“It is for thou that such was prepared. Partake!”

A hungry light flared in the creature’s eye. “Well, if you insist…”

“Nothing could please us more. Help thyself,” they responded.

A clawed hand peeled back the blanket of the bassinet, revealing a face like a bug-eyed weasel with a skin condition. “Eh?” gasped the hag, reeling back at the sight of an unexpected Kobold scurrying away from the bassinet.

“We got her!” shouted Burt as he fled.

The hag screamed in fury, rearing back. A crackle of dark energy bloomed around her outstretched hand, then dissipated in a flash of silver and crimson as a streak of light rent her palm in two.

“Take her down!” cried Kaitha of House Tyrieth, her hood pulled back to reveal a copper-skinned face framed by auburn locks. The Elven ranger had already nocked and drawn another enchanted arrow.

The hag lashed out in retaliation, a hateful sneer barely covering her jagged teeth. A blast of orange flame interrupted her strike and lit several of her oily rags alight. The creature fell back with a wail, its baleful eye seeking the source of the fire. They fell upon Laruna Trullon, who was already readying another blast of fire.

Sneering, the monster reached for the solamancer with a clawed hand. It drew back when twin flashes of steel severed several of its outstretched talons. Gaist, free of his disguise and wearing his signature black cape and red scarf, launched another flurry of blows with twin short swords.

“This is entrapment!” the hag shrieked. She clutched the stump where her hand had been with her remaining, mangled appendage. “I ain’t eaten no baby! And I wouldn’t ’ave, ’cept you offered!”

“What about teenagers?” shouted Laruna.

The hag’s lone eye had a hunted look. “Only bad ones!” she protested, searching for some sympathy. Finding none, she turned to flee.

Unfortunately for the monster, the other false cultists were joining in the attack now. A cleric in silver armor raised her hand, and an intricate circle drawn in golden light bloomed on the ground around the monster. The lines and runes forming the ring thrummed with power as the monster neared them, and she staggered back as though she had run into a wall.

A robed bard—pink-skinned, sandy-haired and bespectacled—had produced a lute from the depths of his robes and now played with enthusiastic vigor, though beyond his confidence there was no clear sign this was having any effect.

The final cultist, the stout one with the ill-fitting robes, flipped up his arms to throw off his garments. Unfortunately, the uncooperative clothing tangled above his head, and he staggered to the side with a muffled swear, clutching at the billowing fabric uselessly.

His absence made little difference. Swords sang. Silver arrows flashed like lightning amidst clouds of enchanted flame. Holy magic flared with divine light. The lute added ambiance. By the time the unlucky hero finally struggled out of his oversized disguise, the swamp hag was little more than a steaming pile of rags and gore.

“Thrice-cursed bones!” swore Gorm Ingerson, throwing his robes into the muck.

“All right, so it wasn’t great for a first quest back,” Kaitha conceded as the midmorning sun burned the last of the fog away.

“It was a bloody disaster,” Gorm grumbled. The Dwarf perched on a toppled standing stone, nursing a tin mug of coffee and a wounded ego as he watched the guild at work. What had been a ritual ring and then a bloody battlefield was now a labor camp, mere hours after the death of the Swamp Hag of Fenrose Heath. Guild clerks and carters swarmed over the monster’s corpse like ants over a fallen beetle. The workers wore smithing leathers, vented masks, and thick goggles to protect them from noxious fumes and residual sorcery as they searched for every last scrap of loot.

“You got that right,” said Burt, leaning against the stone by Gorm’s feet. One paw held a tiny mug of coffee, the other clutched the smoldering remnants of a damp cigarette.

“We did a lot of good,” Kaitha insisted. “We exposed the corrupt aldermen’s smuggling ring, tracked down their connections in the evil cult of Nuryot Sabbat, apprehended their High Circle, and killed their patron hag. That’s good work.”

“Aye, ye did all that.” Gorm wasn’t about to let recent triumphs foil a good sour mood.

“Look, I’m sorry about the robe,” said Kaitha. “But it turned out all right. We just learn from our mistakes and move on.”

“Oh? And what did ye learn?” asked Gorm.

His acerbic sarcasm eroded Kaitha’s resolute smile a bit. “I meant, maybe next time you could just fight in the disguise.”

“Next time I ain’t doin’ the burnin’ henchmen uniform ruse.”

“You got the right side of that wand, buddy,” said Burt. “At least nobody asked you to be the bait.”

“I still don’t understand your problem with the henchmen uniform ruse,” said Kaitha. “It’s a classic.”

“It ain’t just the ruse… it’s all of it.” Gorm grimaced. “It’s different than it used to be. Decipherin’ coded letters. Investigatin’ who’s shippin’ what where. Gettin’ all political and caught up in power struggles. And then a game of mummer’s masks.”

“It’s an intrigue quest,” said Kaitha. “Most of them are these days. A little more research, some extra running around, maybe brush up on dialogue and persuasion skills, but it’s not that different.”

The Dwarf swigged his coffee and watched a trio of guild carters carefully excavate the swamp hag’s purse. “Used to be ye just did your paperwork and then went down some hole swingin’ your axe. Maybe that’s what I’m good at.”

“Now you’re just moping,” Kaitha told him.

“Look at this quest, running around chasin’ them cultists. I barely helped at all. I was the most useless member of the party.”

Someone cleared their throat behind them. They turned to find the sandy-haired bard, smiling and cleaning his glasses.

“Second most useless,” Gorm whispered to Burt.

Kaitha hushed him before addressing the hero. “Leaving already, Ghunny?”

“Aye.” Ghunny Craftson’s Scorian accent was almost as thick as Gorm’s. “There’s rumors of owlverines or Dire Badgers hittin’ the farmlands north of Fenrose Heath. Somethin’ big and hairy and in need of killing. MacLeod and I are hopin’ to beat the rush.”

He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at Mirnen. The dark-haired cleric of Musana led two saddled and packed horses up behind the bard. “The solamancer said you wouldn’t be interested, but we wanted to give you the chance to make some easy coin and rank.”

“We’ll pass,” said Gorm. “We’ve business on the way back to Andarun.”

“Fair enough,” said the bard. “Well, wherever ye go, be sure to tell them our deeds. We’ll sing yer praises as well. Social proof an’ all. Key to buildin’ a brand!”

“Ye’re under no obligation,” Gorm called after the retreating pair, earning him an elbow in the ribs.

“All right, what was all that about?” Kaitha demanded once the other heroes were out of earshot.

“Most overrated bard I’ve met, which is a feat,” Gorm said. “I’d rather not have such singin’ anything about me good name.”

“Not that. What is all this moping about how your skills aren’t up for this?” said the Elf. “I’ve seen you chase a hint of intrigue halfway across a continent. We took down a thrice-cursed liche last year, and that quest was about as straightforward as a landshark’s burrow. You can say you were rusty on your first time hitting the quest board in years, or say you were off your game, but don’t pretend it’s a lack of guile or cunning,” Kaitha told him. “That’s ridiculous.”

“And I hope you ain’t really longing for the old days of runnin’ blindly down a burrow, axe swingin’,” added Burt. “Speaking as a friend whose family comes from down said burrow.”

Gorm took a deep breath, another sip of coffee, and a moment to weigh their words. “Fair enough. I just… I just thought last year would go different.”

His mind trod familiar paths through recent history. The berserker known as Pyrebeard had enjoyed wealth and renown over the course of his career, but he’d thought the course of that career ended decades ago. Much more recently, he was promised a return to his former glory in exchange for running a quest with the Al’Matrans. It turned out the job was a sham perpetuated by Johan the Mighty, Champion of Tandos. After he watched the guild slaughter an innocent tribe of Orcs and murder his friends, Gorm and his companions fled into the wilderness. They uncovered a liche’s plot, allied with the scattered Shadowkin tribes, and redeemed themselves by saving the Freedlands from an undead army. Riding high on the wings of such success, Gorm swore to bring down King Johan and the guild’s corrupt regime.

And then the world had politely coughed and turned back to the way things were.

“We were supposed to fight Johan,” he said. “We were supposed to all be in this together.”