There are few things more annoying in life Ross thought, than waking up with a serious, world ending hangover. The only things more annoying, bar the fact it took markedly little ale and significantly too much coin to obtain said hangover, would probably be discovering a number of your possessions had gone missing. Which they had. Or something along the lines of a nine-foot crocodile man hybrid vomiting on you in the middle of the night. Which apparently, had also happened.

The ragtag troupe of friends had passed out some time ago, when it had still been dark, and come first light had all bemoaned and groaned themselves into an awake stupor cursing the night prior while shaky hands tried and failed to block out the daylight.

They were on the furthest outskirts of the town, having been angrily booted out of it the night prior, where the cobbled roads disappeared and became replaced by the old worn footpaths and carriage routes that were little more than dirt lines where overuse had eroded away the grass.

On the wind the bustle of a marketplace in the throes of its early commotion could be heard, with peddlers arguing over spots for their stores and livestock being disorderly jostled into pens or shunted out the way now their duty of haulage was completed.

There were few buildings this far out save for horse pens and shacks, but the travelling group had the foresight to end their nights drunken revelry next to a barn with a water trough outside.

A horse stared down Ross over a sturdy wooden gate as he groggily scooped water from the trough and splashed it over the vomit stain on his leg, periodically throwing a handful over his face and drinking in long thirsty gulps from his cupped hands. The horse didn’t seem to mind Ross’s intrusion, but he kept its gaze none the less, last thing he needed right now was to be butted by an angry equine. Flies buzzed about the thick black hairs of the creature’s muzzle which stood messily in stark contrast to its smooth dark brown nose and pelt, when Ross was done, he went to stroke it, but the horse backed away and lazily flapped its ears.

“Don’t blame you” Ross said looking at his dirty hands, fully aware that he was still caked in two days’ worth of grime and scented by sweat, beer and now crocodile vomit, which for reasons he needed reminding of, contained a human toe.

Ross could appreciate that it was a somewhat pleasant morning, the sun was too bright and hot, but so long as he was not exerting himself and just standing around then a cool breeze kept him mostly comfortable. Bird song could be heard over the din of the town and the clatter of bells from one of the hills that surrounded them as a farmer herded their livestock.

He took in a deep lungful of the fresh air, it carried the coolness of the breeze and the sweet scent of hay that accompanied horses, he sniffed harder something else was on the breeze. Troit was cooking where the others sat, and the smell occasionally wafted over to him. He took a few whiffs trying to appreciate it, but a deeper lungful only succeeded in reminding him of his own stench. He mentally berated his two-day drinking stint following the end of his most recent romance and reminded himself he cannot keep doing this in literally every town they pass, knowing full well he probably will continue to do just that. So long as he got a bath before being kicked out of the next town, he realised he was fine with the idea.

The others had all been waiting by a copse of trees, using the much-needed shade as a respite from the sun. Ross had been the last to wake and as he returned food was already being passed around from a single pan. For all Troit’s absence of common sense he had proven to be an excellent albeit experimental cook. Each person held out a piece of flatbread and he delicately portioned out the meal, a fried medley of salted ham hock with onions, herbs and cheese curds Troit had proudly proclaimed. Wiesse proffered a flatbread to Ross who eagerly took it and folded his meal into a parcel so it could be eaten without losing the stuffing, Wiesse gave no such heed and simply munched away, lumps of ham falling into his lap.

They all ate in silence, only Troit ever had any gusto for the mornings and even then, his long since abandoned attempts for morning chit chat had always gone unanswered.

Instead the dreary half-awake team just sat there eating, the sound of their chewing joining the many other noises of the morning.

They had all been travelling together for one turn of the Ahlma’ Clock now. Ross and Wiesse had been travelling for a turn before that, both deciding enough was enough with their lives in a travelling theatre group. Although a few poor reviews and harsh comments about their acting may have encouraged the decision, a fact they both choose to ignore.

Lichter tagged along after they met him one night at a brothel, they had worked with Kkyrunnig before, in the theatre, their natural physical strength made them useful assets in travelling circus’s and convoys of that ilk. Sharing a love for gambling Lichter and Wiesse had got into a betting war as to how many apples the villages ‘famous’ whore could fit in her mouth, some strange trick of hers that was designed to catch people’s attention, which apparently worked for Wiesse and Lichter. She got to six before she fumbled the trick and chocked to death. Since then Wiesse has insisted on keeping Lichter around because, as he tells Ross “He’s like a pet, and it’s good to have pets” for the most part Ross isn’t sure he could get rid of Lichter if he wanted to. As for Yerin and Troit the pair had teamed up some time ago, Yerin needing a strongman for his swindling and protection and Troit, seemingly would go along with anything he was asked too. They would set up in the middle of towns and as instructed Troit would brazenly challenge the strongest smiths and farmers to arm wrestles and similar contests of strength. Yerin would then bet on his blonde barbarian and normally win out. Naturally Lichter wanted a go when he saw the competition and even Troit’s buff physique could put up little defence against a fully grown Kkyrunnig. Yerin insisted on a round of drinks after that with the intention of stealing back his coin, but several drinks later Troit was fond of the small group and the adventuring band was formed.

This was the seventh town since that they had been kicked out of.

“By the Gods this is depressing” Ross stated as the reality of it all suddenly hit him.

“What is?” Yerin said, his voice weaselly and somehow accusatory, regardless of what was being said.

“By your Gods maybe, mine are fine with this” Lichter chimed in before Ross could reply. The Kkyrunnig had moved back out into a patch of sunshine and sat basking, his wide jaw open to the air and eyes vacant as he rested.

“I thought the food was nice” Wiesse said, completely missing the purpose of the statement, at which point Troit became suddenly and panickily involved.

“Did you not like the food my good friend?!” Troit inquired, every word shouted with an echoey boom which seemed to be his only achievable vocal range and big sad eyes looking imploringly at Ross.

“The food was lovely!” Ross defended, partly because it was true but mostly as he could not be certain Troit would not actually cry if his cooking was insulted and the last thing Ross wanted was to go back to taking turns prepping meals. He was confident that not one of them could stand another of Lichter’s soups. “I just mean this” he gestured around them all with open palms and shrugged “don’t you all think it’s just a bit sad?”

Collectively the group looked around, expressions ranging from confused to concerned and whatever classifies as a bemused expression for a crocodile.

“Should we find some different trees to sit under?” Troit threw in. It was somehow comforting to know he was trying to help, Ross thought, even if he was failing miserably with getting the point.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting homesick for the theatre troupe?” Wiesse said, and his words reminded Ross of how utterly mundane and repetitive their former life had been

“Gods No!”

“Then what’s your gripe, we’re just relaxing for a moment until we’re all feeling better and we’ll get back on the road” Wiesse said

“It’s not about being back on the road Wiesse, it’s about where the road leads”

“Well that would be a Town wouldn’t it” Yerin sneered, and chuckled, retreating into his thick cloak as he did

“Could even be a city” Troit added, with the oblivious joy of someone who thinks their helping.

“So long as there’s tits!” Lichter shouted from his cosy spot

“Yea” Wiesse nodded, still sleepy it was a lazy nod “and we love tits”

Defeated, Ross shook his head and made stock of his possessions, only a few moments after the conversation died was Wiesse snoring softly. It normally took the majority of the morning for the troupe to fully awake and start following the winding roads to their next town. Troit was busy exercising as he normally did and Yerin used the embers of the flame that cooked breakfast to melt down clay and gold leaf for his forged coins, using small perfectly sized pebbles he collected to weight them. It was Wiesse and Lichter that needed the most recovery time for their hangovers as per usual.

Seldom few things were missing Ross was pleased to see, he vaguely recalled dropping his bag as they were jumbled out of the brothel the night before, which accounted for what he was missing, a small hunting dagger and some knickknacks.

“Do you have any Thrustleroot, I think I lost my stash” he asked the group, not addressing anyone in particular.

Wiesse stirred and had to have the question reiterated to him before he tossed his satchel to Ross. He pulled out the small bound pack of the vibrant green roots, plucked one from the bunch and started to chew on it vigorously. The minty plant was a wonder for adventurers, when chewed the pulp could keep teeth clean and fresh, it actively numbed gum pains and many travellers stocked up on it so that weeks on the road eating salted meats did not cause their teeth to damage and fall out.

“That’s it!” Ross shouted, throwing the bag back to Wiesse so that it woke his slumbering friend. From his own satchel Ross produced a well-worn and familiar book. “Squiz’s Ultimate Guide” and excitedly patted the cover as he proffered it to his friend.

“What is it?” Wiesse asked, sufficiently woken and agitated. Troit ceased his routine to listen and Yerin watched with a furrowed brow as he continued to work.

“This is what I’m talking about! All we do is just go from town to town and get drunk”

“It’s a good life!” Lichter added, acknowledging that he too was listening

“But we know about things like Thrustleroot and Keeper Sands because of this book!” The tome was carried by many adventurers and travellers and was often revered across the continent as the essential traveller’s tool. The Goblin printing presses boast on the first page that they produce a thousand copies every turn of Ahlma’s clock.

Ross had everyone’s attention, but they stared at him blankly awaiting more “Squiz was an adventurer, he went around and documented all of this, things people use and know and revolutionised adventuring.”

“Yea, and he’s already covered it all, so what?” Yerin sneered

“He also wrote about his travels, the stories of his adventures with the Impere and battling the Wyvern Kin. It’s the reason we set off in the first place Wiesse, the whole reason we left. To be adventurers!”

“What are you trying to say Ross”

“I want to try and do this! Have stories written about our adventures, fight bad guys, rescue ladies and be hero’s! Guys, I want a quest. I think we can do this; I want us to do this.”

“By the Gods” Wiesse said “I think he’s gone mad.”

“Well?” Ross asked the collected faces

“Fuck it” Wiesse said “Let’s do this”