“Brandy.” Roth considered it a moment. He was dehydrated, but spirits weren’t going to do much to help with that. There was also something about the [i]corpses pinned up on the wall[/i] that put off his thirst. Not to mention all the ones he’d stepped over on the way in. “Afraid I’ll have to pass, thanks.”

What a dupe. 

Rothelion wasn’t sure what he’d believed when he’d seen the posters requesting would-be [i]‘heroes’[/i] to join some Grand Wizard in a quest that would somehow set things right and pull the world out of this fetid, rotten hell. Initially he’d dismissed the posters but they reappeared so often, so fervently, and word spread so fast and so ubiquitously that eventually, Roth couldn’t ignore the call.

It was either ride to meet this Grand Wizard, if only to hear him out, or do nothing and watch the world be consumed by madness. He was a capable elf, so if this journey of Mulad’s showed any merit at all, he was certain he could be an asset. But in all likelihood it was some naive, half-cocked plan spun up by a madman who had burned half his mind after a lifetime of magic use.

And for the most part, he was right on that. What Rothelion hadn’t expected was the company.

A gaggle of humans, a young elf—neither Lebethron or Andrann by the look of him, a unique looking woman that didn’t appear quite human, and a gnoll. A [i]gnoll[/i] had answered the call, which insinuated that it at some point in its life had first learned to read. But, Rothelion remembered, it shared the same shattered world with everyone else. Suppose he shouldn’t be completely blown over.

What should surprise him was that Rothelion himself had shown up for this embarrassing amalgam of fools. Gods, he knew he had been more than wayward for the past couple of decades, but to think he had sunk [i]this low[/i] to find himself in this sad little lot of suicidal adventurers… and the make things worse, a fellow elf was here to witness Rothelion finally hitting rock bottom.

That was it. Roth was leaving.

“Well, it was a pleasure meeting you all.” He stood up from his reclined position near a table. “Especially the well spoken gnoll, though I can’t say I’ve ever labored under the misconception that they like hot water. But I think I’ve made a mistake. I’m going to head on before I choke on all this ins...pir...a…”

Rothelion felt the pit of his stomach tighten. The weight of dark magic was pressing in on his skin, suddenly robbing him of breath. What’s more, the bodies in the tavern had begun [i]twitching[/i]. The staff came off Roth’s shoulder and spun as he gradually turned himself around, assessing his space and surroundings.

“Aye,” he agreed with the other Mul elf who’d arrived. A fluid motion, and the wooden skull mask settled back over his face. “Or someone led them straight to us.” Just as he thought. Traveling with this haphazard assembly of future-cadavers was just begging for death. 

A swift swing of his bladed staff neatly removed the head of an animating corpse on the wall nearby, but still more were rising. If Roth was going to defend himself, he was going to need space to properly use his weapon.

Bracing himself with one hand against a glassless window, Rothelion deftly hopped backwards out of the tavern into the grass outside. The thought occurred to him that he could run, but the more this party scattered, they more they were in danger of being picked off one by one. Although he had no desire to join the Grand Wizard’s little gang, he couldn’t simply leave them to die.

The fellow elf passed nearby, battling his way past reanimated corpses as he made toward the source of the dark magic: cultists, why not. The mindless, shuffling undead were only puppets after all, there had to be someone holding their strings. It wasn’t going to be more priestesses.

Roth sighed, jogging after his kin as seemed most right to do. He hopped between the fallen corpses in his wake, pausing only once to stab one through the neck that still seemed to be moving, despite being cleaved in twain. A flick of the curved blade put an end to that.

“You’re dressed like you know how to handle yourself in a fight,” Rothelion called to his elven brother, edging toward him lend aid but still far enough away that he could swing his staff at full length. Still, the centrifuge of Eovaine’s blades dotted Rothelion’s skull mask with bits of viscera. The impact of it had compelled a noise of vomitous disgust from the elder elf. “For the love of… but you [i]rush in[/i] like someone who can’t wait for his funeral. The cultists are the source of this. Aid me in attacking [i]them[/i].”