He lets himself bask in the praise just a bit. Eighteen years of musical education will certainly make a young man see his life in melodies, pitch, and composition; but this is certainly the first time he's used it outside of... well, the creation of a ballad! Not that he has finished a ballad yet, but!

Never has he used it for anything as strange but enthralling as this.

He looks about with a near-childish curiosity, having long since dispelled illusions of an elegant musician in the adrenaline that simply sums up to the achievement of something new. He steps forward to examine the statue, tail undulating with interest. "There's a statue similar to this in the Temple in Sol City." he adds into the conversation; it's the one he saw nearly every week of his childhood. "But it's also... different. He doesn't seem as... decorated? Noble? In this rendition of him." he seems a little uncertain about it, but, he is certain that this statue is rougher. Less refined, but it's certainly Solaria— or Solaria-like— judging by its features alone.

There's no deity he recognizes quite as well as him.

He perks up at the sound of his name— despite how gentle it sounds in the expanse of this room. "Hm?" he hums, tail flicking as Tatalia steps up to the alter. His gaze wanders, flicking between objects on the alter as she asks him to 'collect the artifacts' by wrapping them up in cloth.

...

But which ones are the artifacts, exactly? Just, all of them?

They all look plenty old to him.

He clears his throat.

"Sure. Yeah. I can do that." he agrees, tail swaying as he flits to complete his assigned task; he's not terribly sure why he's taking orders from a goblin less than half his height, but right now he has no complaints about it. As directed, he finds the cloth wrappings in Tatalia's bag, and drifts back to the alter. He's pretty sure he can just... wrap most of this up, except for the most damaged things, and... well, those flowers look like they'll turn to dust if exposed to a single breath.

Nearby, he hears the clicking of whatever Tatalia's doing; and as he carefully picks up one of the strange wooden carvings, he glances over at her. She appears to be fussing with the old coffer with pairs of tools; thin enough to jam into such an old lock. He flicks his tail, curious, but goes back to carefully enclosing each artifact in an old cloth; first the carvings, then the dagger. He makes a trip to slip each of those carefully into Tatalia's backpack, and then heads back for the flask. He's in the midst of wrapping it up— taking a glance at the strange markings carved into it— when he hears the pop of a lock.

He looks in Tatalia's direction, glancing briefly between her and the open coffer with a bemused laugh. "You're just full of all kinds of tricks, huh?" he remarks, impressed, as she spins around to present the coffer. He peeks in it, having only half of the flask covered, and makes a short whistle. "I'm all for dining well when we get back, but is it fine for us to just be taking all this?" Tatalia hands him the chest, and moves to circle around the room. He tucks the small coffer complacently underneath one arm as he finishes wrapping up the flask. "I mean, I suppose no one's really using this stuff anymore, so..."

He trails off, bemusing to himself at this point, when he hears Tatalia pipe up from behind the statue. "Hm? A cipher?" He drifts around the statue to peek at what she's looking at— it's not like he can read it, anyways— and flicks his tail with a small, exaggerated sigh. "So we solved all those puzzles for ... another puzzle?" he bemoans, looking at the wrapped flask in his hands, when he hears... something.

Not something.

Someone.

He freezes; uncertain dread settling into the pit of his stomach. That... surely, that wasn't...

Suddenly, Tatalia flies around the corner, whispering to him as she grabs his sleeve and tugs him away; and in his shock, he is compliant. He hasn't seen Tatalia behave this way before, which confirms that the voice from earlier might not have just been his heat-addled mind's conjuration. "Tatalia—?" he cuts off; she's gesturing for him to dismiss the light, and although he is still uncertain and uneasy about what's happening, he does. He snuffs the bird out by clasping a hand over where it sits further up his arm, plunging them into the darkness of the shrine.

In the dark, he hears her explanatory whispering; and with each word, he feels the ice creeping further into his veins.

"You WHAT?" He does have the mind to keep his voice a hushed hiss in the darkness. Suddenly, a lot of things make sense in regards to the map— the legitimacy of it, why she had it in the first place, and how convinced she was of it being real. "Cultists, Tatalia!?"

This is how he dies. His blood spilled in a shrine to a primal Solaria by a bunch of cultists.

He feels the anxiety creeping in and finds himself clutching the items he'd yet to stuff into Tatalia's bag before the intrusion— the flask and the coffer— close to his person. He pushes his body closer to the pillar, curling his tail around one leg to make his silhouette smaller. "We didn't, but—"

He cuts off, afraid to speak when the voices become more audible, growing ever-closer; and dreadfully hounding. With each point they make that contradicts the both of them, the ice in his veins melts. His skin is already red, but he's certain it must have darkened by the way the sheer embarrassment heats him from head to toe; his mouth slightly agape at each mention of each inadequacy they had along the way, and what's worse is he... he genuinely hadn't realized.

He'd been so proud of them— so proud of himself.

He feels like an idiot.

He shuts his mouth, cowering above the goblin as four silhouettes enter the shrine room after them.

He... he doesn't know what to do. It's always like this.

What in the world made him think he could do something like this, when he's never fought a day in his life?

He's "well-traveled", sure, but there are men hired to guard traveling merchants; and more hardened adventurers traveling in smaller brigands. That's why he picks them out amongst the rest. Four years of leeching off of others meant he never really needed to lift a finger past payment in the form of raising tired travelers' morale; he always had the luxury of skittering away from trouble, which he always would take the opportunity to.

There was usually a way out, but...

His eyes search the darkness, and he swallows, tail curling tighter around his leg as he peeks out from behind the pillar. Trapped in a room with these four, still prattling back and forth about all of their shortcomings, and with only a few obvious hiding places, he...

He feels something defiant steele within him as another chorus of laughter fills the room.

He has been made a fool his entire life; he is not about to die while being made for one, too.

Subtle torchlight fills the shrine, illuminating around two particular cultists in a soft circle of light. His tail flicks nervously as he scans the room, surveying the cultists as they grumble and snicker amongst themselves; from what he can tell, they appear to be human— maybe elf, by the narrow features of the tallest one illuminated. He ducks back behind the pillar, running through adrenaline-fueled options in his head.

They're outnumbered. They can't fight. There's only a few spots anyone could possibly be hiding in this room. The statue, beneath the altar, the pillars, the... His heart flutters in his chest anxiously, a thunderclap of inspiration hitting him in his mild panic; he looks around from where they're hiding, eyes locking on a piece of crumbling stone an arm's length away.

It's too small, too fragile, to even think about using as any kind of weapon, but...

"Come on now, you can't hide. You lead us right to you!" one of them announces confidently, swinging his torch around like a maniacal idiot in some display of predatory dominance. Still clutching the flask and coffer, he throws a panicked glance in their direction and crouches down to snap up the rock, before quickly and quietly standing again.

One of the men snorts, holding his torch towards the mirrored pillar on their other side— the one closest to the entrance. Which meant they definitely had half a mind to check the pillars almost immediately; it makes him bristle. "Not nearly as sneaky as you thought you were, eh, goblin?" the other puffs as he circles around it.

Cantio peeps around the pillar, gaze flickering between the cultists beginning to spread out on the opposite side of the room— in pairs, two torches between all four of them. He waits for just a moment, hand trembling, and then— tosses the stone.

Ker-PLOP.

A splash within the swirling water of the farthest aquifer fills the room, and he is terrified someone saw the motion when all four cultists stop— their rolling insults coming to a halt in tense silence. Then, they start to conglomerate, swinging their torches towards the water and sound; he hears them discussing something, laughter, he is almost certain that they are being insulted once again, but adrenaline and panic has made him deaf.

He does not waste time in placing a firm hand on Tatalia's shoulder, and giving her a silent pat towards the exit— desperately pleading for her to move to the door before any of them have half a mind to turn around and see if anything else could have made that noise.

The opening was brief, but sufficient. Cantio's ploy drew the attention of the cultists and their flickering torches away from the exit. It was time to act.

Tatalia darted forward, her small and light frame making relatively little sound as her feet tapped across the floor, off the dais and onto the little bridge that connected it to the next room. The cultists could turn at any moment. They might see her; they might see the bard; they'd be on them in an instant!

But they did not turn. Mere seconds passed, and Tatalia's feet struck the cold stone floor of the previous room. She quietly sighed in relief, then crept on forward hastily, feeling about the walls where she could, for she and the tiefling moved in complete darkness.

Behind them, the cultists began to redouble their search, getting frustrated. They seemed to believe the two were still hiding back in the shrine room, however, so Tatalia focused on what was ahead. She felt and stumbled her way until she reached the stairs, then stepped up one step, two steps, three-

Sharp pain ran up her foot. The goblin thief hissed, then covered her mouth to muffle the sound. Walking in the darkness, she'd managed to step on one of the shards of red glass, and it pierced right through her boot and into the soft middle of her foot. Thankfully, it hadn't gone too deeply inside. But she wouldn't be able to walk with it in there.

"Glass," Tatalia whispered behind her. "Wait a minute."

Slowly, the goblin reached down and gripped the shard of glass. She took a deep breath, then plucked it out with her thumb, index, and middle fingers. Though she was tempted to just drop the glass, she knew the cultists would hear the clatter, so she carefully tucked the shard into one of her pockets instead. She'd dispose of it later.

"Keep to the right wall," the goblin muttered quietly. "Follow me."

Slowly, Tatalia made her way up the right side of the stairs, using her good foot to gently slide any glass out of the way of the heroes' path. When she finally reached the top, the goblin held a hand out to help the bard. Only once he got out of the staircase did she start darting for the exit, still quiet but less worried about stealth.

Out of the crystal room she ran, far less beautiful in the darkness than in the light. Down the seemingly endless tunnel she went, toward the sight of moonlight beyond, the light of freedom, the promise of escape! She came ever closer, and slowly began to drop the pretense of stealth, moving at a full sprint!

And that was when she saw the gnolls. They stood there, two of them garbed in tribal wargear, attracted by the sound of movement in the tunnel. One held a wicked-looking flail with too many jagged spikes, and the other carried a spear with a lizardman's skull attached below the blade. Tatalia felt panic. She felt terror. She became desperate.

There is something to be said for the power of momentum. Tatalia was not a very large or mighty creature, to say the least, but she was running full tilt at a high velocity. As the gnolls moved to inspect the exit, Tatalia whipped her dagger free from its scabbard, and when she was about eight feet away from the first gnoll, she leapt.

The goblin landed on the flail-wielding gnoll's chest. So, too, did her dagger. It plunged straight between his ribcage, and the startled creature let out a confused, furious gasp and vainly tried to swipe at Tatalia. Its strength faded quickly, however. It fell. Tatalia stood.

That was when the spear struck out, and only thanks to the darkness and good reflexes did Tatalia manage to move away from what would have been a fatal blow. She was still struck, however, the spear tip dashing into her left shoulder, digging in a few inches. Tatalia screamed, then pulled away as the gnoll twisted the weapon.

"RUN!" Tatalia shouted to Cantio. But she did not follow her own advice. She had a pierced foot, a wounded shoulder, and was much shorter than the powerful gnoll. Her only option was to fight long enough for the bard to escape.

A dagger is a fine weapon in a grapple, but against a spear is useless. Tatalia learned that very quickly. The gnoll was no slouch in combat, making rapid, darting stabs with his spear while hardly moving at all. Out in the moonlight, Tatalia did not benefit from the cover of darkness, and it took all her energy to avoid becoming a shishkegoblin. She ducked, she dove, she scrambled and rolled across the ground. Yet each time the gnoll seemed to keep her at the perfect distance to keep striking, and she was slowly being backed up toward the cliff face.

Tatalia knew she couldn't win just by running. She had to try something. She had to do something! When the gnoll next thrust his spear out, the goblin leapt up and landed on his weapon. She darted up toward him, dagger raised, and-

And he swing out with a clawed hand, catching her in the chest and sending her hurtling back into the wall. She hit the rock with a slam, then slid to the ground in a groaning heap.

The gnoll stalked forward, letting out a hyena-like laugh as he raised his spear. Tatalia couldn't move. It was over.

"You will be good taste, green-meat!" mocked the gnoll. "Robed-ones will be pleased little thiefling is dead." The mercenary monster cackled as he moved in for the kill.

He darts after Tatalia the moment she starts moving; he is, decisively, not as small and light as she is— and quite terrified the cultists behind them will hear the sound of his pounding heart. Perhaps his own saving grace is from the way they're still jeering and laughing and causing noise, because by some miracle, they don't turn around even when he nearly trips over his own two feet in the dark. He doesn't look back, though; he keeps going, taking an immediate turn when he feels the floor change beneath him, and the temperature shift around them.

He touches the cold wall with an anxious hand, tail flicking in an erratic way that can only be brought about by stress; its dark. He can't see. There's cultists. He's not entirely sure where Tatalia is; he thinks she's in front of him, and he hears her every now and then tumbling in the dark. He thinks. He can do nothing but follow. He tries to map the room in his mind, but the corners still come sooner than he remembers and he trips over something at some point— maybe one of the stone pedestals of the cords. He doesn't quite hit the ground, able to catch himself on the wall— but not without injury.

He feels a sting that scrapes the length of his palm as his hand skids on the rock wall; and he grimaces, closing his palm tightly against the feeling. No torchlight gets closer from the shrine's entrance. His foot hits the staircase, and he makes his way up— stopping when he hears a hiss. "Are you okay?" His voice comes startlingly small and hushed, afraid to draw too much attention, but equally unable to keep his concern unvocalized.

"Glass. Wait a minute."

He does wait, having forgotten about the glass, himself; he can hear her take a breath, and then silence— save the distant grumble of cultists, and his racing heart. Eventually, Tatalia murmurs into the dark, and he follows quickly— careful as he trudges through the glass shards from the door of the previous room. He can barely see Tatalia's silhouette when they reach the top, but he can see her outline; he reaches up, taking her hand and scrambling out of the staircase. He hears a tear of cloth as he steps up— a tug of his cloak, and then a break— but he has no time to acknowledge it.

He breaks into a run after Tatalia, clumsily pocketing the flask in one of his cloak's many inner pockets to free his hands. He does not pay attention to the room, nor the hall as they sprint through it; he hardly thinks to summon the light, or consider the possibility that the cultists weren't the only ones to come after them.

He feels his heart sink when he sees two silhouettes at the door.

Tatalia charges forwards; and Cantio skids to a halt.

He watches her, at what feels like a clear disadvantage, launch herself at full speed into one of the gnoll's, plunging her knife into its ribcage. He lingers in the dark of the entrance, mortified, as the creatures scrapes, fumbles, and inevitably crumbles with its mortal wound. He is not sure whether to be horrified or relieved, and doesn't have the time to process emotion, when a flash of a spear glints in the moonlight— followed by a scream. "Tatalia!?"

She's still alive, despite her injuries, and he is utterly useless, frozen to the sandstone as combat— something he is not used to— unfolds in front of him with a life-and-death ferocity. If he were not terrified for their lives, he would be impressed with Tatalia's sheer prowess.

RUN!

But he is terrified for their lives.

The shout snaps him out of his paralysis, and Cantio does follow her advice. He bolts from the darkness of the sandstone entrance, weaves around the fight taking place, and books it for anywhere but here.

He hasn't gotten far when he throws a look over his shoulder, and—

She's not following.

Slam!

He skids to a halt; the panic rising in his throat when he witnesses Tatalia's small frame collide with the rockface of the cliff, and the gnoll creep its way after her, cackling in the moonlight.

Almost immediately, against every single survival instinct blaring in his mind, he turns around, and—

The rest is a blur of sound; a crack of wood, the screeching cacophony of metal strings as they snap, and the thud of a blunt instrument against a skull reverberates in the night. The Gnoll tumbles to its side with something between a yelp and a groan, spear skittering in the sand as it clutches the impact zone— leaving Cantio staring down at Tatalia wide-eyed, and wielding the last remnants of his violin as if he'd been swinging a club. He takes a quick look at the Gnoll; he knows it's going to get up soon. He doesn't think its really injured.

His violin is a light instrument, not meant for combat; but it might buy them time to scatter, at least.

"I..." He takes a dumbfounded look at the bridge of his violin— what's left of it— and drops it in the sand, moving forwards to extend a hand to Tatalia instead— and he's bleeding from his palm, he realizes distantly, from the scrapes he'd maintained in the cord room. "We gotta go," he manages. His voice is shaking; clearly rattled and taken aback. He is not the epitome of bravery in the slightest. "Can you still run? If you can't, I can carry you— but we need to go."

The goblin stared across at the fallen, dazed gnoll. The creature was groggy from the blow. It was far from dead, but she could the poor, broken violin had done work in Cantio's hands, enough to give someone a concussion... even a gnoll.

Tatalia, however, was also dizzy. Her head had struck the rock. She could hear Cantio speak, but the bard's words were a little hazy.

"Can you still run?" said the tiefling. His mouth moved a little more, but Tatalia had trouble hearing him. She stood up groggily and tried to move forward, but collapsed into the sand. She tried to get up, but a moment later she felt herself being lifted, and just... stopped trying. She was too tired and too weak. Tatalia's world went black.

---

The journey back to the inn was relatively uneventful. Tatalia regained her consciousness after a few hours as well as her ability to walk. When she did, the goblin took charge of matters once again, albeit not with as commanding an air as before. Definitive proof had been provided that suggested Tatalia was, perhaps, not so hardened an adventurer as she had claimed. The goblin explicitly avoided bringing that topic up, and didn't fuss whenever the tiefling checked to be sure she was alright.

Tatalia was careful to take measures to avoid leaving the cultists so easy a trail as before. Both of the would-be adventurers had learned their lesson in that regard. An alternate route and one false trail later and the heroes were confident they wouldn't be tracked down this time. The goblin made sure not to leave any obvious signs of their passage behind, too... except on the false trail, of course.

Eventually, the pair ended up back at the Lucky Sailor, though it was late at night when they arrived. Tatalia was incredibly weary, and insisted not a second longer was spent without sitting down and having a drink of something cold.

---

Inside the inn, seated underneath the same chair beneath the staircase, Tatalia downed her second glass of rum. She thumped it down and winced when the act sent a shockwave up her wounded shoulder. Her foot had healed, but she was sure she'd feel the pain in her arm for at least another week.

"I'd say it went well, all things considered," the goblin said cheerfully. Perhaps it was odd that her enthusiasm had returned so quickly, but it had. She grinned weakly up at the tiefling. "Not only did we find what we came for - a clue to you-know-what! - but we also came out with some historically significant artifacts, some notes about ancient elven architecture, a couple souvenirs, and enough ancient coins to pay for future expeditions! They're actually worth much more individually than modern Solars, you know."

Tatalia then set a coinpurse onto the table, sliding it across to Cantio.

"Your half of the coins... plus the violin's expense. Sorry about that," murmured the goblin. She wore a guilty expression, but even so, it took some effort for her to continue.

"I'm, ah... also sorry for not telling you where the map came from. I mean, I didn't technically lie, but-" The little rogue sucked in a deep breath, then heaved out a heavy sigh, pinching her brow. "Still, that was a poor decision. I put you at risk. I should have offered you a little more trust.

"I'd... well, I'd like to finish what we started. This cipher holds the clue we need, I'm certain," the goblin mused. "But I will understand if you decide not to join me."

They’re back at the Lucky Sailor finally; coddled in the confines of cold drinks, safe walls, and mostly harmless patrons. His glass is nearly full; a second glass of rum and ginger that he’s been nursing for at least half an hour. He’s already feeling pleasantly foggy, frankly— and he didn’t need the second drink— but he is exhausted, and it’s been a long few days.

He wants to just, not feel, for a while. Honestly, he’s not sure he’s ever been put through that kind of emotional turmoil, physical demand, and stress; and it feels….

Still kind of surreal to be sitting here, safely watching a decisively not-dead goblin down her second glass of rum and slam it back on the table like she wasn’t stabbed in the shoulder. She does wince, though. He breathes a chuckle as she starts cheerfully prattling away, taking his own glass, and taking a sip of his drink. ”Oh, yes, it went wonderfully.”

There’s a tone of playful sarcasm to his voice after he swallows a sip; and he leans against the back of his chair. ”Indeed, we set off armed only with bravado, a violin, and a knife—” he makes a toasting motion with his drink, bubbling into a laugh. ”—and returned with only one less of those things. It definitely could’ve been worse.” he hums his bemusement with a lazy shrug, smiling drowsily at Tatalia as he sets his glass back on the table with a clink drowned out by murmuring chatter and the play of a harp.

”All things considered, we came out with a lot.” he agrees; and although he doesn’t quite understand exactly what it was they found in the cipher, it still feels like something accomplished. Something exciting. Something to be determined.

His tail sweeps across the floor in a lazy drawl, before curling around the leg of his chair; he watches Tatalia slide a coin purse towards him, and he stares at it for a few seconds as if he’s not entirely sure what it is. His gaze lilts back to the goblin, and he listens while her eagerness fades, and she takes on a rather genuine sounding apology. As she speaks, Cantio looks at his drink, picking it up as she extends a last musing— an offer to finish what they started.

He takes a sip, letting the offer sink in.

He swallows and sets his drink back down. ”Thanks, but... don’t worry about the violin; I’d rather have buried it than bury you.” He leans against the table, resting his cheek on his bandaged knuckles.

He’s never considered himself to be one for adventure.

Not in the way that Tatalia and other real adventurers seem to be.

He cannot fight, he is a coward, and he is inexperienced; his skillset is almost exclusively centered on music, but he can’t deny the thrill that he felt in the moments. The achievement and accomplishment; the adrenaline and celebration; the feeling that this meant something, somehow. For being useful; the intrigue of what comes next, and the wonder of what might come to follow.

He has told many stories of adventurer’s successes and woes; but to live them is… different.

He is still not sure about the danger, nor the possibility that he may have to do something that he regrets. He is worried about many things, but, he has come to realize that he is always worried about many things.

And because he is worried about many things, he ends up doing nothing.

Against what may be his better judgement, he knows his answer, and Cantio lifts his glass. ”On the condition that next time you steal some religious artifact from a group of mad cultists, you tell me about it, so we can make a better plan next time,” Tatalia’s glass is empty, but he still offers her a toast, regardless. ”This useless musician will be happy to join you. Ciphers don't solve themselves, after all."