“So, this is the place?” the fighter asked, eyeing a large, abandoned warehouse with suspicion.

“It is,” the man said.

“When does the meeting start?” the cleric asked.

“Well, the meeting doesn’t start until tonight,” the man said, “But members are allowed in anytime.”

“What’s the secret password?” the rogue asked.

“Who cares?” the fighter asked.

“Actually, it’s blood and glory,” the man explained.

“Well, thanks for the help,” the fighter said.

“This was really out of the way,” the cleric said.

“Thanks, my plea-” the rogue stuck a knife into the man’s back. The cleaver pierced the man’s heart, and the rogue dragged it out through his lungs. With a word from the cleric, divine fire burned the man to ash.

“Alright, we have until nightfall to loot and scout the place,” the fighter said, hopping to his feet, “I only see one entrance, so we should be able to ambush the cult when they arrive. Rogue, you’re heading in first. Give a quick check for traps and report back to us.”

“On it,” the rogue said, hurrying off to the warehouse. The warehouse did not have traps. It did not have much in the way of loot. The warehouse had a few storage crates stacked up near the front to cover what was going on. Past the crates was a dimly lit circle and a throne made of scrap. The circle did not have traps, the rogue noted, briefly looking over it. The circle was a mess of dark brown splotches, and ringed with white sand. When the rogue stuck a knife into a dull gunk, he found that it peeled and cracked dryly.

“Blood,” the rogue realized, taking light steps onto the circle and noting shards of teeth, strips of skin and clumps of hair that had been mixed into the blood.

The throne did not have loot. It was an overgrown mess, the back made of a concrete slab with rebar sticking out, the armrests made of twisted and bent car doors, and the seat made of a car hood wrapped around an engine block.

The rogue checked the ceiling, smiling at the rafters, and headed back to report to the fighter.

“So, I didn’t find any traps,” the rogue said, “And I’m fairly sure there’s no traps, same with magical traps. The cleric will need to check for magical alarms. There’s rafters along the top, should make for a solid ambush.”

“Sounds good,” the fighter commented, “The guy said that the meetings were at night, and the sun is setting now. Before we head in there, cleric I need you to send a magic message to the other team. Ask them for a status update.”

“On it,” the cleric said, closing her eyes as she worked her miracle, “They say they’re doing fine.”

“Good,” the fighter said, “Let’s get this ambush set up.”

Night fell on Kings Head, and cars began to slowly drive up to the warehouse. The first was an old, beaten up truck that shuddered and shook as it moved. A lone figure stepped out, a scrawny man clad in filthy rags, his hair and beard were oily and wild and his eyes were narrow and crazed. As the man walked for the warehouse, his bones stretched and snapped audibly, his body contorting wildly and painfully, and the rags stretching and tearing as the man grew.

By the time he stepped inside, the transformation was complete. The man stood hunched and ape-like, well over ten feet tall. His arms were massive, thicker around than his waist with skin stretched so thin that individual sinews were nearly visible, and his knuckles reached past his knees. Every single muscle on his body was defined, from his absurd set of abs, down to the lumbricals that held huge, calloused fingers. The giant lumbered over to the throne, sitting down in it with a heavy thud.

“Cleric, are you picking up evil?” the fighter asked, watching people slowly trickle in.

“Fighter, they have a giant scab full of blood soaked teeth and hair,” the cleric said, “Of course I’m picking up evil.”

“The viscera scab could be a red herring,” the fighter said.

“That only happened one time,” the cleric hissed.

“Yeah,” the rogue said, “But it still happened one time.”

“Those weren’t even good people,” the cleric retorted.

“Members of the Cult of Brass,” the giant said, his voice deep and guttural, “For the White Herald, we fight. For the White Herald, we destroy. For the White Herald, we slay.”

“For the White Herald!” the crowd shouted.

“Did you say that we kill morally neutral people, and you don’t?” the rogue asked, “I seem to remember something like that.”

“I remember you saying you respect my opinions,” the cleric said, “That wasn’t a lie, was it? My hammer roots out lies.”

“It also uproots teeth,” the fighter said.

“Recruitment is commencing,” the giant said, “The faithful have brought new bodies. Bring them up.”

“You use a sword,” the cleric said, “It does everything my hammer does but with more gore.”

“You three,” the giant said, pointing at the three people the crowd had shoved forward, “Today, you will fight. Tomorrow, you will fight. The next day, you will fight. When you fight, the White Herald will give you strength. When you fight, the White Herald will make you healthy-”

“Please!” one of the captives begged, “I have children!”

“Then your children shall also fight,” the giant said, “When you fight, you will find glory and favor.”

“No, my sword can do everything your hammer can and more,” the fighter said, “It’s very versatile, you can half sword, reverse grip, pommel strike-”

“I’m still not going to get one,” the cleric said.

“Can you at least name your hammer ‘Bad Breaks’?” the rogue asked.

“If you can no longer fight, you will be killed,” the giant said, “If you kill, you will be rewarded with strength.”

“You know, Bad Breaks actually sounds pretty good,” the cleric said, rubbing her chin in thought.

“You won’t get away with this!” one of the captives shrieked.

“I could yell, “Against my fury, Bad Breaks!”” the cleric said, mimicking a fight, “How’s that sound?”

“Eight of my warriors, come forth and welcome these three into the fold,” the giant commanded. The crowd hollered and jeered as the giant picked members one by one, cackling as they loomed over the cowering civilians.

“Stay back!” one of the captives said, standing to his feet.

“Quiet, meat!” the cultist screamed, raising his fist. Inches before the cultist struck, a bolt of white fire tore the deranged man in half. Two scorched lumps of gore toppled to the ground, blood leaking through the charred flesh. Cries of alarm bubbled up from the cult, side by side accusations of being supers. Of being tainted with inhuman strength.

“As Bad Breaks, you shall fear my wrath,” the cleric muttered, turning back to the adventurers, “I don’t know, I don’t think this name really works.”

“Listen, do you know how often I incorporate Wed Block into a battle cry?” the fighter asked, “Never. Battle cries don’t work with weapon names. It’s a waste.”

“You could,” the rogue said, “I shall separate your bonds, come forth, Wed Block! See?”

“Separate their bonds of what?” the fighter asked.

“I don’t know,” the rogue said, “The bonds that hold their organs and bones together?”

“Nobody thinks about puns during battle,” the fighter said.

“Yeah, but nobody thinks about battle during puns,” the rogue said.

“Shut your mouth,” the cleric said.

“You there!” the giant said, his voice rumbling with anger, “I am the Brass Champion! Who dares interrupt our sacred ritual?”

“Look “Wed-Block” is just a name I thought of one night at an inn,” the fighter continued.

“I’ll settle this,” the rogue said, turning to the Brass Champion, “Hey, you! What’s your battle cry?”

“Die!” the Brass Champion bellowed.

“Woah,” the cleric remarked, “That’s a good battle cry.”

Marcus Boone liked being in the Cult of Brass. It had made him strong and muscular. He liked looking at himself in the mirror. He liked showing off his shredded muscles to ladies at the bar. He liked fighting, looting, and stomping people into the curb. The constantly bloodshot eyes were irritating, but that gave Marcus an excuse to wear dark sunglasses everywhere. And who doesn’t like a good curb stomp?

The Cult of Brass roared as the adventurers leapt down from the rafters, and for the first time in years Marcus was feeling hesitation.

At first, this confused Marcus. The Cult of Brass, even this small gathering, outnumbered the intruders twenty to one, but when Marcus looked at the press of bodies, it looked thin. Marcus stood back, shamed by his cowardice, and saw the swordsman’s blade flicker through the air. Cult members fell two, three, sometimes even four at a time with each swing of the deadly blade. The swordsman raised his shield as the Brass Champion lumbered into battle, and the armored woman leapt off the shield, screaming as her hammer slammed into the champion. The Brass Champion toppled under the force of the blow, collapsing backwards with blood streaming from his head. The woman landed atop him, still screaming in righteous fury as she pummeled him with her hammer. The champion swung a mighty arm at the woman, and her hammer lit up with divine power to meet the oncoming fist. Hammer met hand with a bright flash, Marcus felt his jaw go slack when the Brass Champion’s arm was little more than a bloodied stump.

Somebody stumbled into Marcus, and it took him a moment to realize that it was a fellow cult member. They were running away. They were fleeing. Men and women who loved violence and slaughter more than life were running away from the swordsman. Body parts littered the ground around the swordsman, hands, legs, arms, heads and torsos. The man didn’t look concerned. He didn’t even look tired.

Someone appeared next to Marcus, gently pressing a knife between Marcus’ legs.

“Don’t,” Marcus pleaded.

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” the rogue said, “I just need to talk to you for a moment. Who’s the “White Herald” the big guy was going on about?”

“I don’t know-” Marcus’ took a sharp breath as the knife moved slightly upward, “Our leader, he’s our leader! But- none of us know who he is!”

“Not even the giant?” the rogue asked.

“No,” Marcus said.

The rogue nodded to the cleric, and her hammer smashed the giant’s skull like it was an eggshell. Marcus had seen him overturn trucks.

“Come on man, if you’re gonna kill just cut my head off!” Marcus cried.

“Who says I’ll kill you?” the rogue asked.

“You’re killing everyone, man!” Marcus said.

“You’re saved!” the cleric cheered, pointing to the captives.

“AAAAAA!” the captives screamed.

“You’re sure you don’t know where your White Herald is?” the rogue asked.

“Why aren’t rescued hostages ever grateful?” the fighter asked.

“I don’t know,” the cleric said, “You three did want to be rescued right?” It didn’t occur to the cleric that the adventures, the hostages, and Marcus were thoroughly soaked in blood. It didn’t occur to Marcus either, but what did occur to Marcus was that he could no longer see the edges of The Scab.

Ever since he had joined the Cult of Brass, The Scab, that mess of congealed blood and gore, had been in every memory he had of the place. Marcus remembered the cheers he had gotten when he had fought for so long, so messily, that the blood he had spilled had reached the edges of The Scab. He remembered the wide eyed awe he had when the Brass Champion, with just one hand, had flattened someone to a pulpy smear. These people, they hadn’t just trampled it.

They had ruined it. One of the few things that Marcus thought of as sacred, the swordsman, the hammer woman, and the knife wielding boy, had spilled so much blood, fought so messily, that The Scab no longer mattered. It couldn’t matter. If the Brass Champion couldn’t beat them, couldn’t spill so much of their blood that The Scab was wet and warm again, what chance did anyone else have? What chance did he have?

Marcus shook.

“Hey,” the cleric said, “They were talking about some White Herald. You know anything about him?”

“I already asked,” the rogue said, “He doesn’t.”

“Well, guess we’ll have to find him the old fashioned way,” the fighter said, “Do you have any family?”

“No,” Marcus said, his voice barely more than a whisper. Was this really the end for him? To get brutally carved up by a bunch of psychopaths? Well, that wasn’t too far off from how he expected, no, wanted to die. But in his dreams’ death, he hoped to take at least a few out with him.

Marcus swung his fist at the cleric, who swung her hammer through him.

“Look, are you going to quit screaming?” the rogue asked, turning to the captives, “We saved you.”

“Please don’t hurt me!”

“I’ll do anything, I swear!”

“I just want to go home!”

“Then go home already,” the fighter grumbled, “And you, did you say you can do anything, or you will do anything?”

“I- I, uh, I said I will do anything.”

“But you can’t actually do anything, can you?” the cleric asked, “If I told you to make me able to fly, could you do that?”

“I- I can’t do that.”

“Then why would you say you’ll do anything?” the fighter demanded.

“Because saying “I’ll do anything within reason” doesn’t sell,” the rogue explained.

“Can I leave?”

“Yes!” the adventures said.

…

Janet Mard, officially, had the day off. Her current issue was that “having the day off” as a senior manager at Bright Tomorrow meant: waking up ten minutes early, blearly answering emails, solving new disasters, eating a microwaved breakfast in fifteen minutes, networking with other executives, delegating tasks to managers and supervisors, filing reports to other senior managers and directors, sifting through H.R. complaints, contracting out new maintenance staff because all the senior maintenance associates she had hired on were old and retiring, and for some awful reason all the new young employees went out of their way to taunt and harass their betters, informing new hires that for their poor behavior and unprofessional conduct they were being promoted to customer, issuing official apologies to the last maintenance team that had quit, approving time off, rejecting time off, and, finally, mercifully, looking at resumes and potential employees as she lazily chewed on a caesar salad.

She paused for just a moment when she got to Eric Fletcher. He was a promising new prospect, leadership experience in the military, excellent grades, a degree in business management. He had been rejected, unfortunately, and when Janet looked over his interview it was fairly obvious why. First off, Eric Fletcher sounded like an insane person. Secondly, checking the crisp security footage against Eric’s social media, the man they interviewed was not Eric Fletcher.

But what a man he was. Janet saw his suit straining against bulging muscles, saw the almost predatory way the man moved, saw the steely determination in his eyes. It was like watching a massive wolf walk amongst dogs. He reminded Janet of all the dog eared romances she’d read on cold, lonely nights. Stories of larger than life men who were ready for anything, who could conquer anything. The way his eyes smoldered, the way his gaze was cold.

Janet pulled up Michal’s profile, the man who had done the interviews. What could he possibly know about this man among men? As far as Janet cared, Michal was a man who thought that determination came from a power tie, that prowess came from black coffee early in the morning. If only Janet could meet that man. He looked like romance and adventure come to life, with the sort of perfect body only seen in marble sculptures. Was it really so wrong for Janet to meet her dreams, just once?

From a professional standard, yes. Still, she could find work for the man, honestly it would be hard not to. Michal was a fool for rejecting him. She contacted H.R., emailing them to explain the situation. Bright Tomorrow had plenty of daughter companies that could use him. Janet didn’t have his contact information, which would complicate things, but that would not stop her. She was smart, cunning, resourceful, determined, creative, and told herself she was beautiful. She would find him.