Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 7: We Can't All Be Cats

Shadow Night-Creep

Not to boast, but I am a supreme connoisseur of dark places. Lightless domains call to me, saying 'come, noble cat, wander within our mystery'. Perhaps a chasm on the moon where beings from the stars sleep till world's end. Else the city sewers of Persephone, Pomona, Pleasance, with their liquid trill of pungent waters. Or the caverns of Nix, dark and stark, where cannibal maidens sing sweetly as sirens upon the sea; and to the same purpose. And true afficionados of darkness shall always appreciate the catacombs beneath the Temple of St. Bast. There one tastes time itself in the dry dead dust, the cold stone must, the old bone musk. Then of course there are the warehouses of the Spice Isles, with their delightful mix of cinnamon and pepper, clove and coffee, rodent and rot...

In brief: darkness enhances appreciation. Spicing the sense of whisker, nose, tongue and ear that overmuch light diminishes. What is a rustle of leaves by day's illumination? Bah, a trivial bug, meriting yawn. But in the depths of a necromancer's dungeon or farmer's barn, the slightest scritch, scratch makes all a symphony to a cat's ears, setting tail a'twitch.

Therefore did the lower depths of the Saintless Tower call to me. Alas, the humans followed their map, avoiding a dozen opportunities to wander places of dark fascination. True, they would have perished. Screaming spitted on stakes or struck down by razor pendulums, seized by tentacled summonings, else driven mad by music too eldritch for mortal minds. In particular, the eighth option of the Chamber of Thirteen doors led to a plane of existence entirely beyond the stars. Quite fascinating, if lethal.

But no, the party took the safe path. Sensible and boring. Even the vampire-in-a-box was ho-hum. Granted, I suppose the safe paths are intended to bore.

So I blame mere ennui that when the Benefactors came to the Chamber of the Font, I did not spy the clever trap. I knew the font water granted healing, with a side-effect of inebriation. What of that? The bridge made no challenge. A one-eyed kitten could tumble back and forth all the night.

I did not consider the potential risk in context of large clumsy bipedal creatures with heads swimming. Ah, no matter; they managed.

I would like to mention that once we all stood safe upon the far side of the pit, observing the undead minions of the idiot Capitano enter the chamber, I made a casual observation: the bridge was wooden.

The rogue was quick to grasp my clever point. He took the remaining lamp oil, pouring it across the bridge. Then my pupil Barnaby son of Barnabas pronounced a decent Orison of Flame, upon which the bridge burst into fire.

That done, the humans thought it wise to flee the chamber, continuing down ever more stairs. Exactly as I would have advised. Really, they were doing fine. One can't be forever waving the instruction rod, or the students will never learn.

So I lingered to observe some of the less-aware undead wander onto the bridge, setting themselves alight. They flailed, tumbling into the chasm. Far, far below, these corpses were snatched from the air by tentacled things. Devoured still struggling, still burning. Mildly interesting.

At length a new personage entered the chamber of the font. Wearing excellent armor, a general's red cloak, waving proud saber. Behold the undead Capitano, wearing the Helm of Command and a proud swagger he'd yet to earn.

He searched about, hoping to see the scattered limbs of dismembered Benefactors. Alas, finding only smoldering minions, a burning bridge. He counted his still-functioning revenants, cursing the sum. Well, but he was finding that the Saintless Tower was no place to storm by mere numbers. Each wrong choice would devour half his servants.