The Unlikely Company

The mountain air was thin and sharp, the sun baking the stone around them. Before the ragged, dark entrance to the dungeon, a market of ambitious vendors bustled, their cries echoing—Cold iron! Get your blessed cold iron! Wards and hex-breaks! Last chance for protection!—a stark contrast to the silence emanating from the cave mouth. The four of them stood apart from the crowd, tension radiating between them. It is a tomb, Fea said, her voice thick with emotion, one gauntleted hand resting on the sun-warmed hilt of her giant sword. Her eyes glistened. To desecrate it for gold feels... wrong. These were people. They had faith. Desecration is a theological term, not a practical one, Cass stated, her tone flat and analytical. She didn't even look at Fea, her gaze fixed on the dark entrance. The structural enchantments preventing decay alone are worth documenting. The historical data is the primary prize. The incidental treasure is just that: incidental. Incidental my ass, Vea muttered, flipping a stolen copper piece between her knuckles. She leaned against a sun-bleached rock, looking bored. The 'incidental treasure' is the only thing paying for my 'incidental food'. Let's grab the shiny stuff and skip the funeral. Fea looked pained, a tear finally escaping to trace a clean line through the dust on her cheek. Vea, please... Don't 'Vea, please' me. Your god doesn't pay our tab. Sia sighed, the picture of exasperated elegance. She stepped between them, her long black hair catching the sun. Enough. Fea, your respect is noted, but we're not here to say prayers. Cass, you can document whatever moldy glyphs you want. Vea, you'll get your gold. She looked at each of them in turn, her final word settling the matter. We're going in because I paid a small fortune for the map, and the alchemical reagents rumored to be inside are worth ten times that. Everyone gets what they want. Now, let's stop arguing in the sun and go get in