Rum and Molotov stood in the ankle-deep waters, the light of the fireball illuminating the facade of a brilliant, long-abandoned temple. It towered, twelve stories high, built directly into the hard rock of the cavern walls. The top was near invisible in the darkness high above- brilliant carved marble statues of cyclopean youth, glistening and seeming to sparkle with the waters of the cavern, flanked a massive front doors twice the size of Rum. Marble steps smoothed from decades beneath the crystal clear waters led toward the entryway.

The air seemed to rush from his lungs. Preserved in the ancient earth, at the bottom of this wandering, long-abandoned island, was a temple of a forgotten god. The temple was sharp white stone and polished blue lines along the edges of the building- as Rum craned his neck, higher and higher, he saw more carvings. One-eyed gargoyles and leering ifrits perched to look down upon him, their eye-sockets glinting, as if they were alive.

Rum was suddenly struck by the sheer vastness of the structure in front of him- a chill ran down his spine, and his thoughts flashed back to his home on Galatania.

No, it's not exactly my home anymore...but it's so strange, seeing a place like this empty. It's not supposed to be empty- back in Galatania, in my Father's court, it wouldn't be like this. There's supposed to be poets, and someone playing the harp, and grapes. Endless, oodles of grapes. Banners flying, lanterns raised and roasted chestnuts burning on open fire-pits dotting the courtyard, the hum of traders and scholars. Incense thick in the air, lutes and hymns and bright eyes staring in wonder at the architecture, fat-bellied priests in flowing robes directing bowing acolytes. Temple bells ringing, the melody bouncing off the cavern walls, descending gently to the crowds below and-

Really, a lot more grapes. I feel like I cannot stress enough how everyone is ALWAYS eating grapes, and how this place looks as if there are NO GRAPES.

"Gods... how many hours did it take to carve this chamber out of stone?" Rum said in honest wonder. "How many hands, how many tools? All those hours of labour, the skill of the craftsmen, gone... and this building, the last remnants of a people left to to drift onward, a nameless crypt-city buried beneath sand... without life and lost in the bubbling ocean..."

"Permission to break wind, fearless leader?" Molotov asked.

Rum blinked. "Did you just ask me if it was okay to fart?"

"You were having a bit of a moment. Your face was all bedazzled."

"I was not bedazzled! I was merely reflecting up the endless march of time, the-"

Molotov's toot echoed off the majestic temple walls.

"I hate you so much," Rum said. He sloshed toward the doors of the temple and after a moment, Molotov scampered to follow.

---

Rum stepped into the atrium, taking in the sights. The interior of the temple was cold- jet-blue paint was layered upon the walls and columns, wrapping over the white marble. The designs were arcane and religious symbols, accompanied by more of the cyclopean figures, the meaning completely incomprehensible to Rum's smooth-brain. The figures twisted upon the walls, floating as if on the wind itself, magic flowing from their finger-tips and golden eyes.

It would have been beautiful- were it not for the gold.

Golden skeletons were scattered around the circular room, pushed against the walls, liquid bones fused to the walls, golden splashes where they'd melted completely from impact, cascading against the religious murals like some abstract painter going through a really, really, dark period. No flesh, or clothing, remained. Eaten away by time long ago only the golden bones of the people, skulls with one distinctive eye-socket, was left to show the massacre that had taken place.

Despite the gruesome scene, Rum was more intrigued than disgusted. Clearly, whatever had happened here had happened ages ago. It was, in his mind, the absolute perfect sort of adventure. Sanitized by centuries, with no actual danger to him. Like looking through a particularly fascinating, well-constructed picture-book.

"What could have happened here, I wonder?" Rum mused, stroking his chin because it was the kind of sort of thing he'd always wanted to do while musing.

"Oh, well that's pretty simple," Molotov chirped up. He jogged to the center of the atrium. "The bad guy, whoever he was, stood here. And he went like this-"

Molotov hopped around, wildly shooting finger-guns at the various sprawled golden corpses.

"Blammo! Kablap! Brakka takka b-takka! And when he was done slaughtering all these innocent priests n' children and n' hot-dog vendors, he just strode off!"

Rum wrinkled up his nose. "Oh really? Whoever it was just killed everyone and walked off without a scratch?"

"Well," Molotov said. "Think about the city we walked through! Didja' see anything like... weapons? A guard barracks, or anything like that?"

Rum paused. As much as he hated to admit it, Molotov WAS right. There hadn't been a single rusted sword, or broken halberd. They'd passed by buildings that could have once been houses, or granaries, or mess halls... "I guess you're right on that one," Rum admitted.

"So whoever these one-eyed people were, they were clearly a buncha' pacifists," Molotov continued. "Just a bunch of defenseless scholars and priests and y'know, women and children and whatnot. The bad guy rounds them all up into the temple, and he explodies them all! And then he sailed away- probably off to destroy some other island and cause more unimaginable amounts of suffering. Who knows? Maybe they're still out there, roaming the seas!"

Rum felt his stomach curdle. The shadows suddenly seemed deeper all around the room- and he felt the urge to pen his surroundings into his latest story flounder and fail. It felt, somehow, in someway, a little exploitative. Maybe just a tad.

"M-maybe they weren't defenseless. What if they were a society of powerful magi?"

"I dunno, Rum..." Molotov looked around at the ancient scene of carnage. "I think they might have been a liiittle shit at magic for this to happen."

Rum didn't know what else to say. He paced around the room, trying to avoid the melted gold- but everywhere he looked the single eye-socketed skulls seemed to stare back at him.

"Well, Rummy-Boy-Bob, where to now?" Molotov asked. "Are we going to look for the treasure?"

Rum paused. "What do you mean treasure? Surely whoever destroyed the city ransacked this whole place."

Molotov grinned and shook his dopey head. "Well yes and no! They definitely looted this place, but I can tell with just one sniff-" He sniffed for emphasis. "- that there's still something SUPER potent up in this shiz!"

The wizard gave a few more experimental sniffs. Rum tried as well. It was faint- but he thought he smelt something in the musty air. A distant, greasy metallic scent- the scent of raw magic. His eyes boggled.

Molotov's not lying- if I'm even smelling it from this far off, there's something truly valuable lurking in this temple! Gosh- what sort of place WAS this? Who destroyed it and why?

Rum found himself rubbing his hands together, salivating a little in his greed. The twisted golden bodies were once more forgotten, replaced by the thought of shiny, magical treasure. But not golden treasure.

"Every good story has to have some sort of magical treasure... don't you think, Molotov?" Rum paused and turned to find the wizard gone. He looked around the atrium in confusion, eyes falling on a slender staircase at the side of the room. "Molotov?"

There was a distant shout, echoing off the walls from somewhere above.

"Already on the hunt, Rummy! Last one to find the treasure's a rotten egg!"

Exasperated, Rum took off after him.

---

Rum made his way through the upper-levels of the temple, his wet shoes making embarassing slapping noises on the marble floors. It was not a very fearsome, adventurous sound.

Why'd this hidden underground temple have to be so majestic and grand? Twelve stories high- really guys? I'm not even sorry anymore that someone came and killed you when you make a building with so many frickin' stairs...

He huffed and puffed his way up the steps, passing fading tapestries and grand sculptures. All portrayed cyclopean priests, skin a burnished brown, with flowing robes. Strange alchemical symbols adorned the tapestries and portraits, images of long-forgotten diplomats, priests, figures of great import.

If they were so great, how come no one thought of an alternative for stairs? Or did this ancient race just have exceptional quads?

He'd heard Molotov scampering around in the upper levels from time to time- every so often the wizard would shout out a jovial, "Nothing in this room!" or, "I just tripped!"

"How'd he get so peppy?" Rum growled to himself. "I never should have hired him. What was I thinking?"

I suppose I wasn't thinking much, aside from "Leave Galatania as soon as possible while my head is still attached to my neck"-

At the top of the next flight of stairs, Rum paused to catch his breath. The stairs continued upwards- but his gaze turned to a small side-room, half-hidden in the shadow of the staircase. He nearly missed the sudden sharp blue glow- it flickered within the room, gone within the blink of an eye.

Rum froze in place. The greasy scent of magic wafted from the small room, as if beckoning him forward. He awkwardly turned around, as if expecting it to be directed at someone behind him- but he was alone.

"M-molotov?" he whispered, slowly inching forward. "Molotov, get down here..." But the wizard was high above, and his words were too quiet by far.

A part of his mind was screaming at him to shout for the wizard, to run down the stairs, to do anything other than approach the strange glowing room in the ransacked temple with the dead golden skeletons. Rum wasn't much of an adventurer and he didn't have access to any sort of handbook on the subject- but he had a strong feeling that what he was currently doing was breaking about a dozen cardinal rules.

Despite everything his feet moved forward, step after impossible step. The strange blue glow came again- and Rum realized with a start that it seemed to rise and fall, an alien blue hum that painted the cracked white marble walls and floors in an odd glow.

He pushed forward, the glow turning his skin an odd tone of blue. It had a warmth to it now, and Rum felt his shoes begin to dry, droplets of water pulling off and floating away like bubbles, suspended inches above the floor with the power of the magic.

Rum's eyes widened. He couldn't bear it any longer. He moved through the doorway, entered the room, and saw wondrous things.