With the flint and driftwood, a fire was easy. Little talking is had during our meal of hardtac and pork leather. The fresh stream water was easily the most sumptuous part of it, but we all choked down as much as possible not knowing ‘where our next meal was coming from’.
Surprisingly, the 12 inch dragon ate as much as the newly awakened fat man named Bombor. He never left Twix arm the entire time. Curious.
Bombor is a large man. Too bad, because all the vibrant silk clothing that would replace our storm ripped tatters was made for women. The rest of us managed a good semblance of fit… but not Bombor. He ended up simply wrapping the saffron bolt of cloth around himself a few times as would a holy man of Bas. Heflam tied some shirts and pant together to make a crude pack, placing the more useful utensils into it.
“What a bunch of poofters” despite my comment, I can’t help laughing. We look ridiculous. 4 cross dressers and an obese monk staring at each other on the beach in the late afternoon. Oh, and one (admittedly cute) dragon. Dane seems much less taken by the dragon then the rest of us. Wary, would be more accurate.
I grab a cheap whisk, one of the utensils deemed useless and left out of Heflam's pack. “I’m going in the tower… it will be nicer in there tonight then out here on the beach”.
“You can’t, its locked. I –really- tried to open it before”, whines Twix, but I ignore him and go to the door. I’ve never had much trouble with locks… you just need to be gentle with them and they usually want to open up for you. I put the bent end of a whisk tine in the keyhole and gently probe the interior. This lock feels different from others. The mechanism is mushy, not solid. Like feels like flesh.
With a “cluck” like a tongue coming off the roof of the mouth, the lock opens.
The door opens.
I turn to the 4 of them, “let’s go..” and am cut off as Twix rushes past me through the door.
