Erevan heads to Yokind-burg alone. His body fully regenerated beside his old scars. He goes to Valhalla where he spots Krenshaw. The hunter slides into a seat across from him as the mage is drinking ale.

“I need work,” Erevan says.

“Good, I missed you on my last job. Nothing like a ballista to tell someone to fuck off.” Krenshaw says with a smile.

Krenshaw raises his hand to the bartender. The man nods and walks into the backroom. The barkeep eventually returns. Seconds later the half-orc leaves the back room and walks out to the two.

“I went ahead and reached out to my contacts. There isn’t much work right now, but the guild does owe one group a favor.” The half-orc leans on the edge of the table.

“Where’s the job?” Krenshaw asks.

“Myandra, so no devil summoning.” The half-orc says to the balding mage.

“Shit. I can’t go into a firefight without my backup.” Krenshaw waves a hand, obviously agitated.

“Shouldn’t be a fight. You are investigating reports for a senior living ward in the city of Lightfort.” The half-orc says.

“Reports of what?” Erevan asks.

“Furniture moving in the night. The place isn’t haunted so we suspect a thief, possibly fey, going undetected.” The half-orc explains. “I can tell them you’ll be there in an hour and let another handler get some locals together to help you.”

“Sounds dandy.” Krenshaw sits up out of his seat.

“Just don’t scare any of the elders. They are mostly ex-adventurers with serious hang-ups.” The half-orc says almost begging. “Just check with the local carpenter. His warehouse is hard to miss in their ward. Oh and Burkwood, you've been promoted to a bronze tier adventurer."

Erevan nods to the half-orc and follows Krenshaw out of the tavern. They head to the waystone and teleport to Lightfort. The city has cobbled streets made with a light-colored stone, the houses are wooden with sections of white plaster and have windows, while lamps dot the street.

“It’s dark here.” Erevan comments.

“Different time zone,” Krenshaw replies.

“A what?” Erevan asks.

“Nevermind,” Krenshaw mutters.

The two head through the town to the ward they were told of. Almost immediately they start noticing older citizens here, handrails, and ramps into buildings. They find the warehouse in question and see lights on inside the house attached to the front of the building. Krenshaw goes and knock on the door to the house.

Waiting for a few minutes, Erevan begins to tap his foot, and Krenshaw starts pacing.

“What is taking them so long? They have to know we are out here.” Krenshaw knocks again.

“‘They might be busy or in the back,” Erevan says.

“Fine, I’m going in,” Krenshaw says and twists the doorknob.

He pushes the door open and the barrel of a blunderbuss pokes out the front door. The blunderbuss raises in old feeble hands and presses into Krenshaw’s chest as the mage raises his hands in surrender. Erevan looks up the stock of the weapon and sees a cartridge loaded into it. He looks down at the alchemical cartridges his dad made for him and taught him how to reshell. They’re identical.

Erevan steps forward and puts a hand on the barrel of the weapon looking in at the wielder of it. It’s an old woman. Wrinkles and liver spots cover her. Her hands shake slightly.

“You think I won’t kill you for trespassing?” She barks the words.

“Where did you get this weapon?” Erevan asks.

“Well, Oakley showed me this design. He showed only a handful of people.” The old woman says. “Why?”

Erevan takes the blunderbuss off his back and hands it to her.

“It doesn’t look as refined as his weapons, but I recognize the cartridges. Where did you get this weapon?” The woman looks up at Erevan.

“My father made this weapon for me. Troeles Burkwood.” Erevan replies.

“So that’s why Burkwood disappeared. He went and had a family.” The old woman smiles, reaches up, and puts a hand on the side of Erevan’s helmet. “I’m sure he’d be proud of you helping his old friends out.”

The woman turns and walks back into her home. She sets her blunderbuss on a rack near the door. Erevan follows her in ducking so his ballista doesn’t slam into the doorway. Krenshaw follows close behind.

“The others are already here.” She says.

The three of them enter a parlor that has a few padded chairs around a table. The table has several teacups and a kettle on it. There are three others in the room.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

“Noah Windtome. We’ve met.” The blonde elf says. “Friends, this is Burkwood and Krenshaw.”

“I’m Nortom.” A small woman waves to Erevan.

Nortom is shorter than the hunter, which is impressive considering how average height Erevan is. They wear leather boots, black pants, a belt with several pouches, a light blue coat with a hood, but their hair is a pinkish-orange. At their side is a hand cannon. Something you might see in Myandra’s royal navy. Except this one is crudely attached to what appears to be a rifle stock.

“And I’m a guy,” Notom adds.

“Huh.” Krenshaw puts one hand on his hip. Apparently just as surprised as Erevan.

“Professor Valerie Ingram.” Another woman introduces herself.

Erevan is certain this one is a woman. She has on black sandals. And loose and flowing black pants with a gold-trimmed belt. She wears a tight black chest binder putting her eight pack of muscles on full display. And she has long white hair put up in a ponytail. Her olive-tanned skin and her bright green eyes are intimidating.

“Well now that the pleasantries are over should we go check out this warehouse,” Krenshaw says.

“Nonsense. Have some tea!” The old woman yells.

Erevan and Krenshaw quickly take their seats. Krenshaw downs his tea while Erevan thoroughly enjoys his. The group makes idle chatter for a few minutes. Letting the old lady ramble on about bingo and how she almost won.

Eventually, the old woman shows the group outback and unlock the warehouse for them. Erevan thanks her for her hospitality as she leaves the group to do their work.

Erevan sets up his ballista behind the group as the others get ready to move into the warehouse. Nortom holds a hand up for them all to be quiet. He grips his hand closed telling everyone to stay put. With his other hand, he slips a black cast iron helmet on. He stays pressed against the warehouse door for a few minutes.

Nortom perks up, as if hearing something, and pushes one of the doors open. The warehouse is full of scattered furniture. Four dining tables each with four chairs; to be exact. One table squeaks as one of its legs straightens.

“Mimics!” Krenshaw yells.

Nortom runs in, slides down onto a knee, and from his cannon fires a volley of three explosive charges. He blasts apart two dining chairs. The chairs then turn towards the party, morphing apart into half-chair monsters. Tar oozes out between the wooden planks, and the legs of the chairs grow clawed paws.

Noah charges in, and with a flick of his hand throws out an orb of energy. It bursts, sucking all air towards it like a vacuum, pulling a few dining tables, and then bursts outwards throwing the tables. Valerie runs in, energy glowing on her fist, as she strikes at a table, throws it five feet, follows it, and slams a knee into it before bringing an elbow down on it. The table creaks and screams as if an object and a living creature. Krenshaw steps forward into the entryway, opening the second door, and projects a ball of energy across the room. Suddenly it detonates, the explosion consuming three chairs.

“Why did they even bring me?” Erevan mutters as he steps away from his ballista, pulling his blunderbuss out.

He charges into the fray, seeing a clear shot at the table, and aims a hand at it. His ballista fires at the table. Right before Valerie tosses it across the room and the shot goes wide. Valerie stomps on the table as it breaks apart and the mimics tar-like blood spills out across the floor.

Erevan aims his gun at three dining chairs charging him from the side. He fires, blasting grapeshot through the lot of them. And immediately the three explode into a ball of fire and then explode a second time sending splinters and tar everywhere. Krenshaw lowers his hands after expending a tiny amount of energy to do that.

“Fuck me,” Erevan mutters as he turns to the other side of the room.

Nortom blasts two chairs apart in one volley, Noah destroys two tables, and the last table charges Valerie. Erevan runs up to help, shooting at the table. His shot doesn’t put it down. But soon the whole party surrounds it and blasts it to pieces.

Erevan sighs and looks down at the ground. At his feet is a bag that looks like some nails had spilled out of it. He leans over, grabs it, holds it up, and opens it. A flurry of nails, axes and other tools fly out. The hunter tosses the bag away as he rolls. Dodging all the projectiles.

The group moves towards the bag carefully. Two chair legs reach out of the bag, as the bag slumps open, and a chair rises out of an extradimensional space inside. The chair is old, black, with a leathery aesthetic. Imprinted in the back of the chair is a face, moaning with pain, showing rows of razor-sharp teeth.

“Sit on me.” The chair moans.

Black leathery tendrils whip out towards Valerie. Valerie jumps backward as Noah blasts the chair away from the group with wind. Nortom shoots it three times. And Krenshaw steps forward drawing a black grimoire from a holster on his side.

“With forsaken knowledge, burn!” Black energy leaps from Krenshaw's book as he tosses a magical orb at the chair. It explodes sending black goo all across the room.

“What was that?” Nortom says between shocked breaths.

“Another mimic?” Valerie questions.

“It came out of this.” Erevan grabs the bag, flips it upside down, and a torrent of black ooze leaks out.

“It’s a bag of holding that makes mimics out of whatever is inside,” Krenshaw says, his eyes glowing as he casts detect magic.

“Then we should burn it.” Nortom snatches the bag from Erevan’s hands and marches back out of the warehouse.

“Wait, we should study it.” Krenshaw follows.

“My patron would know what to do with it,” Noah adds.

“It could be repurposed for the greater good of all society. We just need to study it somewhere safe. Then we could still dismantle it.” Erevan looks between Krenshaw and Noah who give him disapproving looks.

“We’re burning it. It’s evil.” Nortom drops the bag on the ground outside. He then starts to pour black powder on it.

“We should burn it.” Valerie nods.

“Burn it and you burn with it,” Krenshaw says in a low growl.

“I will punch you.” Valerie threatens Krenshaw by getting in his face.

“This is a magic item capable of animating objects permanently on its own! Think of the research!" Noah shouts over the arguing.

"I do not care. The world is not ready for this." Nortom puts a hand on his gun ready to turn it on the others.

"We could use this to discover the origins of mimics. In the right hands, it could save thousands of lives from mimic attacks.” Noah argues.

"And what guarantee you have that this will not be misused?" Nortom stands their ground.

“Well, I work for a bronze dragon.” Noah quickly answers.

“I don’t think this is going to end well if it comes to a fight.” Erevan stands at the side of the two parties. His ballista magically moves and trains at Nortom, he also raises his blunderbuss to aim at Krenshaw.

"Whatever." Nortom grits his teeth. "The Seers will know this."

"Let them know. Some members already are aware of my patron’s existence. I'm sure it would be nice to arrange a meeting between them." Noah says calmly.

Nortom leaves, Valerie close behind. Krenshaw and Noah take the bag and leave in a different direction. Erevan lowers his weapon and lets out a long exasperated sigh.