My legs burned as I stumbled and tumbled down the streets of the city. My breath was short. My voice was barely vocal.

“Where to?” I huffed.

Azog, whose chains were miraculously unshackled, looked frantically around. He was a big man who stood out among the city folk.

“Aye, I reckon we head left. Good of a direction as any. If we tail it, we’ll make it to the gates before they catch on.” Azog reckoned.

“We go right, brilliant. We’ll wrap around and sneak out of the city out the back entrance.” Rose disagreed.

“You both want to leave already?” I asked.

“Yes!” They both agreed.

“We haven’t even stolen the vial of blood I came for yet. There are so many answers to questions I have. So many solutions to problems I face.”

“George was a good lad, but his time on this plane of existence was long overdue. Imma afraid yeah can’t rebuild a man off of a dream. We can at least save ourselves. George would’ve wanted that. '' Azog argued.

“No, he wouldn’t have. He’d want me dead, probably. Well, I need to be a better man than him. I did kill him.”

“He was already dead.”

“Undeathed him.” I amended my statement.

“You saw how they were waiting for us at the exit. They’ve got trackers on us. We’re not hiding in this city. They’ll hunt us like we’re rats. There is nothing left for us here.” Rose added.

“But won’t the borders of the city be the first place the Church looks? What if we go inward? The Church can’t own every part of this city. What of the adjudicator and the meeting with the Vorpal Keys?”

“Do you have a Vorpal Key?” Rose said.

“Well, no.”

“Do you know if this adjudicator would want to work with us?”

“I don’t.”

“Then give it a break. Why’re you so insistent on trying to get your hands on that vial? Will you suddenly keel over and die the moment you step away from this task?”

“Possibly.”

Both Azog and Rose looked at me with expressions of disbelief.

“Explain, Arthur.”

“Well, I might’ve had a curse put on me that keeps me from leaving my apprenticeship. I figure it's sort of like a right of passage, I suppose. Most apprenticeships probably do it.”

“That’s not normal, Arthur! Even slaves working for Tyrant’s don’t have curses put on them. They are shackled and imprisoned the old fashioned way.” Rose added.

“I figured you’d listened to my advice about the Dark Arts and sought yourself a fancy magic internship. You’re telling me, that you signed your life away as a slave?”

“No. I wouldn’t phrase it like that. I’ve learned magic, gotten an opportunity to seek revenge on the Church, and I have a chance to save a friend. They probably make you do the same thing at a bakery.”

“Depends on the bakery.” reckoned Azog.

While this might seem unlikely, considering that bakeries dealt in bread Azog couldn’t rule out the possibility. He’d once come across a cake shop that sold demon cakes whose purpose was to eat the cake eater before the cake eater ate it: a thrilling pass time for the Orcs of Ughr who were by law forced to hunt for their meals but also happened to have a bit of a sweet tooth. If a cake shop existed that peddled demon cake, then it was likely there existed a bread shop that dealt in dark magic curses.

“Well, I was only paid for so many days to tour you around the city, Arthur. But I can’t say that I want to see you dead. You’re one of my three regular customers, and I guess I can’t stomach a thirty-three percent drop in revenue from my Inn. I’m comin with yah.”

Rose sighed.

“And I guess that I owe you one for helping me uncover that my parents exist. Just know that after this we’re through. Honestly, these last couple of days have been crazy. I’m not sure if I want to continue living on the run.”

“That means a lot.” I responded, only to be interrupted by a loud buzz. It was as if the universe didn’t want me to have a heartfelt moment.

Buzz. Again, a loud horrible sound reverberated in the small hallway. As my eyes darted around the alley, there on the walls I spotted a Black Crag Beetle. There was a saying in the city of Nosturdam, that if you found a Black Crag Beetle on a stone wall then there must be something special about that wall. Why else would a Black Crag Beetle cling to it?

BUZZ, buzzed the beetle as if it was more than merely annoyed, at the three of us for not understanding it. It scurried to the floor and continued buzzing.

“Should we follow it? It’s heading in the same direction we were going to go.”

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“It may very well lead us to good luck.” Azog agreed.

“We’re following a bug?”

“No, we’re following a Black Crag Beetle. It is the crown prince of bugs and the crown prince of omens. Good or bad.”

“What if the omen is bad?”

“Well, it can’t be any worse than rock bottom. That’s us. We’re at rock bottom.”

Size matters. At least size matters, when you’re discussing the intricacies of leg speed. While one might reasonably assume that having four more legs would be a great advantage in terms of movement, if those same four legs were a quarter of a centimeter tall and attached to a beetle you’d be mistaken. The bug was slow, so we leisurely followed it. At no point were we arrested or yoinked from the crowd. It was as if fate was in our hands. The beetle, at one point, stopped to reconsider its course, before deciding to continue down the alley. I wondered what it had waited for or, more likely, what it waited to avoid.

I had too much time to worry. And to stop worrying I began to think. Thinking about what the bug could possibly be thinking about. It occurred to me that maybe the bug was not what it seemed. And no, I wasn’t talking about the beetle’s rather stupid bluish exterior when the bug was called a Black Crag Beetle.

Back in the cave where the Dark One was imprisoned, George was taken over by Alric who controlled his undead minion remotely. I wondered if the Druid Urna could do something similar. It was possible that we had caught the attention of the Adjudicator and this was their way of leading us to them. Or the bug could just be lucky.

Soon we found ourselves in the courtyard where the same fountain and box-like frame stood. This time, however, no red trail of mana flowed from the box. The three of us stopped as the beetle climbed to the top of the box and finally stopped buzzing.

“This is his.”

“Who?” Azog asked.

“This is where the Adjudicator lives, I assume. That box is where I saw the trail of reality shifting mana, the night we checked into Esmeralda’s. I bet the box feels livelier on the inside.”

“I hate that my life hinges on a man who lives in a box. Are you sure the beetle isn’t confused? No homeless man is going to save us.” Rose reasoned.

“Aye, maybe. The bug is not much of a chatter so who knows what it's thinking. How do you suppose we cram in?” Azog asked.

Azog ran his fingers along the seam of the box, pushed it, pulled it, ducked under it. Nothing had changed for Azog, except now an old woman who ran the stall across from the box scowled at him.

“Maybe they'll bring someone out to greet us.” I reckoned.

“If they were gonna do that, then we wouldn’t be standing around in the cold. That old woman behind the stall to the left doesn’t look too happy about me scaring away customers.”

“Well, she can stare all she wants. It doesn’t change the fact that we’re running out of time. I just wish this stupid bug would say something.” I said as I kicked the box, letting out my frustration. I admitted to myself that kicking the box was a bit cathartic.

“Buzz”, buzzed the Beetle.

“Wait. Do that again.” Rose said.

“What? Complain about how little time we have before we’re mince meat?” I asked.

“No, the kicking part.”

I shrugged and kicked the box.

“Buzz,” buzzed the bug.

I kicked it again.

“Buzzz.”

And again.

“BUZZZZZZ!”

Rose and Azog joined in. Thud. Thud. Thud. The heavy box shook.

“Stop that! Don’t you feel ashamed bullying the old homeless man that lives in that box?! Someone come and stop these bullies before I go get the guards. ” yelled the old woman, who shuffled her way to us. She pointed at us with her spindly fingers, as we continued kicking the box.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to trust us, Maam. We know what we’re doing.”

The onlookers booed. By now, a crowd had already started to form, the locals working their way out of the shop to jeer and shout at the three of us. The optics may not have been great, but what we were doing was for the greater good of the city. The tyranny of the Church must be humbled.

“You know what you’re doing? Oh, how the demons of Ithkar have taken human form, I see. I have never witnessed such evil. If only a hero from the crowd would take a stand against these evildoers,” the old woman spoke.

While the crowd was confident, no one had dared step near the three of us yet. Azog’s size suggested that maybe one of three of us is actually a demon, or, at the very least, capable of acting like one. However, when times are tough, when poor homeless men are being bullied in their boxes, heroes are forged to save the world. Out of the crowd, a small man stood tall. This was his moment.

Fralick, the man who stepped through the crowd, happened to be a turnip farmer. His dirty leather clothes spoke of a hard life toiling just outside the city. His ragged unkempt hair showcased how tired and exhausted he was from the journey. His rather large smile and unwavering enthusiasm suggested this would be the last time he attempted to become a hero.

Not everyone was destined to become a hero, in the same way not everyone was built like a mountain and could easily swing a greatsword. Not everyone could find a lost treasure buried beneath a carrot or a mermaid who hands out swords from a lake.

Fralick charged valiantly, pointing his pitch fork at me. Presumably because I was not a pretty half elf, nor was I Azog sized. With a pivot of his feet, he swung the sharp tool trying to lop off my head. I ducked as the pitch fork swooshed over my head.

I pivoted my leg and kicked at Fralick’s shin. If my foot was good enough to kick a box, it was good enough to kick a hero. The hero did not budge as my foot smashed into his shin. In fact, only my toes hurt. I hopped on one foot, grimacing in pain.

“Aye, what did you do to my customer’s toes?” Azog cracked his knuckles.

“He kicked me!”

“I saw the pitchfork. Doesn’t change the fact that you shouldn’t hurt someone.”

Azog loomed over the poor farmer and snatched the pitch fork out of the young man’s hand. He flung the pitch fork with so much strength that it punctured the stone wall of the shop that the old woman owned.

The poor farmer ran past the crowd and desperately tried to pull the pitchfork from the stone. It wouldn’t bulge. Without the pointy stick, he would be unable to revolt against unjust taxation of his turnips, or defend his field from critters attempting to fix up a rather nice turnip and kale salad. Those vegetables were his and his alone to eat. And, no, he wasn’t going to muddy the natural flavors with a dastardly vinaigrette, or gluttonous dressing.

The crowd took a step back. Even the old woman’s face paled and backed up a few steps. If Azog could throw something that hard, there was no telling what he’d do to anyone trying to stop him. We continued kicking the box.

“Come out and greet us. We’ve got some words you’ll like to hear!” I shouted.

Click! The hinges on the inside of the box were removed. A poor old beggar man came out of the box, his clothes ragged and torn. His muscles were thin and undernourished. His bright red face could only be described as anger.

“What is the meaning of this!” He demanded.