Finnius looked AWESOME as he walked across the icy surface, never once slipping. Slow and steady, that’s the—FUCK.
–Uh, Finnius, could you please stop talking to yourself? Kindra’s trying to stealthily look ahead so we don’t–
And back to Finnius! That mysterious little gnome-cicle. What a story he’ll have to invent for that at some point. How’d he get there? How did he still manage to make it look so good?
Yes, despite their casual glances of concern. they took to him immediately. Naturally. Well, maybe not Brother Joan. Definitely not him, yet. Being honest, these friends should be more concerned for him than for Finnius. I mean that lifestyle is fine for some. The name needs a bit of work. Brother Joan. No subtlety there. But we’re living in a different time, after all. He’d fit in the big cities like Waterdeep. I guess Finnius just hopes that Joan figures him or her self out soon, for its sake. Maybe this cold will help. We all have nipples, after all. And they all freeze equally. And isn’t there something romantic and inspiring in–
—Maybe you can speak just a little quieter, then? Does he even hear me?
AND NOW! Free from the icy clutches of the iced over cavern of… ice! He tramps along to the pace of his own story in the making, always in the making, friends at his side, purpose in every step! Left right left right! Finally able to feel his prick moving around down there once again. Funny how you don’t miss something until it’s not there anymore.
Quiet now. Shut up, Finnius. Shut them all out, Finnius, before they come b—
It’s so cold here. And dry. Why does the past always hit me in the head while I’m cold? The heat and humidity cushions your mind, so.
Gods, he misses them. I miss them. Gruff and Sencha and big old Terrycloth. He remembers how the ground shook when she fell, that one. Poor Terrycloth. You could have mistaken her falling for the timbers of the mainstage. He misses them all. The flying… the juggling. I even miss the fucking jugglers.
Why? Why target us? I mean—he means, why a circus? A thing that’s tried to do nothing but good for so long? Now gone. And why fire?
The animals. The poor animals. The smell of them… A roast hasn’t tasted the same since…
No, Finnius! Don’t become consumed! Not here! Smile again! Smile your little gnomish smile. The one mum told you lit up the crowds brighter than the sconces on the circus walls. Fire…
—There’s an outcropping here. Another room. Should we go in here?
Ahem. Finnius slows his walking now, deliberately. Ah, what have they happened upon. A cave room! This place is bigger than he ever imagined. Watch as he steps in ahead of the rest, showing them he’s not afraid! Aha! He notices the smoke on the ground almost suddenly, as if someone had just described its existence. Rising from nowhere. This is exactly how it would happen in some bard’s tavern tale. “Tale of the Mysterious Mysts” or some such filth. No subtlety, that’s what’s missing with stories these days. You can’t have a mist without purpose, it needs to rise from your words and echo the fear of the… what… uh, well…
…Gruff and Sencha and Terrycloth. Guff. Sencha. Big old Terrycloth.
And her, most of all. Roslyn. Poor Roslyn.
Say one thing about Finnius McGuffin, say that he never forgets.
He’ll figure out why.
But what’s this on the ground? It smells like a hairy ass after a run.