The gunslinger awoke to darkness. His eyes, crusted over with blood, ached almost as much as his head did. With one grimy hand Donavan Harper felt along his chest until he found a small device attached to his bandolier. He gripped the small cylinder, then flexed it until he heard a soft crack. A gentle shake, and the glowstick began to emit a soft blue light, revealing the underground tunnel he lay in. Harper sat up and used the glowstick to inspect the cave-in, and found a rock with a dark, shiny smear on its stony surface. He felt along his scalp with his other hand; his fingers came back wet with blood.
Harper painfully stood up and dusted himself off as best he could, though his leather garments defied all cleaning. He retrieved his wide-brimmed hat from the cavern floor and gingerly placed it upon his aching head while taking stock of his resources. The bandolier held his glowstick, flint and steel, and a collapsible telescope with a cracked lens. His gun belt was still wrapped around his waist, his knife was still in its sheath, but his canteen and rations were back at camp.
A less than ideal situation, one that had started five days ago at the inn he'd dragged his wife to.
“I know you're tired, my love, you deserve a break. How would you like to stay at an inn tonight?" Harper asked his wife, as the pair of Pathfinders hiked along a dusty, downhill trail though the wooded highlands of Varisia.
Her smile shone through the thin layer of dust, illuminating her lovely face.
"Do you mean it? A night indoors? With an actual bed?
Harper reluctantly, but with great skill, proceeded to lie to his wife. He told Gwyneth the inn had the finest rooms available for miles and included a bath in the price. He neglected to tell her they were the only rooms available for miles and the only bath to be had was in the river around back.
Gwyneth glared at him, frustration and disappointment fighting for supremacy over the battlefield of her beautiful face. Donavan grinned and swept one arm towards the inn in a melodramatic "ta-da" gesture.
The inn was a rough-and-tumble sort of place whereupon hung a creaking, weather-worn sign declaring it as "The Broken Arms." Held together with rusting nails, flaking paint, and bird droppings, the inn catered to a very specific clientele composed of men and women of outre character: explorers, mercenaries, sellswords, and sellspells. People with a penchant for tomb-raiding and butt-kicking; the sort of people mothers feared their children might become, and fathers feared their daughters might get pregnant by. In a word: adventurers.
Townsfolk typically loved the coin adventurers brought to their community, as a single gold coin was enough to support a family of five for a month if they had a small garden to supplement their meals with. Merchants, innkeepers, alchemists, and blacksmiths in particular could often earn more in a week than in the rest of the year when an "adventuring party" rolled into town. Unfortunately, it was a roll of the dice when you considered how much trouble they caused. Adventurers were often as likely to slay a dragon or save your town from an attack by nearby miscreants (goblins, orcs, bandits, etc.) as they were to damage property or reveal your neighbors as cultists worshipping an unholy abomination. All in all, adventurers were very exciting to have in town, but a pain in the hindquarters after a few days.
The three simple rules of the inn were plainly painted in bright colors and five languages above the bar: 1. no stealing from the innkeeper or the barmaids, 2. no killing on the premises, 3. everything would be paid for. This third rule was actually more complicated than most patrons realized, as it included food, drink, property damage, or a jaunt with a willing wench (or a willing stableboy as the case may be). There was no fear of rule-breakers, as a few muttered words from the innkeeper were sufficient to rouse a good-sized crowd of patrons. Once rousted from their drunken stupors, this crowd of patrons would pull the rule-breaker aside for a chat. This friendly aside would often be remembered for the rest of the deviant's life and would leave the offender lying in the manure pile behind the stables moaning in pain. This offensive soul would get fun souvenirs to take home, in the form of a collection of bruises in assorted colors, plus the broken bones from which the inn took its memorable nom de guerre.
"This ramshackle hut masquerading as an inn is your idea of a good place to spend the night? Gwyneth despaired.
"Don't let the Innkeeper hear you. Word is he's a former adventurer himself: got lucky, got rich, got out. Keeps an enchanted crossbow under the bar, not that he'd use it on a lovely lady like yourself. He'd probably just spit in your drink. Besides, isn't that how most bard's stories begin? 'The adventurers met in an inn' or some such?"
She rolled her eyes, "That may be the most unoriginal thing I've ever heard!"
"Don't dismiss the idea quite yet." Harper opened the door and ushered her inside. "We've already discussed recruiting more people to join our merry band. Can you think of a better place to start?"
"Yes! Anywhere else!" Gwyneth exclaimed as they maneuvered their way through the rowdy crowd, seeking an empty table.
"But I have it all planned out! Listen to this: 'Hail and well-met violent stranger! I see you are strong of swordarm and weak of morals! How would you like to come camping with us in search of potential fame and fortune and a good chance of meeting a painful and untimely demise?"
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath through her nose, and exhaled out her mouth as she held back the urge to throttle her husband by the throat and shake until his teeth chattered like dice in a cup.
"Or you could handle the problem like an actual adult, by being subtle and diplomatic."
"What fun would that be?" he asked her.
They ordered two meals of mutton and potatoes, sharing a bottle of wine. He grinned and rubbed the spot on his arm where Gwyneth smacked him when she caught him checking out the curves of the barmaid.
As everyone who frequents drinking establishments knows, when too many people are crammed into too small a space and fed copious amounts of alcohol, both temperature and temperaments can flare up; those who don't know that really need to get out more. The Harpers were enjoying their dinner when one of their fellow patrons sought to amuse himself at their expense. A hulking brute with yellow-green skin, yellow tusks, and bleary red eyes started leaning over their table.
"Hey pretty lady, why you wit' dis guy when you could be wit' me?"
"I think you'd have better luck at another table." Gwyneth said with a polite smile plastered on her face.
Harper frowned, "The lady's spoken for friend, so I suggest you move along."
"I ain't talkin' to you! I'm talkin' to her!"
Gwyneth calmly ignored the creature and continued eating. Harper stood up suddenly, his chair clattering backwards to the floor. The room went quiet as all eyes turned towards the source of the disturbance.
"Well, I'm talking to you, and I'm telling you to get lost before you get hurt."
With a drunken bellow, the half-orc lunged forward, grubby mitts reaching for Harper's throat. Harper met the charge with an uppercut to his attacker’s chin, snapping the half-orc's mouth shut. The half-orc staggered backwards, caught his ankle on a table leg, and sprawled backwards onto the wooden floorboards. Snarling with anger, the brute pulled out a dagger, but Harper quickly kicked it out of his enemy’s grip with a boot to the fingers. Shocked, the half-orc made for the dagger again.
"Leave it," the gunslinger said coldly. Harper straightened his gun belt and let his hand rest on the butt of his pistol.
The half-orc measured the distance between him, the dagger, and the gunslinger. He clearly didn't like what his bloodshot, piggy eyes were telling him.
"Are you gonna kill me?"
"Not unless I have to. You attack us again and I'll burn you down; rules or no rules. Now get out and stop harassing people who've done you no wrong."
Harper watched the half-orc as he got up off the floor and made a show out of dusting himself off, as if he were the one who'd been wronged. After the ruffian departed, Donavan retrieved his chair and calmly sat down again across from his wife as she continued her meal unperturbed. The inn resumed its regular volume of noise as the crowd picked up where it'd left off.
"I told you this was a lousy place to recruit from."
With recruitment a bust, they returned to treasure hunting by exploring the caves which ran below the Curchain Hills of Varisia. Local miners talked freely, with a liberal application of ale to loosen their lips, about a dig they'd had to abandon years ago when the mine intruded into an ancient Thassilonian fortress buried beneath the earth. Work had come to a crashing halt since nobody in their right mind was willing to explore those ruins. Adventurers were rarely known for being in their right minds, so the miners had been all too willing to draw the Harpers a map to the dig site - for a few coins more; kids to feed, you understand.
Four days later, the adventuring duo quietly crept in to set up camp. All was well until that lumbering muscle-bound oaf they had encountered at The Broken Arms decided it was a good idea to bushwhack them.
A few flasks of burning oil, rotting support timbers, and a vengeful half-orc combined into one nasty cave-in. The cavern walls had begun to tremble as a low rumbling noise arose deep in the earth. As dust and debris shook loose from the tunnel’s ceiling, Donavan grabbed Gwyneth by the straps of her backpack and hurled her towards the cavern mouth.
All of which brought Harper to here and now: trapped in the darkened halls of dirt and rock beneath the sunlit surface. His wife’s face came to his memory now and he hoped Gwyneth was still alive and unharmed, but he couldn't dwell on that now. He rubbed his stubbly chin as he weighed his options. Hypothetically, he could start moving stones and dig his way out, expending all his energy towards the hope that he could create an opening large enough to crawl through.
Assuming he didn't get snagged and trapped halfway through, leaving him to die of thirst where he lay. Assuming that any rocks he dislodged weren't holding up a boulder. Assuming he had the strength to move the rocks in the first place.
Or…
Harper could turn and head deeper down the tunnel, descending into the unknown. Ideally there would be another route to the surface, but this wasn't a campfire story. It was quite likely he'd find nothing but a dead-end, in which case he'd be no worse off than he was before - trapped. At that point, he'd happily start digging. The odds were against him, but a slim chance was better than no chance.
The gunslinger descended deeper into the forbidding darkness one painful step at a time. He held the glowstick aloft to light his path, throwing dancing shadows on the walls. He came at last to a point where the mineshaft met worked stone. There, its' back leaning up against a great stone door, was a corpse, shriveled and shrunken from the deadly twins Starvation and Dehydration. Harper squatted to examine the body, his knees popping in protest.
“Evening, friend. If you can talk, would you mind doing so now while I’m ready for it? I’d also be appreciative if you’d tell me the way out without trying to kill me.”
The mummy just sat there, grinning its desiccated smile at Harper as if to cynically say “If I knew the way out, do you think I’d still be hanging around here?”
“Forget I asked. I deeply regret having to disturb the dead, but I must know if you have anything of interest upon your personage.”
The mummified one sat as imperturbable as an oak tree, though its dead eyes seemed to say “What’s mine is yours. Not like I’m going to do anything with that junk, not like it prolonged my life any.”
"Mm-hm..." Harper muttered quietly as he began to rummage through the pockets of the mummies' tattered robes. "Hey, what's this?" It was a very old book, bound in leather with age-yellowed pages. He flipped through the journal briefly as he rested on his haunches. "I imagine you've got all sorts of information about what lay ahead, but I don't have time to waste reading when I could be moving." Harper stood up and tipped his hat to Mr. Mummy, "Much obliged, friend."
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He looked at the lithic door, gauging the locking mechanism inset at its center. Covered with viridian Thassilonian runes, glowing malevolently with eldritch power, this lock had probably kept the fortress intact and looter-free for "lo, these many years." Anything could be on the other side, untold riches or world-changing historical records. On the other hand, anything could include deathtraps, active guardians, curses or inscriptions boding ill-will towards intruders, regardless if those intruders had academic intentions. Temporarily defeated, Harper sullenly trudged back up the tunnel to the cave-in.
Sometimes it was better to face the devil you knew, than one you didn’t.
He dug until his fingers started to bleed, then took his knife from its sheath, cut some long strips of leather from his vest, wrapped his hands, and dug some more. After what was surely hours of labor, he sat back and appraised his progress. Thus far, he’d dug a small hole in the rubble blocking the passage out.
Inspiration struck. His gun belt still had a goodly number of cartridges tucked in it; he pulled them out and counted two dozen. With five in the cylinder of his gun, that made twenty-nine. No, twenty-eight: better save the last one for himself if this didn't work. Harper carefully removed the bullets from their brass casings, using his knife to pry ever so gently along the seams until he could pop the lead loose. A few deep breaths steadied his nerves and hands for the crucial moment he poured black powder into the hole he'd dug. Harper tried not to breathe too heavily and risk blowing away even one precious grain. Gods help him if he sneezed. When he'd filled up the space, he carefully tamped powder down and refilled it until he was certain that the cavity wouldn't take a single grain more. With what cartridges remained he ever-so-carefully sprinkled powder in a line as far as he could get from the impending blast.
Harper removed his duster coat to shield himself. With shaking hands he struck his flint against steel, igniting the trail of black powder. A smoking spark blazed along the tiny trail towards the collapsed debris. Donavan ducked and covered, thinking to himself "this could be a really dumb way to die."
The spark reached its destination and exploded, blasting stony shards and spraying dirt everywhere. Harper grunted as a piece of shrapnel pierced his leather cover and the flesh beneath. After the dust had settled, he lifted his head to survey the results. His laughter echoed down the earthen tunnel until tears ran from his eyes.
The cave-in had withstood the blast.
Harper sat in deep introspection. Yet, as he reconsidered his life choices, the cave-in began to melt and drip, as if the rubble were a big lump of chocolate ice cream left out on a summer's day. When the barrier of earth and stone had been reduced to a mud puddle, standing there before him, shining in lamplight, was his wife Gwyneth, completely unscathed.
"You're alive!" she ran to embrace him, bloody and dirty though he was.
"I've never been happier to see you, but... how?"
"Magic, you idiot! See, this is why you need to come to the temple with me, like I tell you!"
He grinned sheepishly as she covered his face with kisses.
"So anyway... what took you so long?" he asked as they made their way back to the camp they'd set up in the mine. She gave him a loving smack on the shoulder.
"I had to take care of something first."
"What could be so important that you'd leave me all alone down there?
"This," she gestured towards the tied-up form of a familiar half-orc. "He thought he'd loot our gear, make a small profit off his revenge-killing. Obviously, I surprised him when I showed up. Why don't you release him so we can continue with our lives?"
Gwyneth shouldered her pack and descended into the darkened tunnel. When Harper could no longer see the light of her lantern, he loomed over the captive half-orc.
"Looks like it's just you and me now.” The gunslinger drew the revolver from its holster at his hip.
“As I recall, my exact words were 'you attack us again and I'll burn you down.' I expect to lose some sleep over shooting a man when he's tied-up and defenseless, but I'll get over it eventually." Harper's voice was cold as ice, his gaze hard as steel as he thumbed back the hammer.
"But she told you to let me go!"
"You see, the difference is this: deep down inside, my wife is a good person, and deep down inside... I'm not."
The muzzle-flash of gunfire illuminated the camp for an instant as Harper's bullet entered the would-be assassin's open mouth and exited through the back of the half-orc's skull, creating a crimson flume before the corpse fell to the ground.
Immense granite doors swung open on perfectly-crafted hinges. Runic engravings pulsed with magical energy and bathed the cavern walls with viridian light. A pair of Pathfinders stood at the threshold in eager expectation of the adventure awaiting beyond.
“I told you I could open that lock.” Harper smirked at his long-suffering wife as he spun his revolver back into the holster at his hip.
Gwyneth rolled her eyes and slammed a leather-bound tome shut.
“And I told you…”
She was interrupted a mere moment later when a fang-filled maw was expelled from the darkened interior propelled by a sleek, furless hound. The slavering beast launched itself towards Harper with every intention of clamping its oversized jaws around his throat.
Harper raised his arm in defense and allowed the creature to lock its jaw onto his right while he drew his pistol with his left. The sinewy creature started shaking him like a rag doll with shark-like teeth, intent on tearing his arm off in gouts of blood. Harper’s foot hit a rock and he fell backwards, the festrog coming down on top of him. His head struck the ground, dazing him for a moment. Claws tore at his leather duster coat, and he could feel the material starting to rip.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the firearm he’d dropped. He scrabbled in the dust for it with his free hand while the beast savaged his right arm. Harper managed to wrap his hand around the grip as a fang the size of his finger punctured a round hole in the flesh of his right arm.
Pain assaulted his senses, and he saw red.
Instinct overrode the logic center of his brain and he roared in fury. Indignant that this beast would dare to attack him, Harper savagely pistol-whipped the beast in the head as hard as he could. There was a loud crack as he pulled the trigger. The beast went limp but refused to release him. The gunslinger shoved the barrel into the beast’s mouth behind its molars and twisted. He pried the creature’s jaw open and withdrew his bleeding arm.
“As much as it pains me to admit it, it looks like you were right about going back to town to rest and resupply.” He retrieved his wide-brimmed hat from the dusty tunnel floor and returned it to its proper resting place atop his head, covering pointy ears. Only after he’d risen to his feet and dusted himself off did he notice that his wife was missing.
Past the lithic doorway, an iron staircase spiraled downwards. Below, a green light glowed and dimmed in tempo with a subterranean pulse. The rusted railing vibrated beneath Harper’s hand.
He descended into the warm, humid darkness.
Limestone walls greenly glistened from the glowing glass orbs ensconced at regular intervals next to open passageways. A nearby doorway beckoned. He entered and found an abattoir waiting for him.
Gnawed bones littered the floor and severed human limbs hung like slabs of beef at a butcher’s shop. In a nearby kitchen, rotted cubbyhole shelves covered one wall from floor to ceiling. Each slot overflowed with coins, rotting garbage, and strange trinkets. The grotesque galley reeked of rot and decay.
Iron bars partitioned off most of the stone chamber beyond. Harper cracked another glowstick, illuminating the darkened cell.
Captives of several races cowered in their own filth. Starved and abused, their heads were shorn close to the scalp.
“Merciful God, it’s the larder.” Seeing him, the prisoners began to stir and beg for release. “Shh! Hush now and I’ll get you out.” Sharp eyes found a key ring hanging from an iron spike embedded in the wall. “How long have you all been down here?” Their hushed answers were different for almost all of them, but every prisoner asserted that nobody lasted more than two weeks in the cage. “Time to get the Hell out of here!” He looked to the freed captives. “Follow me, stay close, don’t fall behind, and keep quiet.”
As he led them back the way he’d entered, his analytic mind raced furiously. The entrance had only been excavated recently and he himself had been the one to unlock the doors. In addition, the underground complex had clearly existed for many years. None of them had been in captivity longer than two weeks, which must mean that there had to be a second entrance.
Tugging at his sleeve drew his attention to a diminutive Halfling woman. “I can help you fight.” The top of her head came to his waist, but she was clutching a cleaver retrieved from the kitchen.
“No doubt, but these people need your help more than I do. Go up these stairs, through the abandoned mine. Follow the trail to safety and don’t come back. Go now.”
Harper searched room after room, resisting the urge to run, favoring stealth instead. When he finally found his wife the cavern dwellers had laid her out on a large banquet table. Gwyneth lay as if sleeping, surrounded by bone china plates, and fine, though tarnished silverware. Her alabaster skin was given an unhealthy pallor by emerald-flamed candles
Twisted, emaciated figures clad in decaying silk finery were seated around the table and caressing her with their withered limbs. Soft coos of loving attention were uttered from cracked lips. Crooked fingers stroked her hair, inhaling the fragrance with misshapen noses. At the head of the table, their host grinned with yellowed, broken teeth, raising a glass of liquid too dark to be wine.
Ghouls.
Harper grimaced and loudly cocked the hammer back to get their attention. It worked.
The undead stared at him with milky white eyes. Their faces were utterly devoid of emotion.
“Get away from her. Now!”
Chairs scraped on the stone floor as the cannibals rose and backed away from the table.
“Prithee, what is that device you wield?” The host ghoul spoke in soft, sibilant whispers.
“Touch her again and you’ll find out.”
A female ghoul stepped forward from the others, palms open. Her hair was styled into an intricate knotwork, with dead pixies braided in faux simulations of playful prancing and dancing. Her once-ample breasts hung limp and deflated like two watermelons left out to rot in the summer sun.
“Easy, child, easy. Verily, she lives yet. Look for yourself.”
Harper glanced down at his wife, verifying that her chest subtly rose and fell.
“Now don’t do anything rash.” Her voice was deceptively gentle. “We only do what we must to survive. Twasn’t personal.” The Ghoul Matron slowly reached up as if to scratch her head but instead pulled her raven tresses off completely, exposing an age-spotted, hairless scalp. Some of the others followed suit, revealing that every single one had lost their natural hair after decades of subterranean habitation and instead wore powdered wigs crafted from actual human hair.
“Take thy maid and be gone. Let there be peace betwixt us.”
“You mean I take her with me, and you won’t come after us?”
Waxen, pallid faces nodded at him.
“If I killed you all I’d be doing the world a favor; but right now I’ll take that deal.” He shook his wife’s shoulder. “Gwyneth? Gwyneth, you need to wake up now.”
She groaned and clutched her forehead.
“You hurt?”
“I’m a little groggy but I can move.”
“Then get behind me and let’s get the hell out of here.” Harper kept the revolver trained on the female ghoul. The cannibals remained eerily still, silently staring at the pair of adventurers as they backed cautiously towards the exit. “Thanks for inviting us to dinner, but we really must depart. Y’all have a real nice night now, y’hear?” He tipped his wide-brimmed hat to the ghouls as they backed out of the dining room.
As they retreated expeditiously, Gwyneth gazed in awe at her husband.
“I knew you’d come for me!”
“You were unconscious, you knew no such thing! Speaking of which…?”
“It’s all a little hazy. That creature was trying to rip your throat out, I was about to save you, then I heard an incantation. Bastards must have hit me with a sleep spell, because that’s when it all went dark. I think I was even awake for some of it, but I couldn’t move at all.”
“Paralysis. Ghouls can do that. You know they’ll be coming for us, right?”
“I thought they said we’d call it even.”
“They can’t take a chance that we’d spread the word about them. Eventually some group of heroes will come to exterminate them. This is their den and they’ve got no intention of moving on. It’s us or them, now.”
Dashing towards the exit, the pair just made it to the central corridor when the ghouls came running at them from every doorway in a howling mob. “Stab them! Slash them! Beat them! Break them!” The cacophony of their noises melted into one loud voice, screaming for blood. The ghouls brandished any broken and rusty weapons they could find.
Shots thundered in the hallway as the gunslinger fired his revolver again and again. Each bullet found its target and sent bodies sprawling across the floor. His fingers danced of their own accord, thumbing back the hammer and pulling the trigger by rote memory. The cylinder spun quickly as if eager to send forth its deadly payload until Harper heard a dry click.
Ghouls kept coming, trampling the corpses of their fallen friends in their mad rush to take the adventurers down. A wooden meat mallet came crashing down on his arm, splintering the ulna.
Half a second later, Gwyneth’s fist-sized stone flew through the air, caught the ghoul between the eyes, and burst its head open like an overripe cantaloupe. The Pathfinders retreated into the nearest doorway and found themselves back in the banquet room. With a flourish, the Ghoul Matron pulled a length of wrought-iron from a hidden pocket in her voluminous outfit.
“Son of a…”
Gwyneth overturned the dining table, scattering the place settings to the floor with a clatter. Harper and his wife cowered behind their makeshift barricade as crackling bolts of electricity were fired from the magic wand.
“Are you okay?” When no response was forthcoming, she inquired again. “What, no flippant remark?”
“Too… hurt… for… sarcasm…” Harper grimaced in pain, clutching his broken arm close to his chest.
“Thank you again for saving me.” Gwyneth responded in a syrupy sweet voice. She took the gun from his shaking fingers and reloaded it for him.
“You’d do the same for me, right?” he asked.
“Not a chance!” she said without a moment’s hesitation.
“Wait, what? But I thought…”
“That’s what you thought? What are you, an idiot? If I make it out of here without you, I’m running off to Absalom to find myself a rich husband. Marrying someone for love is clearly overrated.” She laughed at his comical expression as his mouth hung agape.
Lightning flew overhead, scorching his leather hat.
“Oh, she is so dead!”
“I’m sorry, was that a joke?”
“Why, was it funny?” Harper inquired. He took careful aim and fired a single round through the Matron’s head. She reached up and gingerly touched the smoking hole in her forehead with a painted talon and smirked.
“Injurious wasp, you’ll have to do much better than that.”
A hail of bullets dispatched the closest ghouls, but more kept coming. “Gwyneth, you’re going to have to clear us a path out of here.”
Ancient words of power flew from her lips as Gwyneth threw a handful of sulfur, iron powder, and tallow to the floor. The forces of nature surged through her body as she summoned a fireball before her and mentally sent the blazing spheroid hurtling away from her outstretched palms.
Ghouls dove out of the way, trying desperately to avoid the flaming globe rolling down the hallway. The Matron was slower than the others and saw her damask finery catch fire. Screeching in pain and fear she burst into flame.
“Come on!” Gwyneth helped Harper to his feet, his good arm wrapped around her shoulders.
With fire and firearm the Pathfinders spearheaded the charge.
When at last they emerged from the chthonian warren, a new dawn welcomed them back into the world of the living. Quickly, Gwyneth placed her palm on the floor and spoke in the elemental language of the earth. She magically drew a thick stone slab up out of the ground, creating a wall between the duo and their enemies and sealing off the tunnel. Claws scratched and scraped on the other side.
They ran for their lives.