The sun dipped low behind the mushroom tower, casting elongated shadows across the courtyard. A hush had settled over the evening, broken only by the occasional clink of porcelain and the muttered grumbles of Krungus as he carefully arranged the last of the ornate plates. Each one was bone white, rimmed with delicate silver engravings that caught the fading light, giving them an eerie, almost ghostly glow.

Eugene stood off to the side, watching as Bahumbus fussed over the placement of the table—an absurdly long dining table stretching across the stone floor, with only two chairs set at opposite ends. The contrast was almost comical; it looked as if they were about to host a dinner party for an invisible army.

“Remind me again why we’re setting up a feast without any food?” Eugene asked, nudging one of the empty plates with his finger. “This some kind of wizard dinner party?”

Bahumbus, adjusting his spectacles and eyeing Krungus as he meticulously aligned a fork to some unseen cosmic standard, chuckled. “Not quite, lad. It’s an old ritual—something we used back in the early days, when finding each other was... tricky.”

Eugene smirked. “Because scrying’s too mainstream?”

Krungus shot him a withering look. “Because normal magic doesn’t work on B’doom, you gormless child.” He turned back to the table, running his fingers over one of the silver-etched plates and murmuring something under his breath. The engraving flared briefly before settling back into its original luster.

Eugene shrugged and picked up another plate, turning it over in his hands. The craftsmanship was impressive, but what struck him most was how... old it felt. Like something that had seen countless hands, countless years. “These must have some history,” he said, mostly to himself.

Bahumbus snorted. “Oh, they do. We used to call this the Ritual of the Lost.” He smiled wistfully, adjusting his belt. “Krungus always insisted on it when we were young and stupid.”

Krungus straightened up, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. “I still insist on it. And I was never stupid.”

Bahumbus grinned. “Sure you weren’t, Telemancer.”

Eugene took the opportunity to slide a little closer to Bahumbus. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

Bahumbus glanced at him. “I suppose you will whether I like it or not.”

Eugene smirked. “Was Krungus always this grumpy?”

Bahumbus let out a bark of laughter, wiping a hand down his face as if it had been a long time since someone had asked him that. “Ah, lad. No, no he wasn’t.” He glanced over at Krungus, who was currently scrutinizing the chair placement like the fate of the world depended on it. “He’s always been sharp-tongued, sure. Always had a quip ready, but there was... balance to it.”

Eugene tilted his head. “Balance?”

Bahumbus nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. “He used to laugh. Real, deep laughs, not just that sardonic nonsense he throws around now. Used to drink, celebrate, tell stories. He was a man who built things—not just with magic, but with people.” He sighed, tightening a strap on his belt. “But nine thousand years in a pocket dimension? You don't come back the same.”

Eugene glanced at Krungus, who remained silent, still focused on the plates. “You think he’s still stuck in there? In his head, I mean.”

Bahumbus pursed his lips. “He’s at war, lad. And not with Sharrzaman. Not yet, anyway. No, he’s at war with himself.”

Eugene frowned. “What do you mean?”

Bahumbus sighed and leaned in. “Look at him. He’s trying to fix the city, rally the Number, act like he’s in charge again.” He lowered his voice. “But deep down, I think he’s terrified that all he’s doing is building another prison. Just one with better lighting.”

Eugene swallowed, the weight of that realization settling in. “Damn.”

Bahumbus clapped him on the back. “Aye. ‘Damn’ is about right.”

Krungus, who had apparently been listening the entire time, spoke without looking up. “I’m not at war with myself,” he said, his voice tired but firm. “I just don’t have the luxury of wasting time.” He gestured for them to sit, his sharp eyes flicking between Eugene and Bahumbus. “If you’re both done gossiping like washerwomen, we have work to do.”

Bahumbus snorted and took his seat at one end of the table, while Eugene cautiously settled into the other.

Krungus stood at the head of the table, his staff planted firmly beside him. He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and the air around them thickened. The silver engravings on the plates began to shimmer, not with light, but with something deeper—potential.

“We reach for the lost,” Krungus intoned, his voice a whisper that echoed through the courtyard. “We seek the forgotten.”

Bahumbus, looking far too relaxed for something so arcane, murmured along, a familiar grin tugging at his lips. “We call to those who wander too far.”

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Eugene swallowed hard. “And what exactly happens if he... you know... answers?”

Krungus didn’t open his eyes. “We hope he’s still a friend.”

----------------------------------------

The common room of the mushroom tower was dimly lit, the warm glow from scattered lanterns barely touching the vaulted ceiling. The paladins stood off to the side, watching the proceedings with varying levels of confusion and mild horror. In the center of the room, the absurdly long dining table sat ready, each of the white, silver-edged serving plates gleaming under the flickering light.

Eugene leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes darting between the table and the doorway to the kitchen. “So... this is a locator spell?” he muttered under his breath to Qlaark. “Not exactly what I pictured.”

Before Qlaark could respond, Krungus and Bahumbus emerged from the mushroom tower’s kitchen, each guiding a massive floating pot with effortless magical precision. The pots bobbed in the air like obedient, oversized pets, and with every ripple of the liquid inside, an unnatural glow flickered from within.

Eugene blinked. “What... what’s in there?”

Bahumbus grinned as he and Krungus took their positions at opposite ends of the table. “Oh, just the usual ingredients for disaster, lad.” He waggled his bushy eyebrows before dipping his ladle into the pot. With a flourish, he flung a thick, neon-green goo onto the plate in front of Krungus. It hit with a wet plop, spreading unevenly across the porcelain surface like sentient slime.

Krungus, not to be outdone, scooped a viscous, shimmering purple sludge from his own pot and deposited it onto Bahumbus’ side of the table. The colors clashed violently, the two substances hissing where they met on the plate.

As they continued their bizarre plating ritual, each dip of their ladles brought forth new horrors—glowing blue paste, globs of shimmering gold jelly, mounds of iridescent, wiggling goo. None of it resembled anything edible.

Eugene gagged quietly. “It looks like Lisa Frank made dinner.”

When the table was fully set, the plates now resembling a chaotic painter's palette rather than a meal, Krungus and Bahumbus took their seats—each at the end of the side the other had prepared.

Krungus adjusted his unnecessarily large hat and sighed. “You remember the rules?”

Bahumbus rolled up his sleeves and grinned. “Chew three times, speak one word.”

With an air of reverence—or lunacy—they simultaneously took their first bites.

Krungus shoved a spoonful of the shimmering purple sludge into his mouth, while Bahumbus bravely bit into a chunk of what looked like molten emerald goo. They chewed exactly three times, their expressions somewhere between deep concentration and visible disgust.

Through a mouthful of magical sludge, Krungus spoke the first syllable.

"Buh!"

Bahumbus swallowed and followed suit.

"Dooooo!"

A thick glob of rainbow-colored food fell from Krungus’ mouth onto his plate. They took another synchronized bite.

"Ooom!"

They continued in this rhythm, chomp, chew, chant, dribble, the nonsense rhyme slowly taking shape. Bits of neon goo splattered onto the table, sliding down the sides onto the floor in a slow, viscous crawl. The paladins shifted uneasily, watching their fearless leader devolve into what looked like an exceptionally messy toddler.

The incantation took the form of a sing-song chant, like something plucked from a child’s bedtime story:

"B’doom, B’doom, you can’t go far,

Not with eyes like ours ajar,

Hide behind a rock or tree,

We'll still find where you might be!"

Each stanza came out wetter and messier than the last, food flying everywhere. Eugene dodged a glob of dripping orange sauce that narrowly missed his shoe.

Krungus, cheeks bulging with another bite, garbled:

"B’doom, B’doom, you can’t stay hid,

Not from us, you clumsy squid!"

By the time they reached the crescendo, both of them were covered in multicolored, viscous goo, their robes stained in hues of green, blue, and gold. With the final recitation, they slammed their spoons down onto the table.

"SHOW YOUR FACE, YOU OLD BUFFOON!"

For a moment, nothing happened—just the slow drip of magical slop sliding from their chins.

Eugene muttered to himself, “What even is magic here?”. Eugene didn’t think Dungeons and Dragons had any rituals like this.

Then, the plates vibrated. A low hum echoed through the room as the thick, gelatinous mess pooled on each dish began to shift and swirl. The colors blended, forming a hazy, rippling image repeated on the surface of all the plates they had laid out.

At first, the surface showed only abstract shapes—dark, looming figures shifting in the void. Then, clarity struck.

The image solidified into the unmistakable figure of B’doom—a hulking, bearded elephant man wrapped in armor made from tree bark, sitting inside what appeared to be a crumbling, overgrown ruin. There was something next to him—a small wooden flute—and, oddly enough, he was knitting a long scarf out of what appeared to be moss. His massive shoulders tensed as if he sensed the intrusion.

Eugene blinked. “He knits?”

Bahumbus grinned through a face full of goo. “Of course he does.”

Krungus wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe, now irrevocably stained. “There he is.” His voice was triumphant but also tinged with something Eugene couldn’t quite place—relief? Nostalgia?

B’doom, seemingly unaware of the magical spying, shifted slightly in his seat and muttered something under his breath. The plates trembled, distorting the image slightly, but Eugene could swear he heard him say:

“...stupid rhymes. Knew they’d try this.”

Krungus’ eyes narrowed. “He knows.”

Bahumbus, still licking some suspiciously glowing sauce from his fingers, laughed. “Well, we are predictable.”

Eugene couldn’t stop staring at the bizarre, peaceful scene. “Okay, so... now what?”

Krungus stood, wiping his hands on the table with a squelch. “Now? We pay him a visit.”

Eugene sighed, glancing at the mess on the floor. “After we clean this up, I assume?”

Krungus smirked. “No, we leave that to the paladins. Builds character.”