Farfnir slowly drew his elven steel. It scraped along the leather scabbard, ringing in the air once it was free. Positioning the curved blade in front of him, he prepared to face the goblins blocking his path. “By the Gods of the Wyrde Wood, you will hinder me no further. You have defiled this land for long enough, foul creatures. No more will you stand in my way!” With a leap, Farfnir was upon them, dodging lithely to the right, and then, with a j-like motion, bringing his blade from the ground and up into the crotch of one of his adversaries. He pulled the sword through what was left of his opponent’s goblin-hood and resumed a guard stance — his blade in front of him — as green testicular ichor dripped onto the ground. The other goblins looked at each other and cringed; this was not going to go well for them.
Boribeard was ready to go. He sported his helm, forged from the skull of a baby Steel Giant, his breast-plate of dwarven steel, handed down through six generations, his boots of fast-striding, enchanted by the daughter of the local Astral Seer, his amulet of protection from fire, taken off the corpse of an Orc Shaman, and of course, his double-headed axe: Fjolnirfartfenugget. He always brought his axe. Climbing from the dark depths of Moribund, Boribeard squinted. By his beard, he was not used to such brightness. He really should come up above more often. As the motes in his eyes dissipated, he set off with bounding strides; heading towards the Wanky Unicorn – his most favorite of taverns.
Wrenwich the Waif looked at the shadows stretching out over the street in front of him; it was time. He glanced hurriedly from left to right and then leaped – landing with a roll, on the tile roof of the Mayor’s house. He was going to have to make this quick if he was going to be timely. Farfnir would give him hell if he was late again. Blasted elves! They all seemed to keep their longbows stored up their asses as far as Wrenwich was concerned. Shimmying down the roof and into the courtyard, Wrenwich touched the purple stone at his throat, and hummed the word of power to activate it. Warmth grew in the back of his right shoulder – the treasure was that way. Noticing that there were no guards, Wrenwich realized that this was going to be easier than he had first imagined. He smiled. “Nothing like easy money,” he thought.
Farfnir wiped the last of the goblin’s blood from his blade. He always had to work to get that last bit out of the runes carved into the blade – annoying, but his father would have never let him put his sword away tarnished. “A true Elf would never stand by while their blade was blighted so!” blustered Farfnir’s mind. Sighing at the memory of his father, Farfnir looked to the sky. Shit. He was late. Wrenwich was never going to let him hear the end of this.
Borobeard looked around him at the stale patrons of the Wanky Unicorn. There was Fyrst, that old dog. He had been quite the Ranger, back in the day. Taken out a whole tribe of Trolls with some very clever acid traps. Borobeard respected any man who could do that. He turned towards the bar. “Two ales, Sam.”
“Aye, Borobeard. Just two?”
“Important business today. Meeting the gang for adventure,” Borobeard said knowingly, tapping a finger on the blade of his axe where it rested on his hip.
Sam shook his head, with a grin on his face. Every week it was the same thing: the three knuckle-heads would get together for an adventure. Sam had witnessed every one. Weird as they were, they were patrons, same as any other. “Coin is coin,” Sam thought.
With a loud bang, Farfnir burst through the door, wild eyed. “Did I beat him? He’s not here? I beat him. Ha hah, I am on time!”
Farfnir felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to face the grinning visage of Wrenwich. “You’re late, my lanky friend. Never again shall I abide your chastisement. Never again shall I be subjected to your banal musings on the subject of temporal acuity. Now, gentlemen, shall we begin?”
Borobeard chuckled at the dejected look on Farfnir’s face. “Let us find a table from which to plan, friends. I have brought everything that we will need.”
Farfnir led the way to a small table in the corner of the floor, away from the bar and the bustle of the inebriated regulars. “Gentlemen, I have your Scrolls of Essence. Here you are.” Farfnir passed out a scroll to each of his compatriots. He placed a small pot of ink in the center of the table, along with a large, green quilled pen. Unrolling a map, he turned to Borobeard. “If you please, Borobeard – or should I call you John?”
“John, from here on.”
Farfnir turned to Wrenwich. “And you are Mike, yes?”
“Mike the plumber, yes. Onward!”
Borobeard took a pouch from his belt and dumped it out onto the map in the center of the table. Many-sided polyhedrals clattered about the table as the group set forth on the greatest adventure they had ever faced: the conquest of Suburbia.