Fate can be a fickle thing. Only moments ago, a merchant caravan had been trundling down the dusty road with a load of textiles intended for the nearby town of Caledon. Now, all that remained of the merchant and his guards were four corpses and an angry red blaze that was greedily consuming what remained of the shattered wagon.

The four evildoers responsible for this catastrophe were gathered around one of the dead guards while they discussed their nefarious deed.

“He looked like he was going for a weapon.” Keysha’s long arms were crossed defensively against her chest while she glared at the thief. A toss of her head threw her long, black ponytail over one slim shoulder before she continued in a huff. “What was I supposed to do? Let him stab you?”

“He had a spear, Keysha.” Dalthan, still covered in gore and grime, pointed to where said spear lay on the ground beside the fallen soldier. Unconcerned with the conversation, Zaplixel was merrily looting the poor fellow's corpse. “A spear. In his hand. What sort of weapon did he need? An even longer spear?” The rogue’s voice made him sound tired as a bear that’d gone three years without hibernating.

“Key, if it makes you feel any better,” Zaplixel said from where he knelt beside the nearest corpse, “I was aiming my fireball at Dalthan. At least you hit what you were shooting at.” With a wordless sound of triumph, the old [Swindler] jerked a bulky ring off the dead guard’s finger. Like a professional jeweler, Zap lifted the ring into the light so he could examine the bauble from every conceivable angle.

“That does make me feel better,” Keysha conceded, her stormy gray eyes brightening as if the sun had just emerged from a dark cloud.

“Why the fuck would you aim at me?!” Dalthan shouted, his long fingers busily combing gobbets of unidentifiable meat from his dark hair.

“We took a vote and decided you were acceptable collateral damage.” The mage said absently as he slid his new ring from finger to finger to find the best fit.

“You voted to kill me?” Dalthan asked his casual tone at odds with the dangerous way his eyes narrowed. The rogue’s hand drifted toward his waist to take hold of the dagger he’d claimed from one of the dead guards. Quiet as a spider’s whisper, the thief took one smooth step to slip behind the wizard.

“We didn’t vote to kill you,” Keysha said, her voice snapping Dal out of his homicidal waltz. His eyes shot up, finding the [Sharpshooter]’s unblinking gaze watching him like a hawk spying on a plump field mouse. “Don’t be so sensitive. We just decided that we wouldn’t miss you if someone accidentally blew you up. Or shot you. By mistake.”

The rogue took note that Keysha had managed to nock an arrow while he was preparing to gut Zaplixel like a fish.

“Shale abstained,” Keysha continued, her eyes twinkling with a deadly challenge even as the two of them watched the old wizard heave himself to his feet. “So at least the rock is on your side.”

Dalthan briefly wondered if he could stab that prick wizard and still dodge Keysha’s arrow. The woman shot him a predatory smile that said she knew exactly what he was thinking and liked her odds. Unfortunately, the rogue had to grudgingly agree with her assessment.

“I’m not sure Shale is on anyone’s side,” Dal said, mournfully watching Zap walk away with all his guts still in their proper place. “Although,” the thief continued, turning away from Keysha to address the animated stones. “How about you give me a hand burying these guards? There’s not enough left of the wagon driver to bury in a cigar box, but I think we’re supposed to put the others in the dirt. And maybe say a prayer?” Dalthan’s normally self-assured voice was growing increasingly uncertain. Low Town funeral rites usually involved rolling someone off of the pier after you arranged an alibi. “That’s what a good guy would do, right?”

The thief’s face was scrunched like a four-year-old counting change at the market. He turned toward Keysha, hesitantly asking, “...Right?”

Though the [Sharpshooter] only shrugged, Shale answered his question by reaching down to take hold of the nearby corpse’s ankle.

“Alright!” Dalthan clapped his hands in anticipation of finally doing a good deed. “Let’s just bring him to the side of the road.”

Apparently, rocks had some very unorthodox ideas about burial. Dalthan was still explaining his plan to scam the system for some good karma when the elemental suddenly spun like a potter’s wheel. Like a spoiled child abusing a ragdoll, the violent force lifted the corpse from the ground. Then, before the thief could do more than shout in alarm, Shale released his hold on the dead guard’s leg.

Dalthan could only watch in slack-jawed amazement as the corpse soared through the air on a one-way trip to its final resting place.

Keysha immediately began cackling like a ticklish hyena.

But not everyone who witnessed the flying body was similarly amused.

“Oi! Why the fuck are you throwing dead humans at my crew!”

The guttural shout reminded Dalthan of the mangy Dobermann ol’Sloefoot had adopted one summer. The half-feral beast had growled at everyone and everything with a deep, baritone rumble that you could feel in your bones. The old man and his mutt had terrorized Low Town for months until the vicious mongrel had bitten someone more important than the common street rats that called the Dockyards home. Some senator’s daughter had been slumming it and Catnip had given her a scar to commemorate the evening.

Two days later a group of Wavecrest’s finest cornered the crippled old man and his dog. Sloefoot managed to survive the encounter. Catnip did not.

“You assholes deaf? Don’t everybody talk at once.”

When the speaker stepped out onto the dusty road, Dalthan’s entire body tensed in anticipation of approaching violence. The new arrival was at least seven feet tall with shoulders wide enough to put Wavecrest’s dockworkers to shame. His skin was a shade of deep green to match a kudzu vine climbing up a garden trellis. Purple tattoos with designs Dal had never seen before were scrawled across his bare chest and down the lengths of his arms. As if he needed weapons to be dangerous, a pair of bearded axes hung from the waist of his leather breeches. Every inch of his body was etched in rippling muscle that slithered beneath his green skin in a hypnotic display of potential power.

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To make matters worse, the loud-mouthed, square-jawed orc wasn’t alone. At his heels, a small army emerged from the forest. Armed with axes, swords, and in one case, a femur, the orc squad looked like they were ready for war.

Dalthan counted more than a dozen before he stopped assessing the newcomers and started looking for an escape route.

“Easy,” Keysha murmured as she stepped over to his side. “You should always try Identify first. Identify only works on people with character sheets and the only people with character sheets belong to The Hub.”

As soon as Dal focused, he saw the title floating over the [Orc Warlord]’s head. Unlike his companions, the thief didn’t find that knowledge particularly comforting. Shale was his normal implacable self and Zaplixel was shuffling his way back to the group with a newly acquired necklace dangling from his closed fist. Neither seemed appropriately alarmed by the army of monsters taking up position along the roadside.

“Does that mean we’re safe?” Dalthan pitched his voice low to avoid tipping off the advancing warrior.

Embarrassingly, he didn’t lower his voice quite enough.

“Hell no, you’re not safe.” The orc flashed him a toothy smile that only a mother could love. Or maybe a shark. “My name is Marq and you are the dirtiest damn rogue that I’ve ever laid eyes on. I thought you were a zombie when I first saw you. Why are you covered in blood?”

“It’s a sex thing,” Zaplixel said. The aging wizard’s tone held the solemn notes of a doctor announcing a terminal illness, but his pale blue eyes danced with malicious glee.

Marq gave the flabbergasted rogue a long, assessing look before his head dipped in a curt nod. “He has that look about him.”

“Why do you joke about sex, old man?” Dalthan erupted, turning away from the intimidating orc to cast a withering gaze toward the smirking wizard. “You wouldn’t know where to bury your cock if I drew you a map!”

The old mage puckered his lips as if he’d just bit into a lemon.

“You all remind me of my first company,” the orc [Warlord] broke in before the fight between party members could escalate. A fond, distant smile tugged at the warrior’s lips. Or, at least, Dalthan thought it was a smile. All the teeth made it difficult to tell. “I had to kill’em all, of course, but we did have some fun in our day. Hell, I've still got Nolik’s skull to keep me company.” The orc lovingly caressed a sun-bleached skull dangling from his belt. Dal had assumed was some kind of war trophy, not a memento of an old friend.

“The eye sockets come in real handy when the chores are long and the nights are lonely,” Marq said, tossing Dalthan a conspiratorial wink.

Staggered by the not-so-subtle implication, Dalthan found himself at a loss for words. Unbidden, the thief’s green eyes were drawn to the skull as he struggled to keep his expression noncommittal. Thankfully, Keysha was there to steer the conversation away from the increasingly awkward topic.

“So,” the tall woman said, after pointedly clearing her throat. “How did you all end up in this area?”

Marq’s broad shoulders lifted in a lazy shrug that would have looked casual if it hadn’t been accompanied by a veritable avalanche of shifting muscle. “Our chore was to raid the surrounding countryside. We’ve been traveling around for weeks, and we still haven’t done enough pillaging to earn a milestone. I decided to send my scouts out a bit further today and one of them saw that caravan.” The [Warlord] waved one clawed hand in the direction of the burning wagon. “We figured we’d intercept them right around here, but when we saw the smoke, we knew we were too late. We’d already come too far to turn around, so instead, I decided to see if whatever got the caravan could be got by us.”

The orc’s voice slipped into a low, dangerous rumble that sounded like the first tremors of an earthquake. “Which begs the question, did you all get anything that’d be worth the time you cost me?”

The moment hung in the air like a guillotine’s blade. For the first time since the orcs’ arrival, Dalthan could feel Keysha and Zaplixel tense. Anticipation suddenly left his lips parched as his fingers twitched toward the dagger tucked into his belt.

One heartbeat turned to two and then Marq abruptly threw his head back with a roar of laughter that was echoed by the warriors behind him. “I’m just fucking with you,” the leader said around a chuffing laugh that sounded like a bulldog mid-coitus. “The look on your faces. Relax. We don’t always have to stab each other. It’s just usually more fun when we do.”

The orc leader companionably clapped Dalthan on the shoulder only to immediately withdraw his heavy paw when he felt the sticky blood clinging to his palm. After a moment to regard the rust-colored goop on his hand, Marq casually reached over to wipe the bloody slime onto the sleeve of Zaplixel’s robe. Much to the wizard’s dismay.

“You need a fucking bath, boy.” All levity had drained from the [Warlord]’s face as he regarded the rogue with a look of disgust. “There’s a stream a couple hundred yards past the tree line.” Marq pointed with all the authority of a parent banishing a child to their room. “Go on. We’re not going to eat your friends while you’re gone.”

The thief had already taken two steps in the indicated direction when a thought occurred to him. He immediately spun back toward the orc so fast that the warrior dropped his hands to the axes at his waist. Realizing his mistake, Dalthan quickly lifted his open palms in a sign of non-aggression. “We, uh, need to sell some beans. You want to buy them?” He couldn’t keep the hopeful lilt from his voice.

Before Marq could reply, Keysha broke in with a shake of her head. “Doesn’t work that way. Members of The Hub can’t fulfill each other’s quests. The point is to spread evil and strife. We can’t spread evil where it already exists.”

The hope in Dalthan’s chest flickered and died like a cheap candle with a wet wick. "Damn it," summed up Dalthan's thoughts nicely as he struck off toward the edge of the road. The orcs seemed to have no interest in slowing the rogue down, the crowd eagerly parting to give the gore-covered human a wide berth.

Dalthan almost turned back twice during his solo trip through the forest, convinced that he’d become the target of some prank. Before he could be tempted to abandon his quest for a third time, his sharp ears caught the unmistakable sound of flowing water. In the blink of an eye, his arduous advance through the thick vegetation became a race against his shadow as he wove his way between the trees.

The rogue never slowed when he reached the banks of a shallow stream. Boots and all, the thief plunged into the waist-high water. What followed was a flurry of dunking himself beneath the surface of the gently flowing stream and scrubbing furiously at the patches of dried gore clinging to his skin.

After several minutes of repeating this hectic cycle, Dalthan finally felt clean enough to address his clothing. He stripped his shirt off and went in search of a stone that he could use to agitate the bits of filth away from the fabric. An orphan learned quite a lot about taking care of their clothes when they depended on a shirt to last them for years.

He was startled away from his rock hunt when a commotion on the opposite riverbank drew his attention. Carefully pushing his way through the last of the dense undergrowth, a young child, no more than ten, approached the babbling brook. Dal froze, but the child quickly spotted him.

“Hello, young man,” Dalthan called out with a smile like a wizened grandmother offering fresh-baked cookies. “Who might you be?”

The blond child looked straight at Dalthan and then shoved their index finger up their nose. While the thief struggled to maintain his sunny smile, the young boy rooted around in his offending nostril until Dal feared he'd end up tickling his brain. When the kid pulled his finger back, he dropped his brown eyes to regard his fingertip.

“I’m Jack,” the kid said before his lips closed around his finger. Horrified, Dalthan’s smile faltered and then vanished entirely as the air filled with the sound of the kid sucking at the tip of his finger. After what seemed like an eternity, the child finally pulled his lips free.

“Who are you, mister?”