The five of them stood on the ledge and stared at the lava, far below. A single telescope still bobbed forlornly in it, defying the laws of thermodynamics. (To be fair, they were more of guidelines than laws when you got magic involved.)

Then their gazes traced up the shaft of the central chamber, where openings and ledges and entrances from other corridors jutted out like splayed fingers from a series of hands, all the way up until the top, where they stood.

And then they looked across the way, to a platform that hung suspended from the ceiling. Four little golems were in the center of it, stuck in a cage, waving back at the adults excitedly.

A gap of about fifteen meters separated the platform and the ledge. Below it, the shaft was clear straight down to the lava.

“Shit,” Graves summarized.

“Too many variables, yeah?” Daffodil said, rubbing his wooden hands together.

“Excuse me?” the Mousewife squeaked. “What's a very bowl?”

“It's dungeon language,” Threadbare said. “It means a function that can be filled with many different things.”

“What?” Daffodil shook his head. “No, it means that there's a lot of things that can happen here that we don't know about and can't necessarily control.”

“Oh,” Threadbare stopped, and considered it. His intelligence was obscenely good, though he didn't like to brag about it. “I see. So you're suggesting that the language the dungeon uses isn't exclusive to the dungeons, instead they're getting their words from something else. Graves, what was that theory called?”

“The precursor theory. The idea that the dungeons were created by a lost race, or civilization that has disappeared or ascended to a higher plane,” Graves said, distracted. He was studying the situation, and scowling more and more as he shook his head.

Beside them, the Mousewife kept steadily waving back at the juveniles, doing her best to keep them happy and calm. But she twitched her whiskers as she saw an odd expression cross Daffodil's jointed and carefully-carved face. “Is everything all right, sir? You look sad.”

“Ah. No, just... worried about the kids. We should probably rescue them before any bad guys show up.”

“But the situation hasn't changed,” Proctor Tane said, glowering at the lava. “It's too far to cross, and you said you couldn't fly, Graves?”

“No. Float just hovers me over the ground, or any liquid surface,” Graves sighed. “Flight is beyond my reach, my studies in the Wizardly arts have not progressed that far.”

“And I can't make the jump,” Tane said. “Once I could have, maybe. Now...” he indicated his unarmored body, and large gut. “I'm a mess. A-a pathetic m-mess.”

Threadbare put his hand on Tane's leg. He remembered how Celia had reacted when they found him drunk and unconscious in the hovel he'd called a home. Remembered how she'd patiently worked with him, putting him back together.

“You're not,” Threadbare said. “And just jumping across to that platform wouldn't do anything anyway. We'd have to find a way to get the juveniles back across safely, and then find the exit. You haven't seen the exit, have you?”

“No,” Tane said, sniffing, the sound echoing in his helm. He might be crying in there, but Threadbare knew better than to push the issue. “When all this nonsense started we found ourselves... ah, tell them,” he said, nodding to Daffodil, then started clearing his throat, lifting his visor and turning away from the group.

“We were talking in one of the lounges,” Daffodil said, spreading his hands. “Things shifted and moved, and suddenly every other lounge and private room connected together. There were a lot of surprised folks, I tell you that.”

“How many?” Graves asked.

“About thirty, all told.”

“That would be most of the staff, then,” Graves tugged his goatee. “Was anyone missing?”

“Mrs. Beemer was missing,” Graves said curtly. “We told everyone else to stay put and went to investigate. Maybe a few more weren't there, but I don't know every damn face. Not my job.”

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“Once we figured out we couldn't make it across the gap, we went to try and find one of the higher passages, to maybe drop down or haul them up,” Daffodil pointed up the shaft, to a few cave openings that did look a bit closer to the platform.

“The problem is that there's obviously a mechanism on the ceiling that does something,” Graves said, shaking his head. “It's obvious that something's going to trigger when pressure is applied to the platform. Or maybe when the cage opens. Does anyone have any Burglar levels? Anything that could tell us what that mechanism does?”

“Status,” Threadbare said, and looked at his sanity. He was down to two-thirds, so he felt reasonably confident with his next offer. “I have something that might work. Eye for Detail. Animus.”

He pointed at the mechanism on the ceiling.

“Invite dramatically-descending-platform-engine to party,” he said, and watched it lock into his party screen, next to the four mannequins already in there.

“Ah. A timed challenge,” Graves said. “You did the right thing by not messing around with it earlier,”

Tane didn't reply, but his shoulders relaxed a bit.

“So what now?” Daffodil shrugged. “You've got control of the winch or whatever it is. What's the next step?”

“Well I can stop it from dropping into the lava,” Threadbare said, looking down the central shaft. “But before that, if we lower it to the level of that ledge, it should be close enough that the juveniles can just step off. Once they get out of the cage, anyway.”

“Not bad,” Graves nodded. “And we can head back to the trapped cavern and pick our way around to it. Get them, head back to the other workers, and then go hunting an exit. No need for a boss fight.”

“Except that something tells me it won't be that easy,” Threadbare took a long look around the room. “This feels like a very... bossy... place. So I think at the very least I should be on the platform when it descends.”

“Can you fly now? Is that a thing you can do, in addition to all the rest of your stuff and nonsense?” Tane said, his voice raw.

“No, I can't,” Threadbare admitted. Not for the first time, he regretted that he'd swapped out his Shaman job to get his Scout job back. While it had been useful for sleeping, and helping Celia to sleep, eventually she'd gotten over the need and asked for it less and less. And it hadn't felt right, after that. He was much more comfortable being a Scout.

But the ability to turn into birds and other flying creatures would have been handy, here. Going without it meant that more drastic measures were called for.

“I want you to throw me,” he told Tane.

The man just stared at him, reddened and bloodshot eyes peering out the visor of the helm. “What?”

“It has to be you,” Threadbare explained, patiently. “Graves, you don't have much throwing skill, right?”

“Not only that, but all my jobs are related to magic or research now,” Graves folded his arms. “I can throw bombs decently, but that's part of that particular skill. And I'm assuming you don't want the children blown into little bits.”

The Mousewife shrieked and clapped her hands to her muzzle, and Graves immediately knelt by her, apologizing until she calmed down.

Threadbare continued his assessment. “I don't expect the Mousewife can throw much better than Graves, the Mannequins have poor dexterity, and with all due respect Mister Copperfield—”

“Please, call me Daffodil.”

“—Daffodil, I don't think your arm is better than Proctor Tane's.”

Tane took a breath, let it out, nostrils flaring. His pupils were a bit dilated, Threadbare noticed.

“If I miss, then what?” he asked.

“There are many ledges below us,” Threadbare said. “And I'm pretty nimble. I should be able to save myself.”

“I... no, I can't,” Tane said, and his sword rattled in its sheath, as he clenched his fist around the pommel, shaking. “We've... if I miss, she'll think... no, I can't. I'm...” the veins stood out on the man's forehead. “I'm sorry.”

There was a moment of silence on the ledge. Graves looked up, and cleared his throat. “Or I could lift you across,” he offered. “It occurred to me that I have a skill for that. Magic Fingers,” he said, and the Mousewife squeaked as she lifted into the air, and then back down again, as Graves mimed picking her up and putting her down. “It's got a five pound weight limit, but I'm assuming you're not that heavy.”

“I'm not,” Threadbare said, looking Tane in the eyes, before slowly turning away. He felt bad for putting the man on the spot, now, but there was nothing to be done for it. “Let me wring myself out first, the steam tunnel might have added some water weight. Clean and Press.”

The Tailor skill did its job, and moisture blasted outward from him, in all directions.

Graves nodded. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Threadbare said, and held perfectly still as Graves mimed grabbing and holding air. Unseen hands closed around him, and sent him wobbling across the lava.

It was a bit nerve-wracking, but fortunately for him he didn't have nerves. Golems were a bit harder to rattle than people, mostly.

But still, as he went, his mind kept going back to the twin Reason duplicates, and their hands poking out of the lava, thumbs up as they melted.

That part went smoothly.

But the second he dropped down to the platform, everything wobbled, and there was a CLICK above him. With a jolt, the platform started to descend...

...until Threadbare pointed at the device above him, and said “No. Stop.”

It did, with a grinding noise. The platform shuddered, but ceased its slow, ominous descent.

And for a second, he dared to hope that would be it. Fantasized that the plan would go smoothly, with no complications or trouble.

It was a nice dream. It was a happy hope.

And it was dashed, as flashing words appeared in front of his face, and the groans and curses from the others let him know that they saw it too.

WARNING! BOSS APPROACHING!