Elderberry Expedition

The air in Bartholomew’s cavern, typically thick with the scent of sleep and a faint whiff of sulfur, was now tinged with the faintest, most infuriating hint of *purpose*. Sammy, perched on a stalagmite that resembled a particularly grumpy mushroom, surveyed her domain with a glint in her tiny, determined eyes. Bartholomew, meanwhile, was attempting to resume his nap, a monumental undertaking given the persistent buzzing in his ear that sounded suspiciously like a miniature, outraged bumblebee.

“You know,” Sammy chirped, her voice like the tinkling of a thousand tiny bells, each one slightly out of tune, “I was thinking. About your… lifestyle. It’s very sedentary, isn’t it? All that napping. Not very… *stimulating*.”

Bartholomew grumbled, a sound akin to pebbles tumbling down a very large hill. His massive eyelid, the size of a small boulder, twitched. He was trying. Oh, how he was trying to ignore the minuscule menace. Naps were important. They were the bedrock of his existence. Without naps, what was Bartholomew? Just a large, scaly creature with an unfortunate tendency to accidentally set things on fire when startled. And Sammy was *very* startling.