The Pit of the Pyre Wights (PART I):

As chronicled by Slimfeather, The Laughing Minstrel...

    Rolltar awakened from his heroic slumber with a vein-bulging stretch and a monstrous yawn worthy of the great warrior-kings of old. He had been dreaming of the mysterious and alluring Madame Xzenia, a sorcerous lady who had crossed the barbarian's path several times before and somehow succeeded in rebuffing his cleft-chinned handsomeness and his regularly polished, gleaming biceps (and similarly polished gluteuses, I am made to understand -- but we're only friends) each time they met. Her will must truly be strengthened by the most powerful wizardry, for no female can hope to resist Rolltar's magnetism and manliness, even those of a different species (a quality he is not terribly thrilled about).

    He was in his room at The Furry Chicken, one of his favorite inns, and he quickly arose from both of his beds to begin his amazing, peril-fraught, and adventurous day -- he just assumes each one will turn out that way. I say both because Rolltar insists on rooms with double beds so he may use them both. He is a huge fellow, of course, being well over six and one-half barbarian boots tall (though I would not recommend cutting a barbarian's boot in half, especially just to measure something), and possessing the broad shoulders of a long-haired mountain yak or even a Wulfpulaxian shoulder-goat. So for inns with standard beds, he requires the second bed to stretch out his well-muscled toesies out on.

    Thankfully, The Furry Chicken has extra large sleeping accommodations, but in situations such as these, he uses the additional bed to rest his huge, double-bladed barbarian great ax to sleep in. His weapon is not sentient nor does it speak nor is it aware, as certain enchanted objects are, nor does it in any way need sleep. But Rolltar feels that his prized instrument of dismemberment works very hard every day "chopping things into tiny, little bloody bits and generally killing stuff," so, the ax should have a place to sleep whenever possible, as well. As Rolltar was donning his wolf-pelt tunic, gem-studded belt, furry barbarian boots (each of which was equivalent to one-and-three-quarters barbarian boots), manly-man gold armbands, and spiked armored wrist-guards, I arose from my sleeping perch atop the wobbly nightstand. Though I had intended to rest on the hard, unforgiving wooden floor, I realized shortly after lamps-out that the floorboards were infested with nose-seekers -- tiny but nasty little things that like to burrow cozy little nests inside your nostrils. Not altogether painful, but terribly disturbing... and also quite hurting.

    I unknotted my limbs that were curled up under me -- though my head, left arm and right leg hung off the table most of the night -- and spilled myself from the nightstand to the floor.
    "Ready your things, my faithful, skinnier, much weaker Slimfeather -- o' friend of mine! We have bold adventures to seek, foes to hack, and treasures to be gotten!" He grabbed his gear from underneath his first bed, and plopped his mighty barbarian horned helm atop his flowing, golden, well-conditioned head. "When you are finished -- oh, please do hurry up, Slimfeather! There are fiends and foes out there right now who are being left unhacked! You know how I hate that! When you are done, please go forth and rouse the rest of my HEROES OF AWESOMENESS from their beds, and tell 'em to make it snappy!"

    Rolltar then stood there very still with his mighty knuckles resting heroically upon his bulging hips as he gazed off into nowhere, waiting for some majestic indoor breeze to flap through his golden locks in remarkable fashion. I, meanwhile, hopped on one foot while trying to shimmy my floppy purple minstrel boot onto the other (and minstrel boots, by the way, are not used as a unit of measurement for anything, as they are much too floppy and flimsy). I said as I hopped, "I am sorry Rolltar, but we are the only ones to have survived the frightful battle with the goblins of the Crawling Chasm and their scabrous Demon-Queen of Stitches, Lady Ygoulra."
    "What? Are you sure? What about Jenef, swordsman and sand-ipede tamer?"
    "Impaled on a goblin spear," I replied.
    "Ouch! Well, that's okay... I really can't stand sand-ipedes. How 'bout Gten-gnur, fearsome wielder of the great bellowing hammer of Garthang?"
    "Uhhh... he almost made it, but he was sliced clean in half by the chasm itself as it snapped shut to cut-off our escape."
    "So he's dead?"
    "Yes. Cut in half."
    "What about his hammer?"
    "Fell back into the chasm."
    "Ahhh, crappers!"
    "There is Goink Fithers, the knife juggler that we picked up in the Village of the Thrice-Damned after we slew all those evil gnomes..."
    "We?"
    "You, sir, you."
    "Really? Go fetch Goink."
    "Oh, sorry! No, he died."
    "No!"
    "Yep," I told him regretfully. "He was ripped open by the Demon-Queen, had his innards torn out, and then was made into a stitch-thrall which you then hacked up pretty good with your ax."
    "Was he that moaning, pulsating thing with the big, ugly scar running down the middle of its body?"
    "Yes!"
    "That was Goink? Aw, so he's dead, too."
    "Yes, he was killed twice, actually, when you think about it."
    "What about that guy... um, wore that shirt? Had those trousers?"
    "D'you mean Zip Fang the Trouser Mage?"
    "Yeah, what about him?"
    "He got caught in his own zipper."
    "Stupid!"
    "I know."

    After a long pause, Rolltar cleared his throat as he was gazing up at the ceiling. "Ah-mmm," he suddenly snapped his fingers. "What about Rolltar?"
    There was another long awkward, uncomfortable pause. As he continued to look at me expectantly, I finally said, "that's you."
    "Oh, good, he made it!" he said with great relief. "Um, Dameran, the two-crossbow user?"
    "Eaten by a goblin while he was loading his second crossbow."
    "Sherkeel of the Spikey Helm?"
    "Ran into a wall, knocked himself out, and was stepped on by Ygoulra."
    "Well, he had his helm, he might still be alive."
    "No -- she crushed everything but his helm to a pulp. But I suppose only his head might be alive."
    "Grincher the Cracker Thief?"
    "We have never known anyone of that name. I think you made him up."
    "What about... Sir Jhell Gleaminglance?"
    "Oh! Well, he fought very valiantly!" I replied.
    "Super!"
    "But then you accidentally chopped his head off."
    "What? Me?"
    "Yeah, you were doing your blood hurricane of radical fury maneuver that you sometimes do, you know, where you close your eyes and spin real fast?"
    "I love that!"
    "Yeah, well you...." I made a chopping motion at my neck with the edge of my hand and stuck out my tongue while rolling my eyes up into my skull. This display went on for a short while longer before Rolltar got the distinct impression that all of our bold companions were dead...

to be continued!