The Dungeon Sender (part II)

The figure in the corner never looked up from the drink. This was not considered rude by the other tavern patrons, who were not only fervent proponents of ‘if it’s not at my table, it’s not my problem’, but were also keeping careful opticals on their own beverages, lest some of the more hoary beverages gain abnormal mobility.

Lyra, the Bard, found the whole thing altogether too portentous* to bear. “Who is that clown?” she asked, of her own table.

Mork the Mage tipped her beer, checking it for signs of life or undeath, and replied, with some caution, “That’s no harlequin; that’s our contact.”

(And yet: Did you really know what lay beneath that slightly overlarge cloak? It might well have been harlequin rags and tatters, just waiting for the moment when the wearer decides to hurl their beer-glass into the fire and mazurka upon the tables.)

“Our what?” Lyra replied.

“Contact. The person who’ll tell us how to get to the next dungeon and what we need to do there.”

“And…these people are… reliable?”

Mork looked back at her. “You come from a very small village, don’t you?””

“So one just goes over to the table, and…”

“And the Sender will give you a mission of vital importance.”

“How does the Sender know of so many important quests, and why is this person recruiting in a tavern instead of at the Castle?”

“Have you MET the Queen Mother?”

“Point taken.”

___

In one world, we didn’t hear much of Lyra and Mork. We know they, and the rest of their party, spoke to the Sender. We know that some of their gear apparently wasn’t worth eating, because it showed up a few days later. No sign of Mork or Lyra would be found…unless, obviously, you counted the recipe.

___

But I feel there’s more to the story.

I’ll take you there…

…if you’d like to go on an adventure.

 

 

 

 

* Not to be confused with ‘pretentious’, although, in this circumstance, it’s hard to see why not.

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