Not Another Hero

A wrecked wagon sat along the side of the road. All but one of its wheels had been removed, and huge arrows were lodged in its planks. Francine and Chad surveyed the derelict while a few of their workers stood guard with spears.



Upon seeing me approach the site, Francine turned. "I never knew these roads were so dangerous. I'm glad you suggested taking some insurance," she said, her typical stern demeanor replaced with concern. "What do you think? Is this the work of thorn pixies?"

I had never even seen a thorn pixie at that point, but I'd heard tales. They bombard their targets from afar and then swarm them from the trees. It looked like it fit the bill. Instead of confirming her suspicions right away, I furrowed my brow and began to survey the site. I'd adopted this mannerism to disguise myself on those occasions when I had to quickly make up a lie.



There were no bodies and no cargo - just a shell, really. The only arrows I found were buried deep in the wagon's frame. In front of the wreck was a large pool of blood and a discarded longsword - battered, but functional.