The day is warm and ripe with summer, and even in the middle of the berg of Electrawizzle the wind is scented with the perfume of hardy trees and wild grasses that grow around it. Horse-drawn carts pull fresh produce from the outlying farms to the greengrocer stands. The local constabulary, with so little to do in such a peaceful place, makes their rounds to greet their neighbors rather than look for criminals. In the middle of town stands a fountain which flows contentedly, sending up a light spray to refresh anyone who passes near enough to its edge. Children splash each other before running off giggling. And just down the alley from the fountain plaza, behind a nondescript door even the locals hardly notice, is where our story begins.

  “‘Electrawizzle.’ Yeesh.” The gnome sips his beer judgmentally. “Nice to see the naming conventions haven’t changed.”

  An elf at the other end of the dining room hisses, “Could you not be a dick for twenty minutes?”

  “I’m just saying, it sounds like it was pulled from one of his — OW that was my shin —”

  “Sorry,” says the elf, not addressing the gnome. “Please continue.”

  A gnome sits alone at the bar, holding a beer and scowling. He looks up as the tavern door opens, and in walks the man he has been waiting for: an adventurer he recognizes only by the lamen strung around his neck. The adventurer is tall and sturdily built. His gear is unremarkable, well used but well cared for. The lamen stands out against his otherwise very conventional equipment. It looks like a geometric, seven-petaled flower, and each petal is marked with a glyph. The gnome does not recognize the glyphs, but the adventurer used the flower shape in his letters when he invited the gnome to meet him here.

  The tavern is not particularly busy today, but the gnome notices several others look up in recognition at the adventurer’s entrance. Two elves, a half-succubus, a human, and a creature of indeterminate nature wearing a heavy duty apron all focus on the adventurer and follow him with their eyes as he approaches the bar and asks the bar tender for an ale.

  “Excuse me,” says the first elf, taking initiative by approaching him first. “I’m Alys Moondew. I traveled here to meet you after your letter arrived at my temple. I am a member of the… Grand Order of Righteous Matriarchs…? My abbess determined I was the one best qualified to aid you on your journey.” Alys makes her order’s gesture of respect and bows her head.

  The gnome speaks next. “Hi. I’m Torvald Balfore. I was the only brawler in a family of artificers. I ran away from home instead of joining the family trade, and was taken in by a dwarven blacksmith who saw my potential. I was sent here to get some of the fight out of my system before I can go any deeper in my trade and I’m mad at him for telling me I have to choose between fighting and blacksmithing. I am forty-seven years old, three feet and nine inches tall—”

  Alys mutters at him to stop reading. Torvald tells her to stop telling him what to do. Before they can begin arguing in earnest, the half-succubus interrupts.

  “Hey. I’m Janette Stormdrayne.” Janette pauses, smirking, as several of the gathered stifle laughter. “I’m here as the guild-designated necromancer. Nice to meet you all.”

  The second elf nervously asserts herself. “I’m Sabreena Briar. Ranger.” She does not elaborate, shrinking out of the way for the remaining two party members to introduce themselves.

  The human tips his hat politely. “Mack Thenaife, at your service. It is my special talent to make things disappear.”

  Lastly, the creature of indeterminate nature bows deeply. “SyemDyesit. No family name; no family. Best of Alchemical College. Also least favorite. Now here.” A crest of feathers rise from the top of its head and re-settle cheekily. “Loss for college, not for SyemDyesit.”

  “We’ve got two elves and a creature,” muses Torvald, “But no dwarves? Isn’t that like a requirement?”

  “I could be a dwarf,” Sabreena volunteers quietly. “I don’t mind changing.”

  Alys scolds, “Would you both stop it?” before turning back to the adventurer, smiling brightly. “And you, sir — what should we call you? We only received your mysterious summons.”

  The adventurer smiles. “I sent out my requests trusting that they would reach the most qualified candidates. Looking at party which has gathered here today, I think my trust was well placed. I’m delighted and grateful to meet you all. My name is Onderrew Akeela, and I’ve brought you together because I need your help.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  At his name, the gathered party goes absolutely still. Janette and Mack glance at each other, then back to Onderrew.

  Torvald chugs what remains of his beer and immediately requests another.

  “A week’s journey from here,” Onderrew continues, when it appears no one else has anything to say, “Past the foothills and on into the mountains, a door directly into the mountainside has opened. No one has entered this place in centuries; its very existence was forgotten. What lies within is a mystery, but I hope our combined skills will be enough to explore the interior and bring to light the mountain’s secrets.”

  “Great!” says Alys, half a beat late and smiling manically at the others. “Sounds like a fun project! Are we ready?”

  Sabreena, more measured, asks, “What kind of trouble do you think we might need to prepare for?”

  “It’s a cave, right?” says Janette. “So we’ll need light sources. Torches or magic lanterns or something.”

  “I think I’ve got one-a those in my inventory,” says Torvald. “Uh… Everglow lamp, heavy bracers, six potions…”

  “Is there anything you think we should stock up on, brave leader?” asks Mack.

  “Just Onderrew is fine,” says Onderrew. Then he waits expectantly.

  “…Onderrew. Are there any supplies you think we might need?”

  “I don’t know,” Onderrew confesses. “I’ve seen the cave, but I didn’t want to risk going in alone. But I believe, with the tools of your respective trades and my own preparations, we will be able to cover a lot of bases — and there’s a village at the foot of the mountain where we can resupply.”

  SyemDyesit nods thoughtfully. “Hmm yes. Yes. We leave tomorrow?”

  Onderrew smiles, satisfied. “We can leave right now. We have a long walk ahead of us, after all.”

  The party decides to set out immediately, leaving west out of town on the main road. The road is clear, not paved once they cross the bridge over the river but well established, and passes several miles of farmland. They do not quite reach the foothills before nightfall, but stop to rest under the cover of a thicket between fields. This appears to be a place travelers use often enough, with a stone circle around a pit of ashes where fires are regularly burned. Torvald takes first watch; Janette takes second watch; Alys takes third. The only trouble in the night comes from the curiosity of nocturnal animals, which slink off at the least sign of trouble.

  For the next several days, they travel through the foothills, deciding to take the road instead of attempting to cut a more direct course toward their goal. The road winds around the hills, but it is free of obstacles and avoided by most of the wildlife. The nearer they draw to the mountain range, the cooler the wind is, blowing down from the frigid peaks and out of the shadowed woodlands as the elevation rises.

  On the fourth day, Sabreena shoots down a dire deer — something the party agrees definitely exists — and they lose travel time in order to field dress it and incorporate the meat into the supplies. Because there is no deadline, it is decided this is not really lost time but time well spent for preparation, even if it means it will take longer to reach the cave.

  When they finally arrive in the village and establish its size and available shops, Onderrew leads everyone into a part of the woods past the last houses, where there is no road but only a footpath. He holds up in his hand an ornately carved stone, murmurs a prayer over it, and sticks it in the hollow of a tree.

  “That,” he says, “Is a jump point.” Then he shows them a matching stone. “This is its mate. If we need to return to the village for any reason, we can place the mate wherever we are in the cave, say the magic word, and be instantly brought back here. When we want to return, we return to this spot, say the magic word, and we’ll be sent back to wherever the mate is within the cave.”

  “Magic word is?” asks SyemDyesit.

  “To return here, you say ‘momerath.’ To return to the cave, say, ‘slithy-tove’.”

  Sabreena mumbles, “Give me a minute, let me write that down. ‘Momerath’…”

  “Let me try something,” says Torvald. He shimmies up the tree, near to the hollow. “Slithy-tove!”

  With a pop, he appears in the air beside Onderrew’s hand — and drops to the ground.

  “Ha, it worked! I’m doing that again.”

  Mack grabs him by his collar. “We have places to be.”

  “Dude, I will throw hands right now, I am a brawler, remember?”

  “Yeah, and I’m a human. I’m taller than your gnome ass and my reach is better.”

  Janette and Alys make sounds of impatience and exhaustion, simultaneously asking and demanding that we not do this right now because in-fighting is stupid. Torvald maintains it’s his right to take offense on behalf of his wounded pride, and in a rare show of antipathy, Sabreena asks what pride he was demonstrating when acting like a child on a playground slide with the high level magics. Torvald drops it, but he is still pissed that everyone spoiled his fun.

  They travel into the mountains for two more days, ascending narrow paths and stopping early when they find a secure enough place to rest instead of pressing on. There are sounds in the night which disturb everyone’s sleep, but nothing approaches them.

  And then, finally, they arrive.