Donavan Harper sighed deeply and sat on a large moss-covered rock, running his hands over his stubble-covered chin.  Overhead, the summer sun beat down through a clear blue sky onto the Curchain Hills.  From this windswept vantage point, he could almost see all the way to the Varisian Gulf.

A feminine voice behind him asked “What’s wrong dear?”

“I don’t know… it’s just… this whole thing has become far more complicated than I planned.”  He pulled off his wide-brimmed hat to wipe his brow, exposing his pointed ears. 

“Worthwhile things are usually difficult to achieve, my love.”  Gwyneth Harper knelt behind him on the rock and began rubbing his shoulders.  Wearing leather breeches, and a white shirt covered by a light brown cotton vest, she gently kissed the top of his head.

“I hadn’t really intended to seek fame and fortune by running about the countryside chasing rumors and buying fake maps from crazy Varisian gypsy women telling fortunes in a painted wagon.” 

She fingered the brightly colored scarf given to her by the elderly native.  “Would you prefer we settle down in some backwoods town and earn a respectable living?   

“Oh, you mean the boring kind of life spent digging in the dirt for a livelihood?  The kind where it takes a year to earn enough coppers to replace the pig you bought the year before?  Living in a place where everyone in town knows you and you know everyone?  Perhaps live there until the day you die?  And your children live there all their lives, and die there, and their children, and so on?  Living at the mercy of the weather; where the work of an entire year vanishes at the first early frost, or drought, or flood!”  The half-elf sighed deeply, letting all his frustration out in one loud exhalation.  “To hell with that Gwyneth, I won’t do it!  I can’t.”

“I know dear, I know.”  The Ulfen woman stood up, tying her long red hair back into a single ponytail to keep it out of the way.

He stood and helped her up off the rock.

“You should stay out here this time.”

Gwyneth put her hands on her hips and gave him a stony glare.  “Really.”  The icy tone of her voice let him know that one word was not a question.

Defeated by the upraised eyebrow of his wife, the Harpers entered the cavern together through the carved stone archway. 

Donavan pushed back his long brown duster coat and reached down to his waist to feel the reassuring handle of his firearm secure in its holster.  With his right hand he opened a pouch on the bandolier across his chest. He pulled out a small compass-like device, and held aloft the glowing Wayfinder to illuminate the chamber.  Each wall was made of stone, engraved with runes and sigils that covered nearly every inch. 

“This is amazing!  Look, these glyphs predate the Age of Darkness!  I think they might be Thassilonian, though that would make these writings over ten-thousand-years-old!”  Gwyneth marveled out loud as she began rummaging through her pack, removing a large leather-bound notebook and an ink pen.

“Exploration first, documentation second.  Come on!”  Slowly the duo descended deeper.  Gwyneth sketched furiously as Donavan pushed, prodded, and pulled her further into the ruins.

A few hallways and several rooms later they reached a subterranean chamber that had once been the stage for a scene of great violence, played out by actors whose desiccated remains littered the rooms.  Stone pillars draped with cobwebs like silken curtains were scattered throughout the room.  Leather-wrapped skeletons still clutched their rust-pocked blades and their gaping jaws lent the appearance of laughter at a joke that the living would never understand. 

“Should’ve waited outside like I told you to,” he muttered darkly. 

“Then who would keep you out of trouble?” she riposted.

He clenched his teeth to keep from saying something he’d regret later.  Well, maybe he wouldn’t regret it, but he’d regret letting her use it in an argument against him later.  His wife had a particular knack for dredging up his careless words and using them against him in a fight years later.  Donavan narrowed his eyes and peered forward into the gloom just so he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing the look on his face. 

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Gwyneth knelt next to one of the corpses, rubbing a finger across the skull. 

“Take a look at this.”

“I don’t see anything”

“Exactly.”  She said as she dusted off her hands. “There are no visible injuries of any kind.  There are no scratch marks on the bones to indicate claws or sword wounds.  No broken bones, every skeleton is still more or less in one piece.”

“So what killed them?”

“I’m not entirely sure.  Something obviously threatened these men, look at how they clutch their weapons tightly even in death.  If it had been poison, they’d have dropped them to grab their aching stomachs or throats.  If it had been magic, we should have felt the effects by now.  I’m certain these people were murdered by something.” she declared.  “Do you think ‘whatever-it-may-be’ still inhabits the site?” 

Donavan drew his pistol.  It was all the answer she needed.  A delicate hand on his shoulder gave him a reassuring squeeze.  He paused for a moment and looked back at his wife.

“Be careful.” she said.

As he disappeared into the darkness Gwyneth set her lantern on a broken pillar and sat down to sketch the pictographs inscribed on the walls.

Donavan rubbed one palm along the stone surface of the wall to guide himself and moved as quietly and as quickly as he could, straining his eyes to see ahead of him.  As he traversed the hallway he heard a faint skittering noise, like leaves rustling in the breeze.

            The darkness was oppressive, bearing down on him as if it had physical weight.  Unseen cobwebs caressed his face with wraith-like fingers.  Soft, sibilant whispers suggested sleep.  Another low murmur told him to lie down, to release his burdens and let the darkness embrace him.

            He closed his eyes and stopped moving, slumping back against a wall.  He began to think how easy it would be to lay down and rest.  The whispers reminded him how tired he was, how heavy his pack.  His breath and pulse began to slow as the darkness began to surround him.  Donavan could feel the shadows gently enfolding him and enshrouding him in an eternal, damning lover’s embrace.

            He angrily shook his head in an attempt to physically shake his thoughts loose, to break free of the malignant will bearing down on his mind.  His eyes snapped open, just in time to see the shadows peel themselves off the walls and start reaching for him with long, claw-like fingers.

“Time to run!  Time to run now!”  Echoed from the blackened corridor.

Gwyneth rose to her feet, and shoved her gear back into her bag.  “Donavan!  What is it?” she shouted back.

“Less talking more running!”  He emerged from the darkness and grabbed her by the arm, pulling her with him.

She could hear it now; something was moving behind them, something large, something loud, something faster than them.

“Keep running!”  He spun on his feet, his pistol outstretched towards the corridor, firing blindly.

“What are you shooting at?!”

“I’m attacking the darkness!”

“Are you hurting it?”

He fired once more but this time the gunshot was answered with a deafening roar, as if an angry tornado was bearing down on them in the subterranean shade.

“Enough to make it mad!”

He ran after her, his longer strides putting him next to her in a moment.  The pair pumped their legs rapidly, their chests heaving air in great sucking breaths.

“How far to the exit?” she asked.

“Not far!”

“How far is not far?”

“500 paces!”

Sardonically, she yelled back “Great!”

            They leapt through the open archway into the daylight.  Tendrils of darkness reached beyond the confines of the cavern, and were immediately burnt up by the unforgiving sun.  The shadows howled in rage and frustration, lamenting their failure to add two more souls to the dark chorus. 

            Donavan gasped for air and angrily told her:  “We are hiring more people.”

 “Dear, I believe you were the one who explained at length several times that more people mean more shares of the loot.  More shares means smaller shares.  Smaller shares mean waiting longer to reach our goal of fame and fortune.  Waiting longer means doing more jobs.  More jobs mean more danger.  Which you hate.  Besides, more people mean less stealth.  Less stealth means more danger.  Which you hate.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I hated it per se…” he muttered.

“Oh yes you would!  When we first discussed this whole ‘adventuring’ idea you said ‘Why would I want to risk life and limb?  I hate danger!’”

“Do you have to use the quote fingers when you do that?”

His green-eyed wife grinned at him, reminding him of the way a tiger must grin before it pounced on its prey.  “Yes dear.”

He threw his hands up in the air.  “Fine!  But what I meant was that I hate putting you in danger.  Which is exactly why we’re going to hire a few extra hands: to keep you safe.  No more splitting up, no more running from every fight.”

“Yes dear.”  Satisfied with her victory, she was willing to be charitable. 

In his heart, he secretly noted that she was gracious enough not to tell him that extra crewmembers had been her suggestion from the very start of their endeavor. 

“And that’s final!”  He huffed, folding his arms over his chest.

“Yes dear.”

“It’s very aggravating to have an argument with someone who agrees with everything you say.” He told her.

Her grin widened.

“Yes dear.”