Narrator:

  They had ridden through the dusk, the sky slowly yielding to darkness, but exhaustion compelled them to stop. The vast plains stretched endlessly, a desolate sea of brown grass and rocky outcrops devoid of life.

  As the sun sank beneath the horizon, they made camp among jagged rocks that offered a semblance of shelter from the biting wind. The fire crackled to life, flickering shadows dancing on the stone faces around them, swallowing the last remnants of light as clouds blanketed the moon. They huddled around the flames, warmth seeping into their bones as Jenkins launched into another of his countless tales.

  “...and then the lass said, ‘I like me men like I like me ale: dark and rich!’”

  Only Mat and Derek laughed, the jovial sound echoing into the void of night. Their laughter buoyed Jenkins, who grinned wide, his eyes sparkling as he leaned closer to the fire, the flames illuminating his weathered face. Meanwhile, their leader, Enrik, had slipped into the shadows, leaving his men to revel in the familiar banter.

  As Jenkins chuckled at his own joke, a shift in the air caught his attention, and he spotted a figure emerging from the darkness.

  “Aye, look who’s comin’!” he declared, but his grin faltered when the silhouette approached silently, devoid of the customary call. Something felt off.

  Mat and Derek continued their playful jostling, oblivious, until Brute, the group's massive protector, squeezed between them, his grip like iron on their heads, silencing them instantly.

  “Who goes there? Name yourself!” Brute's voice boomed, deep and commanding.

  Suddenly, a clattering of metal echoed in the distance, slicing through the night.

  The figure drew closer, shrouded in shadows. Brute hefted his monstrous battle axe, more a lump of iron than a weapon, and let out a primal roar.

  “To arms!” he bellowed, launching himself into action.

  Mat and Derek scrambled for their weapons, adrenaline surging, but Jenkins clutched their arms, holding them back.

  “Nay, boys, you’re not ready. Stay back and watch old Brute handle this.” His tone was steady, though anxiety crackled in the air.

  Baffled, they obeyed. Derek was still green, his sword experience limited to practice against scarecrows, while Mat had some skill with a bow but lacked the experience of true battle.

  From their vantage point, they watched as Brute met the approaching foe. Sparks erupted as steel clashed against bone, revealing their adversary—a grotesque skeleton, an abomination stripped of flesh, its hollow eye sockets glowing with a malevolent light.

  “By the seven damnations, an undead!” Mat exclaimed, his voice tinged with disbelief.

  The skeletal form, draped in tattered cloth, wielded a rusted broadsword, its strikes relentless and powerful, pushing Brute back with every swing.

  Just then, the skeleton raised its weapon high, poised to deliver a fatal blow, and Brute momentarily loosened his grip on his axe.

  “We need to help him!” Derek shouted, panic rising.

  “Watch! He ain’t deputy for naught!” Jenkins urged, his voice low yet confident.

  With a thunderous roar that shook the ground beneath them, Brute summoned a fury that seemed to electrify the air. The skeleton hesitated, caught off guard, and in that fleeting moment, Brute seized the opportunity. He caught the skeletal arms and cleaved the creature in two, bone shards scattering like marbles.

  “Is he a berserker?” Mat whispered, awe in his voice.

  “What’s a berserker?” Derek asked, confusion clouding his features.

  Mat’s face lit with recognition. “It’s a subclass of fighter! They channel the fury of beasts!”

  “Aye, he be a berserk!” Jenkins chimed in, his excitement bubbling over.

  “But what’s a berserker doing with thieves?” Mat pondered.

  “Who knows? Ask your employer,” Jenkins smirked, clearly enjoying the chaos.

  “Hey! Where did Enrik go?” Derek suddenly asked, glancing around.

  The slender, pale man had vanished, slipping away into the night like a whisper.

  “He does that. Probably off aiding the boss,” Jenkins said nonchalantly, yet an edge of concern crept into his voice.

  Then, rustling came from behind their wagon.

  Jenn's POV:

  In the dark, Jenn’s instincts kicked in, and she caught a foul scent that sent a chill down her spine. Drawing her daggers, she barely managed to dodge a sword that whistled past her neck.

  “The Revenant!” she hissed, recognizing the skeletal knight with a heart of malice. It swung again, and she ducked, heart racing in her chest.

  She had to warn her group, but revealing her identity in this brutal world could mean her death; any sign of weakness would be fatal.

  Then, a bellowing cry pierced the night—it was Brute, fighting for his life. For now, her secret remained safe.

  As she fought, two more undead closed in on her: a skeletal archer and a thief wielding worn daggers. The knight lunged, forcing her to evade its grasp as she readied herself to engage the thief.

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  In a blur, an arrow sliced through the air, embedding itself in her leg. Pain shot through her, but she stifled a cry, focusing on survival.

  “Not even now do you leave yourself open!” a crisp male voice called out.

  Enrik, another member of her crew, leaped into the fray, his movements fluid and precise. Jenn signaled him silently: Archer, takedown. Support!

  He nodded and melted into the shadows, disappearing from sight.

  The skeletal knight charged again, and Jenn sidestepped, feeling a jolt of pain radiate from her bruised side. Rolling back to her feet, she knew she had to finish this fight.

  The knight swung its shield, and she deflected the blow, her own attack blocked as the undead grinned with malice. Frustration boiled within her as she ducked beneath another swing, senses heightened to every movement around her.

  Suddenly, an arrow struck the ground nearby—more archers appeared over the hill, dark figures lined up against the moonlit sky.

  “Curses!” she spat, determination igniting her.

  Brute’s war cry echoed again, drawing the undead’s attention, and she seized the moment.

  “Take care of the knights! I’ll handle the archers!” she signaled to Brute, urgency lacing her words.

  Brute nodded and charged, a relentless force of nature, and Jenn sprinted toward the hill, dodging arrows with agility honed from years of practice.

  At the first archer, she leaped, grabbing its shoulders and flipping it into its companion with a sickening crack of bone against bone.

  Only one skeletal archer remained, and it lunged at her, wielding a rib bone as a makeshift weapon. Jenn smirked, confident in her abilities—she wouldn’t be outmatched.

  With a swift disarm, she sent the skeleton crashing to the ground, and as she glanced back, her heart sank at the sight of Brute struggling against two knights, bruised and weary.

  'Hang on!' she thought for herself, urgency propelling her forward.

  With a precise strike, she shattered one knight’s skull, the sound echoing like thunder in the night, and Brute, fueled by her action, took down the other with a mighty swing that sent bones flying.

  “Well, that was fun!” Enrik chuckled, his voice filled with adrenaline.

  “Where are the rest of the group?” Brute demanded, his eyes scanning the shadows.

  “Safe by the fireside,” Enrik replied, but just then, Mat’s scream shattered the moment, piercing through the chaos.

  “Help! Come quick!”

  The group sprinted back toward camp, hearts pounding.

  “What’s going on?” Brute yelled, a twinge of fear in his voice.

  “Green pests, goblins!” Jenkins shouted, his demeanor shifting from jovial to serious.

  As they approached, they were greeted by a swarm of yellow eyes flitting into the darkness, clutching their supplies like gluttonous thieves.

  Brute elbowed his way forward, determination etched into his features. “Kill as many as you can! Don’t let them escape!”

  The chaos erupted into a wild goblin hunt, shouts and the clash of weapons filling the air. Jenn was too late to react when a goblin leaped from a rock, pinning her down with a feral snarl.

  As it loomed over her, breath foul and rancid, she grasped a hidden knife and drove it into its skull with a swift, brutal thrust. Blood sprayed as it fell, its body collapsing beside her.

  Scrambling to her feet, Jenn surveyed the wreckage of their wagon. Supplies were scattered across the ground, the horse nowhere to be seen, and Derek was missing.

  The fire crackled ominously as the battle continued to unfold, shadows dancing and twisting in the flickering light, a grim reminder that their fight was far from over.

  Narrator

  Let’s rewind a bit. Brute had dashed off to aid their elusive leader, leaving Jenkins, Mat, and Derek behind to ponder the strange sounds emanating from the wagon. A heated argument ensued, with Jenkins claiming he was far too old and fragile for this nonsense. He was over 150 years old, which, in human terms, was ancient—but for a dwarf whose lifespan stretched between 300 and 400 years, he was just barely hitting middle age.

  But of course, the two young lads didn’t know that.

  In the end, it was Derek who drew the short straw—losing a quick game of Roshambo (rock, paper, scissors). With a grip that betrayed his nerves, he crept around the side of the wagon, sword at the ready. Just as he rounded the corner, he came face-to-face with a goblin, a creature barely taller than his waist, with pointed green ears, tattered leather rags clinging to its form, and a big, bulbous nose that looked like it could sniff out a lost sock from a mile away.

  The goblin’s eyes gleamed with mischief, and instead of screaming for help, Derek swung his sword in a panic. The little beast dodged with an infuriatingly cheerful grin, its pointy black teeth glinting in the dim light like shards of broken glass.

  It wasn’t alone. Derek’s heart sank as he noticed several more goblins lurking in the shadows, creeping closer with hungry glee. A terrified gasp stuck in his throat, but all that escaped was a strangled whimper. His limbs trembled like jelly—he was far too inexperienced for this. In a fit of pure panic, he abandoned his sword and turned to flee, goblin footsteps pattering behind him like a twisted parade of mischief-makers.

  Luckily, he spotted the wagon horse tethered to a nearby tree. In a desperate leap, he mounted the beast and kicked it into a frantic gallop, praying it would take him far from the goblin horde.

  Meanwhile, Jenkins and Mat had heard the distressed whinnies of the horse at the same moment the others had—an unmistakable alarm bell ringing in their ears. They dashed toward the source of the commotion, only to confront a pack of goblins armed to the teeth, their beady yellow eyes gleaming with mischief and greed. Derek was nowhere in sight.

  “BACKUP!” Mat shouted, fear lending urgency to his voice. Just as they prepared to engage, more goblins burst from beneath the wagon's tattered cover, their arms laden with ill-gotten goods, giggling as they made their hasty retreat.

  When Brute and the others returned to camp, they were greeted with a scene of utter chaos.

  “I got no ‘excuses,’” Jenkins grumbled, his shoulders slumped in resignation.

  Jenkins was a trap expert and a mechanic fanatic—a dwarf recluse, if there ever was one. Like the other two, he had zero real fighting experience.

  They had been played like fools—divided and conquered. While the stronger members battled the revenant, the goblins had snuck in to plunder their wagon. Goblins may be simple-minded, but they could pull off a cunning heist, especially under the guidance of a Hob. A brilliant move, except for the fact that it was their wagon being looted. Jenn shot a disapproving glare at the group.

  “Now clean up. Get anything useful back into the wagon,” Brute commanded, setting an example by diving into the mess.

  The remaining members, excluding Jenn, complied, shoving what they could find back into the wagon. By the time they finished salvaging their supplies, dawn had crept upon them, exhaustion etching deep lines into their faces. Just then, Brute returned, carrying a small metal chest, his expression grim.

  “There’s no sign of the horse or Derek. We secured one box, but the other two are missing, along with several food supplies... including one big barrel of... Dwarf mead,” Brute reported, lowering his voice at the last part, fully aware of Jenkins’s reaction.

  As expected, a loud wail of despair erupted from Jenkins, echoing through the camp.

  “Me beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer!” he howled, clutching his chest as if struck by the grief of a thousand lost pints.

  Ignoring the heartbroken dwarf, Brute pressed on. “Should we turn back to resupply? There won’t be any villages on the way...”

  Jenn pondered for a moment, then signed her decision.

  'No, we must make do with what we have. We were splurging anyway.'

  “But what about the horse?” Brute asked, concern furrowing his brow.

  Jenn met his gaze, her expression steady.

  'You will do fine.'

  With that, the matter was settled. Everyone returned to their respective sleeping spots, collapsing into a restless slumber—everyone except for Jenkins. Just before he slipped into sleep, Jenn halted him, assigning him the first watch as punishment for his negligence. Jenkins groaned but complied, dragging himself to the campfire.

  Now sitting alone by the crackling flames, his cheerful humming had turned morose as he stared into the depths of his empty mug.

  “Me ale...” he murmured softly to himself, a single teardrop plopping into the cup, mourning the loss of his beloved drink, his sorrow mingled with the thickening shadows that loomed ever longer, stretching across the ground like dark fingers as the morning sun timidly crept over the horizon, casting a hesitant light that struggled to pierce the gloom.