When you get right down to it, a rictus is still a grin.
The apocalypse is old news.
Yes, the AI went peculiar. Fine, it spiralled on a shonky old text adventure and millions died when it rebuilt the world to match. Okay, technology was scrapped and mostly replaced with swords, magick, thatch, and folklore. Whatever. That was fourteen years ago, and these ales aren’t going to drink themselves.
That’s the trick, see? Keep it small. Other parties can have the glory—our plan was to grind away in the margins and hopefully come home with roughly as many limbs as we went out with. Definitely enough arms to lift a flagon. That’s non-negotiable.
Then someone screwed it up. I didn’t mean to—but I had to get my hooky chainsaw powered somehow, and things just… snowballed. Anyhow, that’s why we ended up owing the fae. Something’s been taking their kin apart to see how they work, and they want that to stop. I got us volunteered.
We’re not really cut out for it. A stubborn bard, a broke knight, a templar who either retired or was sacked depending on who you ask, and me. We don’t even have a caster at the moment—just a vaguely apologetic note where she used to be. We temped someone in to cover the gap, of course—and ended up with an odd little warlock who finds his own blood magick revolting. Typical.
Better parties have tried before, and been broken for parts. We’re not heroes. We’re not even particularly good at this sort of thing—but it looks like we’re going, regardless.
Our hands are tied.
