“Tunnel goblins,” noted Whiska as she inspected the corpse of one of the creatures Nadi had taken down. “We’re close.”
“What do you mean?” asked Rummy.
“Tunnel goblins always serve a stronger, more powerful master—often a minotaur. They’re utterly useless in a fight—sort of like you—and they’re morons—also sort of like you—but they’re fast and good scouts—unlike you. They also breed so fast they make rabbits look like the Ascetics of Bava.” (Ascetics of Bava, it should be noted, are not only not allowed to engage in conjugal relations, but need to chop off their means of engaging in said relations prior to joining the sect. I guess you could say that’s the only sects they get after that point.)
(If anyone wants to hit a snare drum for me right now, I’d appreciate it.)
“So there will be more?” asked Nadi.
“Tons more,” replied Whiska, lifting her nose to sniff the air. “That way.” She pointed toward one of the tunnels that led out of the chamber. “They smell like something the garbage wouldn’t let in. I should be able to track them by scent from here on in.”
We formed up behind Whiska, Nadi right behind her, then me and Rummy, and Borg (slowly) bringing up the rear. Two rights and a jog to the left brought us into contact with another half dozen tunnel goblins, which we quickly dispatched. Several more scraps ensued, and though everyone managed to avoid major injury, the cumulative effect of nicks and scratches began to take a toll, as did the need for constant vigilance. Whiska had very nearly depleted her store of spells.
We entered a small cavern devoid of tunnel goblins and gratefully collapsed—most of us, anyway. Borg stayed on his feet to stand guard, and Nadi stalked a circuitous route around the cavern, sizing up the most defensible positions.
“Slurry?” asked Rummy, holding out a water skin that we had filled with a pureed mix of salmon, water bugs, crayfish, and crackleshell worms. Highly nutritious, easy to carry, and tastes like shark vomit.
“No thanks,” I said, pushing the skin away before the scent hit me and I promptly refunded everything I’d eaten over the past ten years.
Rummy shrugged and took a long pull before smacking his lips and sighing appreciatively. “Just like great Aunt Bubblekettle used to make.”
“Bubblekettle?” I raised an eyebrow.
“My mother’s maiden name. Auntie Bubs was a Master Chef, and a trailblazer—the first woman to hold the title in the settlement where my mom grew up. Kind of a family legend. And, bar none, the greatest slurry maker who ever lived.”
“I think that’s a low bar,” I said.
Rummy shrugged. “Come to the Danar Slurryfest with me some year and you’ll change your tune.” He winked.
“Is that supposed to be a bard joke?”
“Only if you thought it was funny.”
“So, it wasn’t a bard joke.”
“I guess not.”
“If you two are done with the lack of comedy routine, maybe we can come up with a plan for what we do now,” interjected Nadi.
“Sure thing, Nadi,” chirped Rummy. “Slurry?” He held up the skin.
She deliberated for a moment before reluctantly nodding. “We need to keep up our strength.” She shuddered only a little as she swallowed a big mouthful of the lukewarm liquid. “We need some rest.” She nodded toward Whiska.
“This cavern seems…defensible,” said Borg, turning his head slowly to survey the small room. “I am…not tired. I…will stand guard.”
Nadi nodded her thanks before turning to Whiska. “Is three hours enough time for you to recover and study your spells?”
“How in the name of Lapidius’s poop tunnel are you going to know when three hours have passed down here in the dark?” returned Whiska, who, for once, wasn’t being needlessly vulgar, but was simply using a common Ratarian colloquialism. Lapidius is a key god in the Ratarian pantheon, and his poop tunnel is the passageway through which Ratarians who have lived a good life gain access to their version of heaven. I should note that “poop” in the Ratarian tongue means “heaven” (which should tell you something about Ratarians), and those who lived a “good life” are those souls who, by virtue of their bluntness, cleverness, and intestinal fortitude, managed to amass considerable treasure hoards. I will, for once, refrain from editorializing, but only because Ratarians make it too easy.
Nadi bit back a retort. “How long do you need to rest?”
“I’ll tell you when I’m done.” With that, Whiska sank to the ground, grabbed a nearby rock for a pillow, and started snoring in less than three seconds.
“Let me know when you need a rest,” Nadi said to Borg, patting him on the arm. She sat down, cross-legged, and fell into the elven state of reverie—a state somewhere between sleep and wakefulness. Sort of like smoking the hashish pipe, though Nadi doesn’t particularly like it when I compare the sacred elven ritual of communing with the inner-self to toking a Cantarian spliff.
I looked at Rummy, who shrugged and laid out his bedroll. I took my own bedroll from my pack and did the same. Half-elves can’t engage in reverie; only full-blooded elves have the ability to do that, which is unfortunate, because a few hours spent in reverie is like getting a full eight hours of sleep. Think of how much more I could get done without having to sleep. So many shoes to try on, not to mention so much wit and wisdom to dispense.
Sleeping while adventuring is a strange thing. Obviously, you need sleep while you’re questing about to kill this dragon or find that treasure, and sometimes you need to do it when you’re surrounded by things that want to kill you (or, at least, eat your liver, even if they are generally indifferent to the prospect of your continued respiration), but those aren’t exactly ideal conditions for closing your eyes and falling into a peaceful slumber, you know? You have to learn to trick your brain. That guttural growling coming from the kobold encampment nearby? That’s the sound of gentle thunder rolling through the sky, presaging the soothing pitter patter of a soft spring rain. The raucous roiling of an active volcano that could explode at any minute? Just the hungry stomach of a fellow adventurer. The ear-splitting snoring of a Ratarian wizard? Simply the sweet, final symphony of a companion soon to be murdered in her sleep by a beautiful half-elf.
Beyond being able to block out the sounds of impending death, you also need to place incredible trust in your companions, whom you’re relying on to literally guard your life. It can take a while to build that trust, so you end up spending a long sequence of nights only half-sleeping, which means you’re exhausted (and half-sleeping) during the day, too. The only advantage to that state of being is that it can be confusing for zombies, who aren’t sure whether to eat your brains or make zombie small talk with you (“Grrrr frrrmmm urrggblat?” “Grumph. Hrrrmmm.” “Craaaaa.”).
(Incidentally, that all loosely translates as, “Don’t you think elven brains are the best?” “I prefer human.” “You’re cray-cray.”)
Fortunately, by this point, we had developed enough trust in each other that I felt comfortable closing my eyes. Check that—I had developed enough confidence in Borg as a sentry to close my eyes (sure, he wasn’t the swiftest thinker or mover, but he had surprisingly good hearing and a deep, booming voice, so I trusted him to not only raise the alarm in time, but to do so at a volume that would wake even those of us who have a tendency toward particularly deep states of repose (I like to think it’s because I’m tapping into some small piece of reverie…but I’m probably just a really heavy sleeper)).