Whiska, of course, misinterpreted this to mean that Rummy hoped to lure in the owls with the bread and wagged her finger at him before pantomiming a little mouse crawling across her hand, which would prove much more effective in luring the owl in close so she could strangle it. Rummy thought that perhaps Whiska was suggesting they could dance their way past the dragon, so he pointed to his left foot and held up one finger and then a second to suggest that he had two left feet and that his effectiveness would be limited if the group chose that approach. Whiska, in turn, assumed that Rummy wanted to stomp on the mice (not once, but twice to make sure they were dead), which caused her to shake her head in vigorous disagreement, as she knew that owls would not take as great an interest in dead mice as they would live ones. She pointed at Rummy’s foot, shook her head again, and then made her mice crawling motion again, the fingers on her right hand skittering across the palm of her left hand even more excitedly than before.
At that moment, Borg stepped forward and held us his hand to stop the silent dialogue between Whiska and Rummy. Nadi nodded, relieved that someone else had stepped in to end the confusion. Borg looked slowly and deliberately at everyone in turn before pointing to his stomach and then rubbing it vigorously. He then mimed shoveling food into his mouth before patting his stomach contentedly.
Apparently, Borg was hungry, and the moral of the story is that hand gestures can be confusing.
Nadi somehow managed to slap her hand over her eyes without making a sound.
She pointed down the tunnel and motioned for everyone to move. After about a hundred yards, she pulled everyone in close (none too gently, I might add) and whispered, “The entrance to the dragon’s cavern is just up ahead. It’s sleeping, as you might have guessed from the snores. We go in hard and we go in fast.” She looked at Whiska. “What’s the strongest thing you’ve got?”
“Fireball,” replied Whiska far too loudly, causing Nadi to flap her arms and start hissing. “But, I don’t think that’s going to do much good against the dragon.”
“What’s the strongest thing you’ve got that might hurt the dragon?” Nadi asked pointedly.
Whiska scratched her chin. “Probably a lightning bolt. Yeah, I bet that’ll light that oversized iguana up like a St. Chaffin’s day kindlesparker.”
“Good.” Nadi turned to Borg. “Can you get out in front so that, when the dragon wakes up, you’re in position to give it a good whack?”
Borg nodded (eventually).
“What about me, Nadi?” asked Rummy, looking nervous.
“You should…hmmm. Good question. Whiska—do you have any of those healing potions left?”
Whiska looked sidelong at Nadi. “One.”
“Good—give it to Rummy.” She looked at Rummy. “Stay on the perimeter of the battle and jump in to give it to whoever might need it the most. It’s likely that we’re all going to get hurt, so use your best judgment.”
Whiska nodded as though Nadi had just confirmed her deepest, darkest suspicion. “I knew it—I knew it! You want me out of the way! You want my cut of the treasure for yourself, you honey-tressed trollop! Well, you won’t get it—it’s mine. Mine! I’ll kill the dragon myself if I have to! Why, I’ll—”
“Are you done yet?” asked Nadi coolly.
“No one’s trying to take your share of the treasure, you festering, flea-ridden farce,” I said, deciding it was high time someone put Whiska in her place. “Though if you want to kill the dragon by yourself, I think we’re all in favor of that.”
“If you mention fleas one more time…”
“You’ll do what?” I got right up in Whiska’s face.
“Turn you into cockroach jelly.” Whiska sounded deadly serious.
“Okay, fine—I won’t mention fl…those things again,” I replied. I really didn’t like the idea of becoming any more gelatinous than I already was. “But, come on—if you don’t trust everyone in this group by now, you’re not going to, and you might as well leave. This is it, Whiska—the end of the grand adventure. When you walk into that cavern, you’re either walking into legend or into a coffin.”
“That’s a rather less cheery view of it than I’d like to take,” said Rummy.
“Quiet,” I said before turning back to Whiska. “You need to make a choice right here and right now—you either trust that no matter what happens in there, Nadi, Rummy, Borg, and I have your back, or else you walk away and find your own way out. Because we’re all in this together, and I can tell you that no matter what danger you’re in, I’ll put myself in harm’s way to try to get you out of it—even if your mangy carcass is infested with tiny bugs that suck your blood and make you itch.” Well, at least I obeyed the letter of the law.
Nadi put her hand on my shoulder and gave it a grateful squeeze. Whiska sighed, reached into a belt pouch, and withdrew a small vial, which she handed to Rummy. “Here,” she grumbled. “Don’t waste it. Make sure someone’s actually dying before you give it to them.”
“Thank you,” said Rummy, tucking the vial into the front compartment on his own belt pouch (which, incidentally, looked like what’s colloquially known in certain parts of Erithea as a “fanny pack,” and I should note that fanny packs are generally considered the purview of a class of mothers who have utterly given up on trying to impress anyone and fathers who had never once impressed anyone, though it looked pretty good on Rummy). He pointed to it. “Everyone knows where it is, so if I get turned into dragon flambé, make sure you get it back so you can put it to good use. Oh, and if that does happen, and any of you make it out alive, please tell my daughter that I died a good death. You can lie if you need to. And tell her that I love her.”
“I love…cockroach jelly…on toast,” said Borg.
“Your what?” asked Nadi, eyes going wide.
Rummy shrugged sheepishly. “My daughter. Have I not mentioned her?”
“Does this look like the expression of someone who is hearing something she has heard many times before?” asked Nadi, pointing toward the aforementioned wide eyes.
“So, no,” replied Rummy. “I suppose maybe I haven’t.”
“Why, exactly, did you choose not to mention this little fact previously?” I asked.
“Well, this is the first time I’ve felt truly imminent death,” answered Rummy. “It didn’t seem relevant absent those circumstances.”
“What did you do, pay a goblin to let you do the creaky accordion to her?” asked Whiska.
“No, no payments changed hands,” replied Rummy, unruffled. “She was fully complicit.”
“…but it was a goblin?” asked Nadi tentatively.
“Yes.”
“Oh. That’s…well, that’s interesting,” said Nadi.
“I’m kidding,” said Rummy.
“It wasn’t a goblin?”
“No, I don’t have a daughter. Do you honestly think any self-respecting woman of any race would have relations with me? I don’t even think the non-self-respecting ones would want to. I’m not really interested in that anyway. Besides, I’d be a terribly indulgent father. Probably annoying, though, too, what with all the prestidigitating.”