When You’re Tired of Civilization, You’re Tired of Living in Ankle Deep Shit.
“All right,” said the shopkeep. “So that’s one breastplate of temperature resistance, one shield, one sword of kitten transmutation, two punching daggers, and one knife with squiggly runes engraved on it. Will that be all?”
“There’s also a battleaxe!” interjected Petrov. “Don’t forget the battleaxe!”
“Ah yes. And one battleaxe. That will be one hundred lords please.”
“Lords?” asked Magus.
“The steel coins.”
“Oh, sure. Here you go.”
Magus handed over the money, but when they walked out of the shop a group of people carrying instrument cases and pretending to be bards walked over. Since all of them were over six feet tall and wearing cheap suits, it wasn’t very convincing. The largest of them, a hulking giant with one eye, picked up Magus by the hem of his robe and said “I dot Midder Bromad made it clear dat nobody was to buy nuffen ‘ere.”
“Sorry!” Magus squeaked.
“Youz gonna die mage.”
Magus turned to the party and squeaked, “Help!”
“I might as well,” said Ærin. “I was looking forward to seeing what this sword could do.”
Ærin poked the thug with her new sword and a droplet of blood dripped down it.
“Was that supposed to ‘urt!” said the thug. Or at least that was probably what he had been meaning to say. It descended into agonized screams halfway through, quickly dropping Magus in order to writhe in agony properly. After a while, his thrashing stilled, and there was a scratching sound. Then, a claw punctured his abdomen from the inside. The small hole was widened and soon, out came a litter of tabby kittens, coated in blood and gore, along with a black cat that tunneled its way out of the thug’s skull via an eye socket.
The other thugs looked at this for a bit, recovered, and then opened up their instrument cases. Surprise, surprise! They weren’t keeping instruments in them. While Magus crawled off, Ærin and Petrov leapt into the fray. The nameless thugs attacked, but they were obviously outclassed. Ærin feinted left and right, stabbing them every time. Arms, legs and kittens were scattered everywhere. When Magus finally got up and reduced one of the remaining thugs to a pair of boots with smoke coming out of them, the rest lost what little morale they had left and ran off.
Ærin looked down at her sword and proclaimed, “I shall call you Kettlingr.” Then she turned to Magus and said “Now what? I can’t follow them in heavy armor, and we both know you’ll get your ass kicked if you head on alone.”
“Don’t worry,” said Petrov, “I can find them.” He then walked over to the nearest hobo, picked said hobo up, slammed him into the wall, and shouted in his face “Vhere’s Bromad! Vhat you know about him!”
“I don’t know nuffen!” responded the hobo.
“A double negative!” roared Petrov, taking out his axe and shoving it in the hobo’s face. “Vhere is he hiding!”
“He runs the adventurers’ guild!” said the hobo. “The guildhall is up on Short Street!”
“Much better!” said Petrov. “Ve won’t kill you. Yet.” Then he turned to the rest of the party and said “Bromad leads ze adventurers’ guild, vhich is placed up on Short Street. Come on, let’s go.”
Ærin looked at him and said “I’m all for fighting, but shouldn’t we check the place out first? I mean, what if everyone in there is as powerful as us?”
“Oh fine. You humans and your caution,” said Petrov. “Why, back in ze old country-”
“Nobody cares,” said Magus. “Anyway, come on, let’s check this building out.”
So, yeah. Tell me what you think!