The fire had long died, leaving only smoke and the sound of morning birds. The storm of Sir’s words still turned in Alistair’s head as the first light touched the camp.

  Morning came, and Alistair was already awake, pondering the day to come. Sir slept upright, leaned against a tree. Alistair looked him over. He was tall, yet not towering. He was bigger than Alistair but not the size of a legendary warrior. His armor was frail, easily vulnerable to a fine-tuned blade.

  He could not wait any longer. The danger ahead loomed in his mind, and he woke Sir, careful to keep Basic asleep. “Sir…” The new comrade opened his eyes as if he had never found a deep slumber.

  “I seek an audience with you. Excuse me, I know it’s early… We’ll need to discuss our plan and it’s best we do this without my friend here… he tends to get in the way.“

  Sir rose. “Do you dream of being worried?” the hopeful knight said as he stood. “If it will put your heart at rest, then let us speak.“

  Alistair adjusted his collar as he prepared to speak. “This place—we need to be in and out. No trouble. Find this Bill character, you cut him down, and we part ways all the better. My friend here is drawn to spectacle; he cannot help himself. We cannot allow his curiosity to blossom.“

  Sir was perplexed. “You wear the face of a widow. Why would you travel with such a nuisance?“

  Alistair picked his words carefully. “That boy…” Basic slept with a smirk on his face. “…believe it or not, is the key to our realm prospering.“

  Sir looked at Basic, a beacon of mediocrity. “Is he royalty?“

  Alistair shot back, “He’s whatever you need him to be.“

  Sir pondered for a second. “Why not take him from you then? Why shouldn’t I ride to Kingdomshire myself and claim whatever fortune comes my way?“

  Alistair wore a rare smile. “There will be no fortune that comes, I assure you. Besides, what honor would you serve your family if you abandoned your quest?“

  Sir wasn’t affected by Alistair’s manipulation. “Your friend is naive, yet he is honest. I encourage you to be the same. You lie to me as if you expect me to believe such nonsense. Which reminds me: if I accompany you to Rogue and there is no gold waiting for me, I will take this boy from you and remove your worry… Saving a poor boy from capture would be worth more than your gold.“

  Alistair now pondered the possibility that Bill had lied about his location or that the gold was already spent. The likelihood of finding the gold was far slimmer than he liked. “I accept,” he said, backed into a corner. The gold was now the only way to get away from this ‘knight’ with Basic in tow.

  “As for now,” Alistair added, “what chance of escape would we have from killing a man and stealing his belongings in public?“

  Sir smirked. “You fear the consequences in a lawless land? There will be bodies laid with wounds from unknown blades.“

  Alistair was unexpectedly relieved, one worry cast aside.

  “The toughest part,” Sir said, “will be entering the town itself. There is a gatekeeper who watches all who enter. It’s best that you two lie about your identities. When he asks your reasons for entrance, you shall say it’s to commit crime. The more heinous, the better, considering the look of you two.“

  Basic stirred and declared, “I’ll say I’m there to steal from Mr. Pots.” The two looked at him, wondering how much he had heard.

  “There’s always a Mr. Pots in these sorts of towns. It’ll be believable,” Basic continued. “Ooo, what about this—I'll announce myself as the gate killer, who kills anyone who closes a gate on me!” He growled like a tiger. “They’ll have to let me in.“

  Alistair was just glad Basic attempted to play along. “Good idea, but maybe just stick to being a thief.“

  “Since I’m gowned in armor and riding a noble steed,” Sir said—Steed in the background looking perpetually sleepy and mangy—“I’ll need to go last in the order at the gate. That way you two won’t draw unwanted attention. Once we’re all inside, I’ll go to the pub and we’ll find trace of this Bill. Surely he’s known in these parts. The good news is he would never suspect retribution from the two of you.“

  Basic, enthused at the adventure, began to sing a song about regaining their gold, Rogue, and the rust knight who now accompanied them. He marched ahead on the road to Rogue by himself, swinging his arms with pride, while Sir and Alistair exchanged glances—worry on Alistair’s face, a pleasant smile on Sir’s.

  “Seems like good company to me,” said Sir, closing his helmet and following Basic’s lead—leaving Alistair to reflect on his party’s new dynamics and the ignorance of Sir’s knowledge of Basic.

  With that, the trio marched to the outskirts of Rogue. It was a fairly large town, the gate a gigantic blocking point. The place had the smell of dirt and smoke; everything seemed tainted and unkept. Whatever love the town once had as Loften now felt like the skeleton of a long-dead creature.

  The gates of Rogue loomed ahead, towering eighteen feet tall, their wooden beams reinforced with iron and stained by time. They rose like a monolith, separating the serene countryside from the chaos within.

  Alistair stepped forward first, posture straight and confident, as if rehearsing for an audience. A wooden slab in the right-hand gate scraped open, revealing a pair of bloodshot eyes glaring from the shadowed slit.

  “Who goes there?” rasped a voice as rough as sandpaper.

  “I am Sinclair, of the Burdened,” Alistair declared, his tone steady and deliberate. “I seek passage to steal.“

  Basic, standing just behind him, froze. His eyes widened in disbelief. “I thought I was the thief,” he whispered to himself. “We can’t both be thieves. What are the chances of that?“

  The bloodshot eyes narrowed before the gatekeeper let out a shrill, manic laugh. “Your good intentions have been rewarded!” he howled as the left gate creaked open, its heavy hinges groaning.

  Alistair strode through, casting a smug glance back at Basic before disappearing into the shadow of the gates. The moment he crossed, the door slammed shut with a deafening thud that sent a jolt up Basic’s spine.

  “And you?” The gatekeeper’s voice cut through the silence, eyes fixed on Basic. “Who are you? State your business.“

  Basic hesitated, his throat dry. “Me? Oh—uh, yes, of course. My name is… Alistair.“

  The gatekeeper blinked. “Alistair?” he hissed. “It reeks of nobility.“

  Basic nodded quickly. “Yes, very rich, very noble.“

  The gatekeeper chuckled low, the sound scraping like broken glass. “Expect no welcoming party here…“

  Basic froze, the question hanging in the air. He could feel the weight of the gatekeeper’s stare pressing into him. Inside the walls, Alistair turned toward the gate, uneasy.

  “Well, Alistair,” the gatekeeper hissed, “State your business!“

  Basic stumbled, words caught in his throat. “I… I’m here to…“

  “Speak!” The gatekeeper's voice sharpened like a blade.

  Basic jolted at the sound. “I’m here for Ne—nevo—nemo…“

  Basic frowned, trying again.

  “Necro… philia?“

  Silence fell like a curtain.

  Even the gatekeeper froze.

  “You sick bastard…“

  Basic felt alone, a cool wind tickling his scalp.

  Then, with agonizing slowness, the left gate creaked open again. The gatekeeper’s laughter returned, louder, more unhinged, echoing through the countryside.

  “Welcome aboard!” he shrieked, wheezing with mirth.

  Relieved, Basic slipped through the gate, his steps careful and ginger. Alistair waited inside, his expression a storm of fury and disbelief.

  “Necrophilia, Basic? And why would you reveal my true name?” he hissed.

  Basic, still shaking, waved him off. “You tell me to be a thief only for you to steal it yourself.“

  “How do I steal a concept!?” Alistair snapped. “You could’ve said it too! But what of my name, you toad?“

  Basic straightened defensively. “Get over yourself—Sinclair. Am I not allowed to lie about my name?“

  Alistair didn’t dignify that with a response. He grabbed Basic by the sleeve and dragged him around a corner away from sight.

  Their attempts to eavesdrop on Sir’s exchange were thwarted by the thick wood, which muffled the knight’s voice to low echoes. Still, they caught word of the Gatekeeper—questions about Sir’s name, a skeptical “You’re a knight?” from the gatekeeper, followed by a puzzled, “Sir? Sir who of where?” and finally, “Well, who would name you that?“

  Alistair was speechless. Terror crawled up his spine as realization dawned.

  “Is everything going to plan?” asked Basic.

  “We’re dead! Oh no, we’re going to die… This noble fool has led us into a trap,” Alistair said, his voice trembling.

  “What?” Basic blinked, confused.

  The muffled mention of Serpentine cut through the air like a knife, silencing the tension. The gatekeeper’s tone shifted from curiosity to disgust.

  “Be gone! We seek no such justice here!” he hissed.

  The gate stayed shut.

  Alistair’s breath quickened. He stumbled backward into the heart of the bustling town. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees.

  The world around him blurred.

  A man lay bleeding, unattended, beside a market stall. Painted faces lurked through the crowds. Dead animals hung from hooks, flies circling like tiny vultures. The stench of rot and smoke burned his nose.

  His chest tightened.

  Then, a hand pulled him upright.

  “It’s not so bad,” Basic said cheerfully. “I’m certain Sir will find another way in. Knights always keep their word.“

  Alistair, still gasping for air, barely managed to speak. “He’s not… a knight… you fool.“

  Behind them, the gatekeeper leaned lazily against the frame, his hood barely containing his greasy hair. He wore a battered white shirt beneath his cloak and shin-high pants that made him look like a misfit bandit. With a sly grin, he motioned to a shadowy figure skulking nearby.

  “Follow those two,” he whispered conspiratorially. “This should be fun.“

  “We’re going to die!” croaked Alistair, “We must leave at once.“

  Basic scratched his head, “But we only just got here.“

  Alistair motioned back to the gate, where he locked eyes with the gatekeeper. The man was smirking with a menacing grin. Alistair froze in his tracks. Their eyes stayed locked; Alistair gasped and stepped backward, trembling.

  Basic grabbed him by the shirt and straightened his posture. “Come, Alistair, you’re embarrassing me.“

  The two began walking through the heart of Rogue’s market. Alistair shook, barely keeping it together, while Basic strolled as if on vacation in some foreign paradise.

  Two men lurked at the end of a market stall. They were so gritty they seemed to absorb any positive energy around them like a whirlpool. As the duo passed, the strangers licked their lips.

  “Fresh meat!” one of them announced, while the other snickered.

  Basic chimed in cheerfully, “Ooo, hear that Alistair? We’ll need to come back for that.“

  Alistair shoved Basic past the men, recognizing the danger.

  “Basic,” he said carefully, “I forbid you to interact with anyone. I need to think of a way out of this place.“

  The market district looked at them as if they were chickens in a dog pen. They stood out—Alistair with his noble posture, Basic with his childlike lollygagging stride.

  Alistair rubbed his head and beard, giving himself a more unkempt look. He stooped his posture and leaned slightly to the right. Then he nudged Basic. “Look more menacing.“

  Basic pondered for a moment, then hunched over, almost walking on all fours. He closed one eye, left the other wide open, and began drooling, strings of spit dangling from his bottom lip. His throat made guttural, congested noises like a dying animal.

  Alistair knew he looked ridiculous but had no choice but to go along. The two walked through the marketplace in their deranged form, drawing even more stares than before.

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

  “Psst.“

  The sound came from around a corner. A reasonably groomed man with light in his eyes motioned for them to join him in the alley.

  Alistair, seeing a chance for salvation, pulled Basic along. “Come.” He spoke desperately.

  Basic echoed the plea with a disgusting groan from deep in his throat, still trying to act menacing.

  “You two don’t belong here,” said the man.

  “Help us, please—We were tricked into coming here,” said Alistair.

  The man’s expression fell. His voice was solemn. “I’m afraid I can’t.“

  “What?” Alistair blurted before lowering his voice. “Why not?“

  “I haven’t seen the other side of these walls in two years…” the man said. “Ever since it was overrun by bandits, the gates have stayed closed to anyone without the dark mark.“

  Alistair’s eyes bulged. “Two years!?” he whispered.

  “There are many like me,” the man continued. “Men, women, and children, forced to scavenge among the filth that rules here.“

  Alistair collapsed against the wall, despair washing over him. He felt their journey had ended.

  Basic leaned over Alistair, regaining his usual demeanor.

  “This is good news—two years should be plenty of time to get our gold back.“

  Basic rose and faced the man. “Point us to the nearest pub.“

  The man frowned. “I’m afraid you’ll find no peace there either. It’s where the most foul and wretched dwell.“

  Basic puffed out his chest. “It’s not peace we’re after.“

  The man looked over Basic’s meager form. His shock turned into reluctant admiration.

  “You mean you’ve come for trouble?” He scoffed.

  Basic grabbed him by the collar. “Tell us where the pub is.“

  Baffled, the man said, “Two streets over.” Pointing east.

  Basic released the man, who collected himself.

  ” Take it from me… Whoever you’re after, consider it a loss. Be thankful they didn’t wear the dark mark—otherwise you wouldn’t be alive… Though, I can see that you still have hope of returning to your former lives—with that, your best chance is to request a sellsword to help you.“

  Alistair perked up at the idea, already calculating possibilities.

  “Of course,” the man added, “It will cost all your valuables. Yet you may then escape with your lives.“

  Feeling insulted, Basic replied, “We’ll take our chances. I’d rather exist on a spike than in a prison.“

  The man bowed sincerely. “We can choose the life we live—why not choose how we die? Good luck, friends… but before you go, stick to the shadows. Only the wretched show their faces here.“

  He motioned toward the alleyways, guiding them on their way.

  Alistair looked down the alleyway system the man had described. “Yes—we must avoid the public at all costs.“

  The man gave a final warning. “Beware of the shadow that looms over this place. I will pray for your safe passage.“

  Alistair nodded. He felt a flicker of confidence return. He needed to stay clear-headed if they were going to escape this predicament. They had a plan—not a foolproof one—but one that might just work.

  “Okay, Basic,” Alistair said, glancing behind him. “We’ll cross here through the alley, and then we should be able to sneak into the pub from the back…“

  He turned to finish his thought, but Basic was nowhere to be found.

  “Basic?” Alistair’s voice echoed hollowly through the narrow alley.

  Silence.

  He was gone.

  Panic surged through Alistair as he darted out of the alley and into Rogue’s chaotic streets. Misfits and vagabonds swarmed the market. His path was blocked by a bizarre assortment of characters—a clown with a sinister grin, a strongman flexing his muscles menacingly, and a pair of fat, bearded twins who mirrored each other’s malicious smirks.

  The realization struck like lightning: Basic’s idiotic curiosity had probably landed him in trouble.

  The twins reached out for Alistair who bolted through the maze of stalls and shouting vendors.

  “The pub!” he gasped. “God help me.“

  He turned corner after corner until he spotted a battered wooden sign swinging in the wind: The Midway, Rogue’s infamous watering hole of debauchery.

  And there—just in time—he witnessed Basic being ejected headfirst through its front doors.

  He flew like an arrow from a bow.

  “No!” Alistair shouted in horror, shoving through the crowd to reach him. He expected the worst, his heart pounding—only to find Basic dusting himself off with a grin, completely unfazed by the ordeal.

  Without hesitation, Basic turned and marched right back into the pub.

  Alistair froze, baffled and exhausted, then followed after him.

  Inside the pub, the air hung thick with sweat, smoke, and the clatter of mugs. The rafters groaned above as laughter and curses mingled like an old argument.

  Alistair slipped through the crowd, his coat brushing against damp shoulders and sticky tables. He scanned the room with the precision of a hawk until his gaze caught the faint glimmer of a bald head weaving through the sea of bodies.

  Basic grinned ear to ear as he spotted Alistair and began waving enthusiastically, unaware that his exaggerated gestures drew more attention than a bar fight.

  “Alistair!” he shouted, his voice slicing through the din like a knife through pudding.

  Alistair winced. “Quiet, you fool—“

  Before he could finish, a heavy shadow fell over him. The laughter around them dimmed, conversations slowing as if the tavern itself knew trouble had arrived.

  The figure that loomed above Alistair was a monstrous wall of scarred muscle and missing teeth. The man’s head brushed the low-hanging beams. His leather vest was torn in places, revealing skin that looked stitched together by old battles. A jagged frown spread across his face like a crack in stone.

  “You mock my friend?” the giant asked, his tone low but rumbling enough to rattle nearby mugs.

  Alistair turned slowly, his neck twitching at the sight of the giant. “Your friend?” he repeated mindlessly.

  The giant’s frown widened, revealing the absence of several teeth. “Aye. The bald one.“

  Before Alistair could react, Basic popped up from behind the giant’s arm with a gleeful smile, holding two mugs of ale that sloshed onto his sleeves.

  “Alistair, meet Skippy!” he announced proudly. “Fine fellow! He bet me that I couldn’t survive his javelin throw.“

  He pointed to his head with tiny shards of wood still wedged inside.

  “I sure showed him.“

  Skippy's approval of Basic was evident, commending him for his resilience and proclaiming him to have the hardest head in the kingdom. The barbarians around them raised their glasses in a toast to Basic's newfound camaraderie.

  Alistair stood rigid, forcing his breath steady. Bit by bit, his composure crept back

  As drinks flowed, Basic regaled the crowd with embellished tales of Elabor's conquests, drawing laughter and skepticism in equal measure.

  The crowd, fueled by drink and the intrigue of Basic's storytelling, leaned closer. Skippy, with a tankard of ale in hand, chuckled deeply before interjecting, “A fireless dragon, he says? Sounds to me like he stumbled upon an angry gecko!“

  “That’s what I said!” said Basic. All his delusions finally come to fruition.

  Laughter erupted around the room, the rough and tumble patrons slapping their knees and spilling their drinks in merriment. Not to be deterred, Basic continued, “And then there was the time he bravely defeated a magic-less witch who had been terrorizing the villagers.“

  This time, it was one of Skippy's comrades, a man with a face as weathered as the Rogue landscape itself, who added, “A witch wit’ no magic? More like a bird he couldn’t fancy!“

  Again, the pub roared with laughter, the absurdity of Basic's tales becoming a source of entertainment rather than awe.

  Skippy, not to be outdone, leaned forward with that “my turn” glint in his eye.

  “There we were—riding from Brumridge to Crocker—through the Andals and past the Sunlit Peak. We came upon a crossing, guarded by soldiers. Barely men, they were, but bold enough to wear the royal crest on their chestlet.“

  Skippy spat, prompting his boys to follow suit. Basic and Alistair flinched, narrowly dodging the sudden barrage of saliva.

  “They demanded a toll for crossing.”

  The boys groaned in mock exasperation, as if “toll” itself were a joke.

  “So, I picked the first one up and threw 'em in the riva'.“

  Skippy’s massive paws seized Alistair by the shoulders and motioned the throw. Alistair flinched, wholly at the mercy of whatever the giant chose to do.

  More laughter erupted, his crew relishing the tale. “'Bout a twelve-foot drop, it was. The sound of his armor meeting the water was like a shield exploding from my hammer.“

  Basic, eager not to feel left out, forced himself to join in, his chuckles gradually blending with theirs.

  Skippy grinned, leaning into his story. “Then I turned to his mate—the poor bastard was shittin' himself… so I demanded three stags for the lad’s fare.“

  That line sent the crew into another uproar.

  Basic suddenly burst out laughing, louder and harder than anyone else. The crew’s laughter dwindled as they turned to stare at their bald, giggling guest.

  Wiping tears from his eyes, Basic managed to wheeze out, “The way… hahaha… the way you assaulted those poor men… ahaha… who were only doing their jobs… ahaha…“

  The crew exchanged uneasy glances.

  The mood soured until Alistair, ever quick to read the room, forced a hearty laugh. “Ah-ha-ha! Yes, we piss on those royal sheep herders! Do they not know these lands belong to us?“

  One of Skippy's men bristled, his thick brows furrowing as he drew a knife and pressed it to Alistair’s neck.

  “Yarr,” he growled, his voice thick with insult. “My father was a sheep herder!“

  Alistair froze, emitting a high-pitched “eek” as the hulking, hairy man loomed over him.

  Skippy rose, calm but commanding, and placed a hand on his subordinate’s arm. “The weakling meant no offense,” he said with an almost bored air, his words both an order and a dismissal.

  The knife lowered, but the hairy man didn’t retreat without a glare that could curdle milk. Alistair swallowed hard as Basic’s grin widened at Alistair's discomfort.

  Skippy, unfazed, shifted his focus. “His tasteless comment reminds me… We’ve managed to keep the crown out of the lower lands. Yet an unknown evil now threatens us there. We are mighty, aye, yet they’ll outnumber us before too long.“

  “Surely they can't beat you, Skippy,” Basic chimed in, caught up in the rogue’s bluster.

  “Yarr, I've never run from a fight I couldn’t win,” Skippy declared, flashing a toothy grin.

  “And since you’re alive, that means you’ve never lost,” Basic reasoned, clearly impressed.

  The crew banged their mugs in agreement, reveling in their captain's supposed infallibility, while Alistair quietly tried to steady his breath.

  Basic, ever the curious one, tilted his head. “Why do they call you Skippy, if you don’t mind me asking?“

  Skippy threw his head back with a booming laugh. “It’s because I skipped the battles I knew I’d lose! Yahaha! You can’t flee if you never show up!“

  The crew hesitated, their laughter faltering as the weight of his words sank in. Heads scratched and puzzled looks passed between them as they tried to reconcile with his blatant cowardice.

  Sensing the shift, Skippy quickly changed the subject. “Well now, you’ve heard my story. What brings you and your disgusting companion to Rogue?“

  Alistair leaned in, lowering his voice. “Truth is, Skippy, we came here seeking a man who’s stolen our gold. He’s supposedly been in this very pub. A man named Bill.“

  Skippy’s brow furrowed, his grin fading to a dangerous calm.

  “Someone in here wronged Basic?“

  “Gravely,” Alistair said, straight-faced.

  Skippy narrowed his eyes, scanning the crowd like a hound on scent. “Names don’t mean a thing in a place like Rogue,” he said, voice low and certain. “What’s he look like? Sound like?“

  Basic didn’t hesitate. “I was upside down the time we met—Didn’t get a good look at ‘em… if I heard his voice I’d know.“

  Alistair opened his mouth to intervene but one look at Skippy’s massive fists clenching convinced him otherwise.

  Without warning, Skippy lunged at the nearest patron, a scrawny man who'd been quietly nursing his drink. With one massive hand, Skippy hoisted him into the air, shaking him as one might a ragdoll.

  “Speak, you scoundrel! Where's that pompous accent of yours?” Skippy demanded, his voice a thunderous bellow that silenced the pub.

  The patron, wide-eyed and flailing, managed only a squeak, decidedly coherent in its tone. Basic, stroking his chin thoughtfully, waved a dismissive hand.

  “No, no, that's not the dastardly voice of thievery we're after. Far too squeaky.“

  Skippy, unfazed, dropped the man back into his seat and moved on to his next victim, a burly individual who'd been boasting loudly just moments before. This time, Skippy opted for a bear hug, squeezing until the man's words jumbled into muddled accents.

  Basic leaned in, listening with an exaggeratedly critical ear. “Hmm, intriguing blend—but no. Too guttural.“

  The casual way Skippy and Basic conducted this roundup, squeezing and shouting, seemed wildly out of place, even in Rogue.

  One particular patron, caught in Skippy's unrelenting grip, elicited a pause from Basic.

  “Wait, there's something there. Perhaps a bit more… persuasion is in order.“

  The more Skippy stretched the patron, the more he yelped.

  “Nevermind.” Basic sighed. “That’s not him either.“

  Their interrogation was abruptly interrupted by uncontrollable laughter emanating from a corner of the room. The source was a man, significantly inebriated, his laughter escalating into a cacophony that seemed to mock the gravity of their quest.

  Skippy, with a swift movement borne of irritation and a hint of curiosity, hoisted the laughing man by the scruff of his neck, lifting him clear off the ground. The laughter, rather than subsiding, grew louder. From the man's mouth trickled a dark fluid caught in the flickering candlelight.

  A shiver shot down Alistair's spine. He noticed a strange sheen to the man’s eyes, glazed not just with alcohol but with something almost otherworldly.

  “You'll be found, I assure you. No need to go looking.” The man croaked.

  Basic, unfazed, quickly chimed in with a gleeful response, “Perfect! Hear that Alistair? Bill’s already looking for us. Thank you kind sir—enjoy your evening.“

  Skippy, upon releasing the man, noticed the stark blackening of his hand. Panic briefly flickered across Skippy's face, a stark contrast to his usual bravado.

  “You drunk bastard!” Bellowed the giant.

  Enraged and frightened by this unexplained affliction, Skippy acted with brutal impulsivity, slamming the man through a table with such force that it splintered under them.

  The force of the slam rattled Basic, who spun toward the sound.

  “What—I missed it.“

  He spotted the man crumpled on the floor, his laughter reduced to a wet, gurgling echo of what it once was.

  Skippy examined his blackened hand, flexing it slowly.

  “Would you mind doing that again?” Basic asked, disappointed, as though he’d missed a bit of entertainment.

  Skippy grunted, flexing his fingers once more, his face scrunched with discomfort.

  The pub fell silent.

  Basic quickly stepped in. “Don’t worry Skip,” he said smoothly. “Pour some water on it and you’ll be fine.“

  The man’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, black ooze forming a puddle around him.

  Alistair stepped forward, his voice suddenly calm and diplomatic. “Actually, I believe the man we seek isn’t here after all,” he said, grabbing Basic by the arm. “You’ve been most helpful, truly.“

  Alistair gave a polite bow to the table. “It was an honor to meet you all,” he added, gesturing to Skippy and his band of hulking barbarians. “But we must be going now.“

  Basic blinked. “We are? What about our gold?“

  Skippy, wiping his blackened hand with a rag, gave Basic a grin that could bend steel. “I’m afraid I was of no use.” he rumbled. “Till next time, my bald brother.“

  Basic puffed his chest. “Fear not, for you have narrowed down our targets.“

  As they turned to leave, Alistair’s polite smile lingered just long enough to hide the sheer relief washing through him.

  However, their exit was halted at the door by the owner.

  “You owe me for the ale, and the table your friend destroyed.“

  At this point Basic couldn’t remember when the drinking started, let alone stopped.

  Quick-witted as ever, and the party penniless, Basic assured the bartender that Skippy would settle their tab.

  Alistair's eyes widened, “What are you doing?“

  “Relax Alistair… watch this.”

  With the bar owner watching, Basic and Skippy locked eyes for perhaps the final time. Skippy shared a cheerful wave, his hand still stained in shadow.

  “You sure you want to anger that man?” asked Basic, leaning over the counter.

  The owner tilted his head and looked to the floor in submission.

  Alistair took the opportunity to drag Basic out of the pub.

  As they stepped into the night, the cool air of Rogue did little to soothe Alistair’s tightening chest. His thoughts churned, fevered and dark. The danger here was no longer human; something older and fouler had sunk its claws into the place.He could feel it crawling beneath the cobblestones, watching through the smoke, waiting for them to slip.

  Beside him, Basic walked merrily along, humming off key and kicking pebbles into the street, blissfully unaware that the air around them had turned poisonous. Alistair stared ahead, his calm mask cracking. Rogue was not merely dangerous. It was cursed. And now, so were they.