Treguard stood tall against the chill wind racing across the ramparts.
"Farewell, Gil, Horatio, Mac. The Dungeon salutes you," he called down. "And I thank you." Moments later, the three stepped out of sight, to be reintegrated with their original selves on their Home Plane. They would remember nothing of their time in Knightmare. Except when they dreamed deep.
Treguard's cloak brushed in an arc as he turned. "Are you sure you will not join them?"
"Quite sure," replied Keppler. Like a dungeoneer, his death in this other world had not been true or permanent. He had asked that this be kept from the other CSIs. The Keppler back home was a haunted man, a dirty cop who knew could never get clean enough to tend his wounds before they turned septic. But here he had been reborn, exorcised, maybe even pardoned. He felt he could start again. He said this aloud. And as he did so, he watched Treguard's hand moving towards him. A hand that had itself taken life but now beckoned it forth. Keppler accepted the handshake.
"You are welcome to stay at the castle, at least until the next phase of adventuring begins. And then, may I recommend a town called Wolfenden? From what I hear of it, the services of an investigator of crimes will be much valued there."
Keppler nodded and smiled. "Every way is onward."
"Ah!" The monk looked up at the unkempt arrival. "Pax vobiscum. My name is Brother Mace. And yours?"
Hesitantly came the reply, "Hansel Vesta."
Mace tugged the makeshift parchment coaster out from under his tankard, inked his quill and jotted down the name. "Greetings. I have been appointed your custodian. I shall be helping you atone for your wrongdoing and guiding you to a path of rectitude. Or giving it a try at least."
"How long will I be here?"
"When I make it known to the Powers That Be that you are a reformed man, you will be free to leave the monastery's care. But they are not expecting this to be for a number of years. Hence the first virtue you must learn: patience." Mace made his tankard a little less full, then set it down as he stood up. "Come. I will escort you to your room, then on a tour of the grounds, and then it will be time for evensong. Though I may excuse us from it as I'm, um, losing me voice." Mace showed no sign of this, unless his stifled belch a moment later counted. "Now, I mentioned patience. The reason it's a virtue is that you play it alone, so there's no one to beat you and take your money. But tell me, what other card games do you know?"
The monk left the room, making sure that his charge was a step behind. On Mace's table, between his tankard and a plate of chicken bones, lay the parchment where he had transcribed the name he had heard. It said:
Hands, Sylvester.