A dwarf and a half-elf sat across from each other in a crowded inn in silence, intermittently looking up at each other over their drinks.

  The warrior of their party had died on their last adventure. They were observing the time-honored tradition amongst adventurers, where they drank in remembrance of their fallen comrade.

  Neither knew what to say until finally, Grom the dwarven cleric spoke.

  “I hated that guy,” he said, downing the remains of his mug and slamming it on the table.

  “You can’t say that!” Syril the half-elf said in a loud yet subtle way that only a bard could pull off.

  “You didn’t like him either,” Grom said, flagging the barmaid down for another ale.

  “Yeah, but you don’t see me going around saying it,” Syril said.

  He examined his own nearly empty, a colorful cocktail made with the local fruits, deciding if he wanted another.

  “Whose ‘going around?’” Grom asked, looking around the room. “I’m just saying what we’re both thinking.”

  “It’s just not done.”

  “Well, lots of things that are ‘just not done’ seem to be happening lately,” Grom said.

  The waitress hadn’t seen his short arm waving her over and he was gesturing in a more frustrated fashion.

  “The rogue sending the local courier to the dungeon with a note saying ‘I’ll meet you inside’ for example. That’s ‘just not done.’”

  Syril paused about to take a sip and raised his glass in acknowledgement.

  “Yeah, that was bad.”

  “Him not actually showing up?” Grom asked. “Equally ‘not done.’”

  As if summoned by the mention of him, the doors to the inn burst open and a tall lanky man clad in dark leathers came in, closing the door behind him.

  Despite his sudden and abrupt entrance, everyone turned away a moment after they saw him. This wasn’t a subtle trick of roguery, however. He was simply a known figure and none of the patrons wanted anything to do with whatever chaos he was bringing into the inn.

  He quickly spotted the pair and ran over to their table.

  “If anyone asks,” the rogue said quickly, sitting down and flagging the barmaid in a single move. “I’ve been with you guys all week.”

  “You were supposed to have been with us all week,” Syril pointed out.

  “Perfect, I knew I could count on you Syril,” the rogue said.

  “Linar, he’s not playing along,” Grom said, having finally put his arm down after Linar had gained the barmaid’s attention. “You were supposed to go in the dungeon with us.”

  “Was I?”

  “How did you forget?” Syril asked. “You sent a note.”

  “Oh yeah! I did! Sorry about that— I hope everything went well. What are you to doing? Celebrating?”

  “Bill died,” Grom said, and when the barmaid arrived, he said in heavily accented dwarven accent missing up until then. “I’ll take another, lassy!”

  “Of course!” she said, turning to get him a new drink.

  She’d forgotten to take the old mug—again—and he was acquiring quiet the collection. It was one thing to drink six mugs of ale and another completely to see the six empty mugs in front of you as your order another.

  Maybe I’m developing a problem, Grom considered.

  “Why did you do that?” Linar asked, looking from the retreating waitress to Grom.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Grom answered. “A poisoned dart from a trap did. A trap that you were supposed to detect and disarm last time we entered.”

  “Oh, yeah. That trap. Well, I found it last time, but I figured I’d just get it on our next delve. I hadn’t brought the right type of wire cutters.”

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  “But you didn’t show up,” Syril said.

  “Yeah… sorry about that. Won’t happen again.” Linar said, eyes scanning the room for signs of a threat. “But what’s with that accent thing.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Grom said.

  “He slept with that barmaid last week before the delve. She said she’d always wanted to meet a Revan dwarf, and Grom overheard it, played up the accent. Now he can’t let it drop around her.”

  “Well, that was stupid,” Linar said. “You guys are staying upstairs.”

  “I didn’t know she worked here,” Grom said, smiling at the aforementioned waitress that was coming over with drinks in hand. “Thanks, lassy, Cland bless you on this humble yet solemn day.”

  “Oh, solemn? What happened?” She said, voice full of concern.

  “Bill died,” Syril said, saving Grom the effort of faking more Revan accent. “Stepped on a dart trap.”

  “Oh no, Ellen must be so distraught,” she said, dabbing at a budding tear in her eyes. “They’d been seeing each other, right?”

  “Yeah, those dart traps can be tricky,” Linar said, grabbing a handful of pretzels off the table and eating them as he continued to talk. “You really should have brought a rogue with.”

  “What do you mean Linar?” Syril asked. “You were with us all week.”

  Linar looked at Syril with a furrowed brow until his eyes lit up in recognition.

  “Oh yeah, those dart traps are tricky. I really should have brought the right wire cutters.”

  “Oh! You should do the funeral!” the barmaid said, “It would be perfect! You were with him in his last days. You were his ally. You’re a cleric of Cland, the god of adventurers. Who better?”

  “Aye… who better indeed?” Grom said, taking another drink.

  Sometime later after the waitress had left—after wringing every last detail of the “planned” ceremony from Grom—Linar asked, “What’s her name?”

  “We don’t know,” Syril said.

  “How do you not know?”

  “I thought her name was Cindy, but when I called her Cindy, she looked behind her… then I had to wave to some random women behind her. Now its too late to ask.”

  “I could ask for you,” Linar offered.

  “That would be great,” Grom agreed.

  When the waitress came back, with more drinks in hand, Linar got her attention with a snap.

  “Hey, my friend Grom here has a question for you,” Linar said, and then gestured to the dwarf.

  The dwarf shot daggers at the rogue.

  “Well if you’re too shy to ask, I guess I will,” Linar began. “What’s your—”

  “Favorite flower,” Grom said, interrupting and finishing the sentence.

  The waitress’ eyes grew wide, and she began playing with the hem of her dress in an excited manner.

  “Oh, I love just about any flower,” she said. “As long as it was given by someone who cares about me. They all have their own little spots of beauty.”

  “Hey! Stop flirting and get back to work!” the innkeeper shouted across the inn to the still unnamed waitress.

  She mouthed sorry and turned to go with a coy smile.

  “Gods help me,” Grom said, burying his face in his hands.

  “Which ones?” Syril said, “Cland? Or Borith? Or was it Dokin? You seem to be the cleric of quite a few.”

  “How about you leave the divinities to me, and you worry about getting us out of trouble for whatever Linar is about to bring down upon us.”

  “Hey! I was with you guys all week.”

  “Right, right.” The two said in unison.

  The door opened again, and a human women clad in a drab and worn wizard robe strode in, a black crow familiar perched on her shoulder. Her eyes went straight to their booth and she nodded, heading over.

  “Heya Ellen!” Linar said a little too loudly, looking around to see who was listening. “I can’t seem to get away from you! We spent all week in that dungeon and now you’re here!”

  Ellen stopped, looking Linar up and down and then shook her head, choosing to not engage.

  “What are you guys drinking to?” she said, eyeing the collection of mugs and taking a seat next to Syril.

  “Bill,” Syril said.

  “What about him?” she asked.

  “He died Ellen! Because I missed a trap!” Linar said loudly, though he was smiling and nodding, like he’d just had a great idea. “I’m so sorry! I’ll donate my portion of the treasure to his next of kin.”

  “But you didn’t get any treasure,” Grom whispered, “Remember?”

  “What are you talking about?” Linar asked, feigning aghast. “I was there all week!”

  “Oh yeah… Bill,” Ellen said.

  “You don’t seem too broken up about it,” Syril observed.

  “Well… I was looking for a way to break up with him. I was considering trapping myself in a time dilation bubble. That worked last time. He definitely would have cheated on me when I was in there and I could just end it easily. He seems like a cheater. This works out better.”

  “Why were you going to break up with him?” Syril asked. “You need to stop dating all the warriors we recruit.”

  “Well then you need to stop recruiting certifiable beef cakes. Do you know what the men in the wizarding college are like? Do you? They are the human equivalent of a wet noodle if a wet noodle had been attacked by a wight.”

  “That’s why I went to a bardic college,” Syril said with a smirk. “Beautiful people as far the eyes can see.”

  “Lots of beefcakes huh?” Ellen asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “Not like that!” Syril insisted.

  “Syril likes his men lithe,” Grom said.

  “I don’t—”

  “I’ve been called lithe,” Linar cut in. “But sorry, I’m kind of in the middle of a dramatic break up.”

  Syril took a deep breath, shaking his head.

  “Nevermind,” he said. “I guess I’ll go put out a notice.”

  “Why not ask at the funeral?” Linar asked, earning strange looks from all four—including the crow.

  “What? Funerals are great places to meet new people. In fact, I just met a fine young widower at a funeral this week past.”

  “About the open position!” Syril said. “I don’t need dating advice, and you three are the last I’d go to if I did.”

  No one dared argued that. They are knew—at some level—that he was right.

  “You must be confused,” Grom said, looking at Linar. “You were with us all week.”

  “Exactly, and that’s what you should say if her husband shows up,” Linar said.

  “I thought she was a widower.” Ellen said.

  “Yeah… that’s not as permanent of a position as you’d hope. He was murdered and his… friends were able to arrange for a resurrection.”

  “Linar,” Syril said in a serious tone. “Did you murder a man so you could sleep with his widow?”

  “Of course not,” Linar said, still a little too loud. “I was with you guys all week.”

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