold the work of my magic,” Pony said, pointing to the ash at the end of the cigar. The technician turned it around in his hand, holding the cigar up to get a better look at it. Burnt ash turned to fresh herbs and fine wrappings before the technician’s very eyes.

“Now, you’ll want to make sure it has something to regenerate from,” Pony explained, “And the less it is left, the slower it regenerates. A single puff can be gone in less than a minute, but if you smoke it down to a stub it’s going to be a few hours.”

“How much is this going to cost me?” the technician asked.

“Cost?” Pony said, “Naw, see normally a Pony Express would be worth a king’s ransom, don’t want to ruin my business by overselling my finest product, but today is special. I’m finally going to fulfill a sworn vow.”

“You keep talking about that,” Warden Dallas said, “What’s a sworn vow?”

“Oh, see, that’s a vow you swear on your soul,” Pony said, “Very dangerous magic, I assure you. If’n you ever give up on fulfilling the vow, the vow assumes that you’ve given up on being alive. It kills you shortly after.

“And you did this for delivering mail?” the technician asked.

“It was a special case!” Pony retorted, “And, as it so happened, I was paid a handsome sum.”

“Well, the second painting is clean,” the technician said.

“Who is it you’re delivering these to?” Warden Dallas asked, “I can lend you some men as an escort.”

“A half ork, pale, gray green skin, man,” Pony said, “Calls himself Barbarian.”

“Ah,” Warden Dallas scowled, “Him.”

The barbarian was having a decent time. He was sitting atop a pile of fallen bodies, men who he had broken and beaten, left twisted in his wake. They had started it, the barbarian had ensured that. The barbarian had waited until the first punch was thrown, until the strike was made, before unleashing himself against his enemies. The barbarian knew, as any seasoned adventurer kenw, that the only way to differentiate a cold blooded assassin and some drunk with a knife was when the knife was buried in your throat. The barbarian could not know how strong or weak his enemies were so he, in order to fully defend himself, attacked as though he was against seasoned, powerful, experienced killers.

All of them even were. Criminals didn’t get locked in Atlantis without truly heinous acts.

“Oh, you’re that one guy,” the barbarian said, “The mailman.”

“I sure am,” Pony said, offering the two paintings, “And here you are, my last delivery.”

“Hmh,” the barbarian grunted, unrolling the paintings. The first painting was a picture of the mailman, the barbarian’s mother and father, a woman the barbarian didn’t recognize and two young girls. They were standing, smiling happily, in front of a sprawling manor, a place the barbarian also didn’t recognize.

All the guards around Pony and the barbarian looked at the painting in amazement. The sheer attention to detail, the warm palette of colors, the layout of the picture. It was as though someone had, brush stroke by brush stroke, perfectly recreated a single, beautiful moment in time.

The barbarian laid the painting off to one side, and unrolled the second painting. The barbarian paused, holding the painting up.

“Is that supposed to be me?” the barbarian asked.

It looked like the barbarian, mostly. The skin tone wasn’t quite right, the set of the barbarian’s jaw was a bit off, his ears didn’t have the right point to them, and most telling of all was the barbarian’s scowl. While the first painting had captured the expression and mood of the people in perfect detail, the barbarian’s scowl in the second painting looked like a rough guess at best. The background was a flat, gray splotch, nothing more than a disposable frame to hang the barbarian’s face.

“Your father had to go off memory,” Pony explained.

“Oh,” the barbarian said, still looking at the painting in confusion. “Hold on, you said this was your last delivery.”

“I did indeed,” Pony said.

“Then when can I expect the next painting?” the barbarian asked.

“There isn’t a next painting,” Pony said.

“You swore an oath!” the barbarian accused, “My father hired you to-”

“I hate to be the one to tell you this,” Pony said.

“Your father is dead.”