The rogue sat in a motel room, leaving the T.V. on for some white noise. He had already watched the adventurers’ trial, broadcast over multiple networks even. He had already laughed at how everyone seemed scared and confused to realize that the rogue was disguised so impossibly well that he appeared different in every recording. It was good fun, seeing his own exploits, but in the end that fun was over.

The rogue was not afraid. He had faced down so many different world shattering monsters, so many dark, old, deep gods, so many dragons, wizards, giants, so much of everything that the rogue didn’t think he could even register fear anymore. No, what the rogue felt was not fear. Fear involved a threat to his physical wellbeing, which was impossible.

What the rogue felt was worry. Worry that his time with the adventurers was over. The rogue had been in multiple adventuring teams before, but the adventurers had been his trusted companions for far longer than every other team combined.

It was worrying how quickly adventuring teams could fall apart. One day, the rogue was trekking through some awful swamp to kill a witch, a quest of revenge for one member of an old party. After a few days, the witch was found, combat was initiated, and after a successful quest the rogue had returned to the inn the team was staying at. Things had been going fine, until the next morning. The rogue asked a teammate what the next quest was, only to be told that there wouldn’t be another quest. The warrior had gotten his revenge, and had returned home. The sorceress had had enough of the team, and traveled to the next time over. The healer was staying here, it was nice here.

And the rogue… the rogue was going to-

The rogue shook his head, pulling himself out of the memory. It was getting late, and the rogue was going to search for the rest of the adventurers.

The search had not been going well. So far, he had been to three bars, his cloak pulled over his head and a mostly full mug of beer in his hands. It was as clear a sign as he could make it. Everyone knew that dark cloaks in dark corners meant an adventurer looking for work. He had waited at each bar for a little over an hour, before giving up and heading to the next tavern he wandered across.

The adventurers had been split up before, the rogue knew, but never this thoroughly. It had always been two groups of three, or three groups of two, or a team of four and a team of two, or five adventurers working to rescue one. In all of those, everyone had a clear understanding of what was happening. The goal was always to meet back up, and finish whatever quest they had been working on. After that, the fighter would find a new quest, and it was back to adventure.

But this place was really, really big. The rogue had never really understood the size of King’s Head when the adventurers had first arrived. There were so many buildings, and they were so tall. The rogue eyed a skyscraper, gleaming in the neon glow of night. How many rooms would he need to check to make sure none of the other adventurers were trapped there? What about the sky scrapers next to it? Or the sky scrapers next to those? He had even seen manhole covers, and was forced to understand that some huge, crisscross spiderweb of subterranian tunnels existed underneath the city. And there were more cities, across vast stretched of wilderness, with more buildings, and more tunnels, and more bars, and taverns, and inns.

The fighter had always been so good at finding another adventure. Even when the rogue weas bickering with the wizard, the wizard was bickering with the bard, and the bard with the barbarian, the fighter was always find another quest. Once a quest was found, everyone set aside their differences like professionals, and set to work.

Weeks had passed with the rogue working with the adventurers. Those weeks turned into months, and the team was still together. Those months had turned into years, and the fighter was still finding new quests. One year became two, two years became three, and eventually the rogue had lost track. They had plumbed untold subterranean depths, set foot on distant planes of existence, walked upon isles lost to time, it had become impossible to tell how much time had actually passed, and back in those days the rogue had smiled. There was still no end in sight.

The rogue kicked a bit of gravel down the road, listening to the clatter of stone bouncing along pavement.

Back in those days, the rogue had smiled. Now, what was he to do?

Sometimes, and this became increasingly rare, the rogue would happen upon an old teammate when he was with the adventurers. To his surprise and irritation, they had formed new bands, with new people, and the rogue was never invited! Sure, nobody could keep track of the rogue, but they could at least make an effort. They had gotten together, and went on adventures, and they didn’t want him! And he was the best! They told him-

“What are you doing here?” a burly man asked, a knife strapped to his belt.

“Huh? Oh, just reminiscing,” the rogue said.

“This here’s Iron’s turf,” another man said.

What the rogue was to do was continue the work. The cleric had explained to all the adventurers that she expected them to keep doing good deeds if they were separated, and the rogue had agreed with that.

“You’re the people who do that “human trafficking,” right?” the rogue asked.

“Bounties, if you bring some fresh meat,” the second man said.

“Actually, I had some questions,” the rogue explained.

“The money’s good,” the second man said.

“Don’t you think he’s a bit young?” the first man asked.

“Never too early to start teaching ‘em,” the second man assured.

“These people you want to sell to other people,” the rogue said, “Are they elves, or something?”

The two burly thugs were ready to glare their way through about fifteen minutes of pointless moralizing before demonstrating that might makes right, not to be asked if Asians were like elves.

“I suppose if it helps you sleep better at night,” the first man said.

“What do you mean, elves?” the second man demanded.

“Well, it’s just,” the rogue started, “Where I come from, a lot of people have the idea that humans are superior to elves. An idea I happen to agree with.”

“I- hold on,” the first man said, “Wouldn’t it be that elves are superior to humans?”

“What’re you talking about?” the second man growled.

“Normally, yes,” the rogue admitted, “But, and this is important, people don’t like others who do nothing but rest on their laurels. Try that for a week, your friends will be sick of you. Try that for centuries, and it’ll be the whole world. To try and fix that, civilization has been trying to press gang elves into combat and forced labor, trouble is that those dandelion eaters are so weak and lazy they’re awful at both. Instead they come up with some of the most self indulgent poetry you’ve ever heard. Stuffs’ awful.”

“Well, yes,” the first man said, “The people we’re trying to capture are like elves.”

“Really?” the rogue asked, “Because I gave myself a look around your compound, and saw nothing but terrified girls, rounded ears, and corpses. And I started to think to myself that you’re a bunch of slaving crooks.”

“Now, it is a well known fact that-” the second man collapsed with a pained gurgle, blood spewing from his open neck as he fell dead on the cold streets.

The first man hadn’t even seen the rogue move. Not towards his friend to slit his throat like a slice of bread, nor to ready his huge knife. The man definitely didn’t see the rogue move closer.

“What are you?” the man pleaded.

“I’ve got another question,” the rogue said, wiping blood onto his sleeve, “Would the people you work with, the Iron or whatever you call them, learn about this sooner or later if there was one survivor, or none?”

“One?” the man hoped.

“Well,” the rogue said, pointing a thumb down the street, “Get to going. And don’t let me find you again. I pick a new guy each time.”

His good deed down, the rogue had nothing left to do but return to his reminiscing on the way back home.

Where was he? Those other people didn’t want to travel or adventure with the rogue? No, that was just a sour tangent the rogue dug up to distract himself. The real issue was how many adventuring parties the rogue had seen dissolve, and how quickly it had happened. The rogue loved adventure, he loved adventuring, he loved seeing new places, meeting new people, and putting a knife in most of them. He loved doing everything with the other adventurers.

What if- what if this was it? What if the adventurers never came back together? What if the rogue spent the rest of his time, cutting the throats of two bit thugs, and just waiting. Waiting for the cleric or the wizard or the bard to find him. Waiting around dingy, run down bars in the hope that the fighter or the barbarian would come stumbling in. Waiting for some massive disaster that, by sheer happenstance, unites the adventurers once more as they face off against danger for the fate of the world. Waiting for something, anything, that meant the rogue could be with the adventurers again.

The fighter had kept the adventurers together, he always had. Kept them together far longer than the rogue had thought possible. But the fighter wasn’t here, the barbarian wasn’t here, the bard wasn’t here, the wizard wasn’t here, and the cleric wasn’t here.

The rogue sat down on the motel bed, letting the T.V. play just for some white noise. The rogue was here, and nobody else was. The rogue knew he should be with the team, that he belonged with the other adventurers.

Roger worried he would be alone for quite some time.