The southside of Kings Head country in Chicago was an ugly, rundown place, only separated from the stately northside of Kings Head by a set of hills. As they say, out of sight, out of mind. The sun was setting on south Kings Head, and the adventurers had just crossed over the hill. They were no strangers to old, run down cities, though in their experience they usually weren’t so big. And were run by vampire counts.

“You’re sure this is the right way,” the fighter asked.

“Yes, I’m sure,” the cleric said, “I was sure half an hour ago, I was sure five minutes ago, and I’m sure now. Why do you keep asking that?”

“Well, a lot of the buildings on the way here were tall and shiny,” the fighter explained, “I was certain those would be where evil masterminds or dark wizards live. Everything here is rundown and ramshackle.”

“It could be a secret sewer base,” the rogue suggested.

“Ugh, I really don’t want to go trekking around in sewers again,” the bard said, “Why can’t evil cults just dig caves under cities.”

“Some of them did,” the wizard said, “Honestly, I think the sewer base is an ingenious natural defense.”

“How?” the barbarian asked.

“Because no one ever wants to go trekking around in sewers,” the wizard explained, “And the only people who do are desperate. Also, cataclysm befalls cities so often that city planning often becomes a labyrinthine mess, what with all the societies living in sewers we stumble upon.”

“I think that has more to do with tax evasion,” the cleric said, “Sure, there’s the stink-”

“That awful stink,” the bard moaned.

“-But officially, those people don’t live in the city,” the cleric continued, “Even though they’re still able to use the city’s services.”

“Maybe we should get a secret sewer base,” the fighter said.

“No,” the bard said, “Try it, and I’m quitting.”

“Me too,” the cleric said.

“Give me your money!” a man demanded. The man was skinny and pale, with blood shot, sunken eyes, and yellowed, jagged teeth. He was wearing jeans that had seen better days, and had tattoos all across his body, and was brandishing a knife.

Now, between you and I, we both know that some strung out drug addict stands exactly zero chance against a team of seasoned adventurers.

“Are you robbing us?” the fighter asked.

“Yeah man! Just give me your money! Nobody gets hurt,” the man said.

The issue here was that the adventurers didn’t know this. The fighter and rogue knew that knives were dangerous, lethal weapons no less. The adventurers had seen what the rogue could do to people, and the rogue had done all that to people. Frankly, it was disgusting. Not that hacking people to bits with a bastard sword was pretty, but the rogue did nasty, awful things to people with his knives.

What the adventurers did was that when they fought, they fought to the death. This was a well known, widely respected rule. When bandits or orks or wolves or cultists attacked the adventurers, everyone understood that it was kill or be killed. Another thing the adventurers knew was that a legendary warrior and some novice who just picked up a sword looked remarkably similar outside of their gear. This had caused the adventurers some close calls, and since then they had all decided that when someone was threatening your life, it really was best to not take chances.

“Give-” the man said.

In a flash of movement, the fighter drew Wedblock.

“Me-”

With one swing, Wedblock hewn the man from shoulder to hip.

“AAAA-”

Fighter repeated the swing across the other shoulder, and decapitated the man with a flourish.

“Is that a goblin?” the barbarian asked.

“It has teeth like a goblin,” the wizard said, “And eyes like a goblin.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” the bard said, “We’ve met plenty of civilized goblins. That man was clearly possessed.”

“I didn’t sense any wraiths or demons leaving him,” the cleric said, “I don’t think he was possessed.”

“Why’d he try to rob us?” the barbarian asked, “Doesn’t he know we’re us?”

“Could have been mind control,” the rogue suggested, “Wizard, was he ensorceled?”

“Not that I noticed,” the wizard said, “But I didn’t check.”

“You don’t think he’s some kind of human-goblin half breed, do you?” the fighter asked.

“He does look kinda human, and kinda goblin,” the barbarian admitted.

“If this is a goblin infestation, I’m surprised we’re seeing them this close to the city,” the cleric said, “Should we bury him?”

“Probably best to cremate him,” the bard said, “He might have poisonous blood, it’d be a hassle to unpoison the land.”

“Also, there’s not much earth around here,” the wizard said.

“Fair enough,” the cleric admitted, conjuring holy fire in one hand.

“Hold up,” the rogue said, “He has some gold teeth,”

“Grab them then,” the fighter said.

After the possessed or mind controlled or part goblin man was thoroughly looted, the cleric burned him to ash with a bolt of divine fire.

“I hope the next guy has some more money on him,” the rogue whined, “A few gold teeth and a dagger aren’t really loot.”

“Let’s just find this evil,” the cleric said, pointing down a dimly lit alleyway “it’s this way.”

…

“Donnovan, sir,” the guard said, nervously pushing the door open, “Some… people are here to see you.”

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“Well,” Donnovan said, taking a long drag of his cigar and signalling to his hired muscle, “Invite them in.”

“Hey,” the barbarian said, shoving the guard aside, “We’re looking for some kind of wizard, or demon, or goblin chief. I’m going to rip his-”

“Or her!” the bard interjected.

“It’s never a her,” the fighter said.

“-Arms off and beat him to death with them,” the barbarian finished.

The barbarian was massive, muscles rippling and coiling as he stepped forward, moving with such power that Donnovan only noticed the tusks when he stopped moving.

“What?” Donnovan asked, “Goblins?”

“You know,” the barbarian said, his voice rumbling as his team shuffled into the office after him, “Spindly, yellowed eyes, sharp teeth, discolored skin. A goblin.”

“There aren’t goblins here,” Donnovan said. What was going on with his tusks? And her ears? And was that a teenage boy?

“Okay, so they were ensorceled,” the cleric said, “Have you seen any dark wizards around? They tend to live in black towers made with unnatural geometry.”

“What?” Donnovan asked again.

“You know what a dark wizard looks like, don’t you?” the fighter asked, “Dark robes with a hood, usually they have glowing red eyes. We’re here to kill a guy like that.”

“Perhaps there’s been a misunderstanding here,” Donnovan said, drawing an engraved, heavy revolver from his desk, “Yes, I am the head of the Chairmen, and yes, I command one of the strongest legal teams in the city. I don’t know what evidence you think you have against me, but I assure you it will not hold up in court.” The two muscular guards that flanked Donnovan readied assault rifles, and more guards filtered in from the back. “I will continue to push my products, and the likes of you will not stop me. Now, we don’t need to get violent, I am a merciful man. If the lady with the pinched waist stays with me, I will consider the rest of you forgiven.”

“Are you done?” the bard asked.

“I don’t care what you offer,” the cleric said, “I’ll never serve you.”

“He obviously meant me,” the bard said.

“I obviously meant her,” Donnovan said, “Just step over here, and none of your friends get hurt.”

“Fighter, do we have a plan?” the rogue asked.

“He is evil,” the cleric reminded.

“Then what are we waiting for?” the fighter asked, “Attack.”

“Well, it seems-” Donnovan said, the barbarian charging forward and ramming his axe through a guard’s head. Two guards opened fire at the barbarian, the bullets digging into his skin as he tore his axe out of the guard. The wizard did something, Donnovan wasn’t sure what, but an entire quarter of the room was covered with frost, the guard standing there screaming as ice crystals tore him apart. The cleric shield bashed a guard out of the room, tackling the man through the door only to get lit up by more men that hurried up the stairs. Donnovan sighted his revolver at the bard, it was a shame to kill such a beautiful lady, but he had not built his empire just to die like this.

“Ouch!” the bard barked, the high caliber bullet cutting a white line across her head as it ran across her skull, “Listen here you-” For your own safety, the bard’s insult has not been recorded. Bardic words carry arcane power, and by their tongues heroes can rise and fall. Against the bard’s insult, Donnovan’s eyes rolled back into his head and his body shook. The revolver fell from his hand as Donnovan slumped forward, stone dead.

The remaining guards tried to flee, but the fighter and rogue held the door and carved them up for their troubles. Bullets pinged off of the cleric’s armor as she joined the rogue and fighter in their chase.

With the last man’s head crushed by a mace, disemboweled by knives, and dismembered by a bastard sword, the adventurers reconvened in Donnovan’s office. One guard lived, the man who had led them to the mob boss, staring off into the distance and occasionally glancing over at Donnovan. No matter how many times he looked at Donnovan, the man stayed dead.

“So guard,” the fighter said, pointing a thumb towards Donnovan, “What’d that guy do?”

“He runs- he ran a drug empire,” the guard said, “Biggest dealer in the tristate area, starting to push product overseas. You killed him.”

“Sure did,” the bard said, “Hey, cleric, can I get some healing over here? That burning ray messed up my hair. Do you think I can pull off an undercut?”

“I don’t know what an undercut is,” the cleric said, her hand flashing with white light that closed the bard’s wounds, “And you can pull off every hairstyle ever. You know, the only hairstyle I can pull off is a ponytail.”

“Your ponytail looks nice,” the bard said.

“Sure it does,” the cleric said, rolling her eyes, “Hey barbarian, you want some healing?”

“Nah,” the barbarian said, going through Donnovan’s pockets, “They might make for nice scars.”

“On your back, though?” the fighter asked.

“You never know,” the bard said, adjusting her hair, “But you also shouldn’t let yourself get too scarred up, otherwise you’ll look disfigured instead of intimidating.”

“Hmmh,” the barbarian said, his brow furrowing in thought, “Well, if it doesn’t work Cleric can just heal the scars.”

“How?” the cleric asked, “If you wait for it to scar, it’d be healthy flesh. I’m not wasting powerful spells just so you can look cool.”

“Oh, he already discussed this with me,” the rogue said, “If he gets too scarred up, or gets a bunch of scars he doesn’t like, I can use my knives to flay his skin and you can heal fresh wounds.”

“That sounds awful,” the guard said.

“Hey, do you have any idea how much I go through to be a bard?” the bard asked.

“Oh no, you’re super mega hot all the time,” the cleric said.

“I wear the lightest armor out of all of us,” the bard retorted, “Right now, I’m not wearing any armor! I took a burning ray to the head!”

“Bullet,” the guard corrected.

“Yeah! Listen to Bullet!” the bard said, “You tell ‘em, Bullet.”

“My name is Johnny,” the guard said.

“Good to meet you,” the fighter said, “I’m the fighter. Anyway, rogue, we’ve got a safe here.”

“Want me to open it?” the barbarian asked.

“What? No!” the rogue said, “I want to open it! I’m the rogue, I get to open locks!”

“The last time you tried to open a lock you dropped a mountain on us,” the barbarian said.

“You just rip locks off their bolts!” the rogue said, “You don’t even check for traps!”

“Why would a lock be trapped?” the guard asked.

“What in the world are you talking about?” the fighter asked, “Why would a lock ever not be trapped?”

“People want to keep those things,” the wizard chided, “Trapping them is obvious.”

“Alright, let’s see what’s in here,” the rogue said, tossing things out of the safe, “Stacks of paper, stacks of paper, ah! Gold bars.”

“How many?” the fighter asked.

“Three,” the rogue said, “And a few bits of jewelry.”

“Those papers are property deeds,” the guard said, “There for-”

“Oh, please no,” the wizard said, “We don’t do deeds. Property is full of zombies, vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and a host of other nasty things. It’s awful”

“Property deeds are the opposite of loot,” the cleric said, “It’s just more work. You know, we got the deed to a castle, they expected us to staff the place. With servants that we have to pay!”

“Selling that dump was the best thing we ever did,” the bard said, “Let’s burn those deeds before we’re stuck with them.”

“But-” the guard said.

“But nothing,” the fighter said, passing the deeds to the wizard, “Wizard, burn these. Cleric, we’re clearing this place out. It should work as a base. You, um, guard person-”

“Johnny,” the guard said, “My name is Johnny.”

“Right, got it,” the fighter said, “Listen, if you’re not going to work with us, you need to leave. If you are going to work with us, you get paid with a cut of the loot. We’re not going to pay you.”

“Can I take those?” the guard asked.

“The paper?” the wizard asked, “Sure. They’re too small to use as scrolls, and aren’t magical.”

“Thanks,” the guard said, grabbing a few handfuls, “I- uh, I gotta go.”

Johnny ran. He didn’t know where he was running to, he barely understood what he was running from. He would need to call someone. Who? Other Chairmen? The police? The superheroes? All of them?