A snap. A scrape. And then the sound of age-old hinges complaining.
The thief rose, and stood before the open chest. Without turning, he motioned for his companions to move closer.
“C’mon.” said the thief as he let out the breath he’d been holding. “Have no fear, the traps are all disabled.”
To a man, the group behind him took two steps, and then stopped. After their own intakes of breath, the group fell silent, bathed in the chest’s orange glow that radiated like the embers of a dying campfire.
“We’ve found finally found it; Lynette’s Potion of Youth.” whispered the wizard, unable to blink, nor avert his eyes.
“That we did,” replied the warrior. “I almost thought we’d never see it.” A solitary tear appeared from under the steel helm and set off down his cheek.
The druid leaned against his oaken staff, the movement causing the shadows to dance across his face. “Although we all had doubts about this quest when we first set out, did we ever think it would be a forlorn hope? There is always a risk, but there is always a reward. Isn’t that the reason why we do what we do? Fighting evil? Making the world a better place for those less fortunate?”
The cleric nodded. “You are right as always, my old friend. I agree that it isn’t a surprise that we are once again victorious, but rather that, in this age of chaos and violence, greed and envy, someone had the virtues and generosity to spare us this most precious of treasures. ”
“True,” rasped the dwarf, struggling to clear the lump in his throat. “Question is, who’s going to take it?”