Henshaw and Rifkin are still tending to the battered, bitten and barely conscious Doberman, when Barbella rejoins them in Dulcetta’s stone mouth.
After checking on his friends, the swarthy Barbella moves over to the toothy edge.
“The fools jumped after the bastard! They all just jumped!”
Discarding his finally fritzed out healing wand, the now stone-deaf Rifkin joins the bearded rogue, peers over and shouts.
“DID THEY CATCH THEM?”
Barbella shakes his head.
“No. Sir Briefadel and his Witch Mum rode off on a flying, black horse, what was hiding in the darkness below. Our three‘glorious leaders’ just fluttered down behind them.”
The Demi-Elven Bard looks confused.
“Sir Briefadel and his bitch Mum rode off on a frying crack whore?!”
Leaving the pallid Doberman where he lays shivering, Henshaw joins the others at the edge of the ledge.
“So, do we trust that updraft and follow them down or dare face the Blob?”
Barbella’s pragmatism settles the discussion for the moment.
“There ain’t no hurry now. Let’s just wait to see if they makes it out of the darkness alive before we decide either way.”
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