“Well that was a bust,” She-Wolf grumbled, stomping out of a rundown convenience store, trying to warm her arms up in the biting night air, “I can’t believe I have to be human for this.”

“Hey, I already said I’d take a bullet for you,” Lady NightRaven said, “And people here are paranoid. I don’t think they would cooperate if some snarling monster wandered in.”

“I don’t snarl,” She-Wolf said, making a point of not snarling as she got back into the car, “I want my fur, it’s too cold out.”

“Then why not just change back?” the vampire asked, starting the car.

“Because it takes a while,” the werewolf explained, “And it’s uncomfortable, growing fur across your body as your skeleton rearranges itself.”

“And you’re sure they’re over here?” Lady NightRaven asked.

“I’m sure they’re going this direction,” She-Wolf said, watching two burly men step in front of the car, “Who are they?”

“I’m not liking this,” Lady NightRaven muttered.

...

“Tell them we’re doing fine,” the bard told the wizard. The sun had set, but to the adventurers’ shock, people were all over the place. Driving places, walking places, running places, eating and drinking and singing. It was unnatural.

And unsafe. Creatures of the night moved and hunted at night, and tracking them down was a lot easier when they were the only things out at night. The bard, wizard, and barbarian watched the passing crowds with disgust. Anyone of them could be a vampire, or a werewolf, but in the sea of bodies how could anyone tell?

None of the adventurers were sitting idle. The barbarian was twisting and bending the bard’s exoskeleton around her, while the wizard cast magical mending spells to stop the suit from breaking and the bard was on look out.

“Alright, how’s the right arm doing?” the wizard asked, “I think we finished it.”

“Should be good,” the bard said, giving her arm a few experimental swings, “Couldn’t you just cast an illusion over the entrance to the alleyway instead of having me on lookout?”

“Couldn’t you just pack on muscle till you fit into this instead of getting us to fit it around you?” the wizard retorted, “Besides, what if someone could see through the illusion?”

“Then that would still be better than us doing this out in the open,” the bard said.

“If an illusion was cast over the alleyway, whoever could see through the illusion could play off noticing us as just looking down the alleyway,” the wizard said, “It would give them time to plan an attack, while we’re uncertain of our next move.”

“That would never happen,” the bard said, “We could just go on the offensive. We do that all the time.”

“It would never happen if the cleric were here,” the barbarian said, “As it stands, none of us have a divine sense of right and wrong. Anyone who sees us would see us seeing them.”

“Test the left arm now,” the wizard said.

“It works,” the bard said, “So, are we finished.”

“With the fitting at least,” the wizard said.

“Does that mean we can quit standing around here?” the barbarian asked.

“I wanted it enchanted also,” the bard said.

“You want your already magic suit of armor enchanted,” the barbarian deadpanned, “It sure would be nice to have all that powerful, enchanted gear.”

“Hey!” the bard barked, “We have rings more powerful than this. I had rings more powerful than this.”

“What did your rings do?” the barbarian asked.

“They made me better at dancing, and made me far more attractive,” the bard said, “I’m almost glad I don’t have to refit all my armor and clothes.”

“And you think dancing rings are better than enchanted armor?” the barbarian asked.

“Of course,” the bard said, “None of this is going to make me better at fighting than you or the fighter. The dancing rings made me better at being a bard, which is what I’m supposed to do.”

Farther down the alleyway, the bard heard a scream of “Run! Just drop the guns and run!” followed by a loud crash.

“Sounds like we have trouble,” the bard said, turning towards the screaming, “Are the legs done?”

“Been done for a while,” the wizard said.

“Good,” the bard said, “Let’s go check that out.”

The barbarian found he had to actually try to keep pace with the bard. He could still outrun her, but found he couldn’t take the same lackadaisical pace he was used to.

“Can you run any faster?” the barbarian asked.

“I can’t!” the wizard shouted.

“You can teleport!” the bard said, soaring over a chain link fence.

As the bard and barbarian rounded a corner, they found a pair of giants chasing a pair of fleeing women.

“Run!” one of the fleeing women screamed, “It’s not worth your life!”

“It’s just a pair of ogres,” the bard shouted back, “Don’t worry! We’re professionals. Hey! Wizard! It’s just a pair of ogres!”

“I’ll have fire spells ready!” the wizard shouted, panting as he ran.

“Wizard?” one of the women said.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Lady NightRaven watched as one of the brass champions punched down at the woman, slamming into the pavement so hard he left an imprint of his fist. The woman dodged backwards from the fist before kicking off of the giant’s elbow to reach his head.

“Any idea who they are?” She-Wolf asked, freezing in the night air without her werewolf form.

Lady NightRaven saw metal glint around the bard as she brought a hand up to her mouth.

“The exosuit,” the vampire muttered, “She’s the one who-”

The sharpest, highest, loudest note She-Wolf and Lady NightRaven ever heard pierced the air like a clap of thunder. She-Wolf clutched her ears and Lady NightRaven could feel her head ringing. The brass champion staggered back from the sound, blood flowing from his ears and nose.

“Don’t transform,” Lady NightRaven hissed, “That nearly knocked me out.”

“I can imagine,” She-Wolf groaned.

The barbarian engaged the other brass champion in combat, his axe digging chunks out with each swing. The bard’s knife flashed through the air, but the shallow cuts regenerated shut as soon as they opened. The bard wrapped her legs around one of the giants and drove her knife through his eye. The brass champion howled in pain, the other giant moving to cover him. He wrapped a massive hand around the bard as she twisted her knife around, and as the barbarian leapt to cut the bard free the other champion swatted the barbarian to the floor.

“Look out!” the bard called, the brass champion flinging through the air. The wizard ducked just in time to avoid the bard, who tumbled through old brickwork.

“Ow,” the bard said, climbing out of the rubble, “Hey, barbarian! Look out for that!”

“No worries here!” the barbarian said. Hopping to his feet. The barbarian dug his axe into the knee of a champion, ripping it loose and forcing him to the ground. A ray of light flashed from the wizard’s hands, striking the wounded champion and burning clean through his chest.

The other brass champion took one look at his comrade, and placed both fists around his head.

“For the glory of the White Herald,” the brass champion said, his voice the rumble of thunder, “Let blood be spilled. Let blood be spilled, so that we could be blessed.”

The brass champion pressed his hands together, crushing the fallen champion’s skull. Blood, viscera, and shards of bone exploded with the force, coating the brass champion. With the ritual completed, the brass champion grew yet larger. The brass champion was a massive, beastial, behemoth. More beast than man, his eyes nothing more than savage aggression. His roar was so loud that She-Wolf thought it would split the skies.

“Get your camera out,” She-Wolf murmured, fishing through her pockets.

“You think you’re so big?” the bard called out, “You arrogant-” Once again, for your safety, the bard’s words were not recorded. The insult was so cutting, matching the brass champion’s form for savagery, that his skin fell off in chunks. When it quickly grew back, the bard rolled her eyes.

“You shall not harm them!” Gorestrike bellowed, pointing his mace towards the adventurers.

“We’re leaving,” Lady NightRaven whispered, “We’re leaving now.”

“Who’re you talking to?” the barbarian asked, diving away from the brass champion’s wild swing.

“The giant,” Gorestrike declared, marching closer.

“The gigantic giant?” the bard asked, drawing her revolver.

“I see no other,” Gorestrike rumbled.

“Sorry,” the wizard said, infusing the barbarian with unnatural might, “But our friend here is quite tall. We just want to be sure.”

“I have no quarrel with you lot,” Gorestrike declared, “Only that detestable monstrosity. They dare interfere with my grudge match!”

“Would you mind help?” the bard asked.

“Certainly not,” Gorestrike mused, “Now, to battle!”

Gorestrike’s mace dragged heaps of flesh from the giant with each swing, with the barbarian’s axe hewing apart bones. The bard fired six rounds into the brass champion’s groin, leaving him howling in pain, and the wizard cast illusions over the giant’s eyes. Under the onslaught, the brass champion was quickly brought to his knees, the bard fumbling to reload her revolver, and the wizard set the illusion to seizure-inducing yellow, pink, blue, red, and green flashes. Before long, the brass champion collapsed onto his back, groaning in pain as the bard picked teeth off his jaw with her revolver and the barbarian and Gorestrike beat everything from the waist down into unrecognizable chunks.

By the time the barbarian and Gorestrike got around to beating the brass champion’s head to pieces, the wizard was quite sure the giant had died some time ago. After all, they had already decapitated him by then. Still, when Gorestrike ground the giant’s brains beneath his armored boot, the wizard figured it was better safe than sorry when dealing with regenerators.

“Pardon me,” the wizard said, stepping between Gorestrike and the barbarian to unleash burning gouts of fire on the corpse, “Best to reduce him to ash.”

“You’re a,” Gorestrike grumbled, the word slithering out of his mouth, “Wizard?”

“He is,” the barbarian said, “Excellent fighting, sir knight.”

“Much obliged! And you as well,” Gorestrike declared, “Still, I’ll have no quarter with magic.”

“Why not?” the bard asked, not having a divine sense of right and wrong, “It’s useful stuff.”

“It spoils good combat,” Gorestrike rumbled, “Ruins the honest bloodshed of true warriors. Magic. Feh!”

“There are a great many things that would foul warriors such as you,” the wizard explained, also not having a divine sense of right and wrong, “I don’t think I spoil combat, I simply right what blood and steel cannot. Your enemies don’t care what you think of magic, they simply press every advantage available. No sense giving them one.”

“Much as I hate it, he has a point,” the barbarian said, “You make a good solo act, but working with a team is important. I actually enjoy it, it increases the number of things I can inflict furious violence upon.”

“Truly?” Gorestrike inquired.

“Oh yeah,” the barbarian said, “Having a team means you can challenge teams. I remember one time, I tried to fight an army of giant dinosaur people. I thought, hey, I can kill a dinosaur in one swing so I just need to swing my axe about eight thousand times. Didn’t work like that at all. As soon as I got into the thick of combat, swinging and stomping and swinging and stomping, they started grappling me.”

“Fiends!” Gorestrike declared.

“It was awful,” the barbarian continued, “They kept trying to disarm me, or lift me, or pin me. They all died eventually, but I didn’t feel like I won.”

“Perhaps I could gather like minded warriors,” Gorestrike pondered, “Leadership, I think, would be an enlightening experience.”

“Not to mention the bonds you forge in battle,” the bard added, “If you want, I could probably help you find a team.”

“You work with wizards,” Gorestrike hissed, “I appreciate the offer, but I think I shall build my own band of brothers.”

“Good luck with that,” the barbarian said, “You sure you don’t want to adventure with us for a while?”

“Well, I would take up arms against you for perverting combat with foul arcana,” Gorestrike declared, “But it would be my dishonor to strike down those who have aided me. I will not spoil our victory here, but I cannot travel with you.”

“I’m afraid we probably couldn’t take you in either,” the bard admitted, “We’re quite busy people.”

“Ah yes, time marches ever onward and I still have my quarry,” Gorestrike mused, “Still, you sir, fought with dignity and skill. Does your axe have a name?”

“Power,” the barbarian said, certainly not having a divine sense of right and wrong.

“A name well spoken,” Gorestrike declared, “And a name well earned. Still, I must depart. A hunter’s bounty eludes me. May we meet again!”

“Have a good night,” the bard said, waving Gorestrike off.

“You think those two were the shapeshifters we found?” the barbarian asked.

“No,” the wizard said, “The shapeshifters boil away when killed.”

“Agh, I never got his name,” the bard said.

“Oh, who cares,” the barbarian said, “We never remember names anyway. Besides, what are the odds we meet him again?”