Alchemy

“Going on crusades has never been my strong suit,” Rikken said rubbing ashen knuckles. The fire crackled with strange alchemy before him as the dawn call tolled from the city bell. No cheeky last snooze for the band.

“Neither has been staying quiet when the rest of us need a little more shut eye.”

“Yeah, stick a sock in it, Rikken.”

“Seeing as none of you are going to hush any time soon, can one of you stoke the fire while I take a leak?”

The motley crew of Lars, Krendel, and Adair bickered as Rikken planned the day’s outing. The trio couldn’t help themselves, but what band of magicians can? At least Rikken knew magic wasn’t infallible, even if the peasants and overzealous clerics of the outer range temples believed it so.

Warlocks didn’t often group together. Individuals who enter demonic contracts don’t tend to play well with one another. But just as starvation is the best seasoning, desperation makes fast friends.

Adair was the odd one out. A wildling mage that hadn’t gained the trust of his ancestral demon before the empire marched on the Temari homelands.

With a cloud of wakeleaf and sour ale breath, the gang got on the road towards Kvil. Rikken had secured a contract for them to investigate the mystery in Malton Keep. The Duke’s bastard had used a royal courier to contact the group. Rikken wasn’t holding out hope for a long or lucrative contract, but he figured anything was better than staying around Kvil trying to dodge the attention of minor naval despots.