Bors let out a yawn as he stretched his arms outwards, arm spanning so far outward that his fingers brushed the wooden support beams of the drinking den. Though the proprietor called it the Herald Wine Shoppe, it was more a den for any kind of potent drinks for those in God’s Rest. The shop had a blue-grey haze drifting a foot from the low-slung ceiling. The smell of sweat, spice, tabac of a dozen worlds, beer, and sour wine hung in a melange that Bors thought he’d never miss. He took the thick, clay mug of Europan white and tossed it back. The sweet and sour liquid helped to shake the fatigue that continued to close in on him.

There was a shifting of the bench to Bor’s right. His partner, Rott, was getting restless. “Why are we still here, Bors?” Rott asked, looking up at Bors with a glint in his quick and intense green eyes.

Holed up in the Herlad for two days, the pair of rogues waited and waited for the Thieves’ Guild contact. Bors wanted something stronger than wine to help keep him awake. Yet, kavh was not in his budget, so he used the horrid sweet and sour Europan white to help prod him awake. He continued to gag the stuff down, which also helped to fight his fatigue. Bors looked down at the tiny Earthman. “We’d have gone on to Tharsis if you hadn’t bungled the last handoff,” Bors grumbled at his diminutive partner.

He slapped Rott’s pilfering hand from the last of the hard yellow cheese they had purchased together with the last of their coin. “We have to lie low for a while in this shithole.” The grumbling turned to a threatening growl at the memory of Rott, bungling the handoff of the gems the pair had liberated it from a caravan merchant lord. The failure burned in Bors’ memory and his neck. He took the last crumbs of cheese and licked his fingers clean.

“I wasn’t the one who told me to look for a one-eyed hag,” Rott said, frowning at the lost food. His breath was horrifying, and Bors was glad to not have to stare into the chasm of the thief’s mouth. It was the reason Bors thought the short man took the name Rott; there was barely a tooth in his head that wasn’t rotting or gone, and his breath stank of decaying meat.

“She only had one eye and is a hag,” Bors said. Smelled of witchcraft as well. He didn’t voice this, since Rott would roll his eyes and prattle on about how it was “tech” and not witchcraft. Witchcraft is witchcraft.

“Bors, because she has gray hair doesn’t—”

Bors growled in the back of his throat. Stupid Earthman. She smelled of witchery and wickedness. He didn’t see the point of arguing with Rott anymore. The Earthman was a decent sneak thief, but knew nothing of the horrors in the wild void of planets and eldritch places. Or even the witchery on Mars. He made a sign of warding, looking outside the shop to see a trace of the red-orange sand of his native Mars. “Next round is on you.” He saw Rott was just as happy to stop talking about the poor handoff of the gems.

They would need to get rid of them soon, as they needed coin to get to Tharsis Prime. Rott said he knew someone there that had a map to some treasure on one of the moons of Jove’s Eye. The idea of traveling to one of the Jovian moons still caused a shudder through Bors. Space travel wasn’t something he could imagine, and the giant metal cocoons Earthmen used stank of strange eldritch things. He did not wish to leave Mars.

A grey-skinned Venusian wench swayed her way by, her pale white hair and hourglass form covered by a thin, gauzy wrap that did more to accentuate her curves than hide them. Her curves and the honeysuckle scent that exuded from her made Bors smile, shaking him from his maudlin thoughts. “Another round for us, please,” Bors asked with a leering grin. It had been some time since he’d been in the company of a Venusian, and he knew that his love, Aliana, would understand from her seat in the next world.

The Venusian gave him a sultry look and grin. “Of course, sirs.”

Rolling his shoulders out of habit, not feeling the sword on his back made his eyes seek the broad sword. The black, iron-hilted sword settled against the wall, well within reach of his thick-calloused hand, if needed. His finger touched the fetish of an ouroboros, and the hint of Aliana’s smile flittered through his head before he turned away. He looked around the common room, attempting to spot any threats in the smoky haze. A dozen different men and near-men in the varied garb of the Known Worlds settled on benches and seats in ones and twos and one small group of five. Some looked more threatening, some less. Nothing that Rott and he couldn’t handle.

Rott wasn’t the most trusted, but Bors trusted Rott’s quick, razor-sharp daggers and his greed to help in any fight that Bors stumbled into. The group of five looked like a merchant and his guards, though Bors didn’t care what they were. His eyes focused on the fat coin purses of the merchant and the simple guards. He felt his fingers itch. Bors rubbed at his chin and heard Rott cough twice before sidling a little closer. Either he fancies the merchant, or he sees the purse… or both. Bors chuckled to himself, “Yes, little rat?”

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Rott asked, smiling up at Bors with a gap-toothed smile, ignoring the jibe.

“Probably not, I don’t like those kinds of dagger fights like you do,” Bors said with a mocking smile at his friend while the serving wench brought him another cup of the wretched Europan white. Rott was handed another tankard of vile, fermented sheep’s milk. Bors’ nose stung from the pungent smell as it passed close. It is his vice, as you have yours. Who are you to question his?

The comely Venusian settled the empty platter down, and Bors thought he caught the scent of something a little sweeter in his mug when she handed it to him. She gave him a flash of a wide, white smile. The wine smells sweeter, Bors mused. Perhaps she gave me something sweeter for a better tip? He took a deep pull of the drink and was surprised by the sweetness of the contents.

Rott shook his head at what Bors said. “I don’t always think with my manhood, though it’sh shmarter than yours.” Rott smirked back, revealing his rotting and cracked teeth as he slurred.

Bors didn’t rise to the jab. “Usual plan?” The barbarian curled his hands, not liking the sudden sense that he needed to grab the dirk at his belt. His senses screamed out to stand. “By Von…” he croaked out a half oath before his tongue felt thick and mouth suddenly dry. Something’s wrong. He tried to say something to Rott. He turned when he heard a thunk, seeing Rott’s head on the table, the thief snoring.

The last thing he saw was one of the Venusian serving girls coming closer to him, along with two burly types. They smirked, looking down at him as he was on the floor and his eyelids were closing. One last jolt of energy to try to stand surged through Bors. However, his feet didn’t respond as they should, causing him to trip over them and slam face-first into the dirt floor of the wine shop before he blacked out.