Rations, Gold, and the Threshold of the Deep

The cool autumn air of the citadel threshold carried the damp, earthy scent of ancient stone and long-forgotten crypts. Standing together in the fading daylight, the reunited companions dropped their packs to take a grim inventory of their remaining provisions. Doc, his hat glittering with blue-green gems, meticulously sorted through the group's dwindling supplies, his expression tightening as the calculation settled in. They were down to their last five rations. Every hard-won crumb had to count if they meant to survive whatever lay further down in the dark.

Kritkrit paid little mind to the meager food supplies, instead swaggering about with the oversized greatsword Asterion slung precariously across his back. The kobold wizard proudly emptied a pouch of sixty gold coins onto a flat stone, letting the metallic clink ring out against the silence of the ruins while he boasted of his exploits back in the town taverns. Donk crossed his massive arms, a low rumble of amusement escaping the half-orc fighter as he watched Kritkrit preen. Yet Donk's gaze soon drifted from the gold to the heavy, iron-banded doors leading deeper into the citadel. With only five days of food left between them, the choice before the party was stark: risk a perilous retreat back through the monster-haunted forests to resupply, or plunge straight into the unknown depths with empty bellies and sharpened steel.