the smuggler’s bible


Bloodtooth stumbles out of the timebomb, bricks crumbling to powder where he steadies himself against the wall. The runes on his axe smolder and discharge a thin stream of smoke that tangles in his 600-years-growth of beard. The wizard is in the corner—bleached skull leering out of tattered rags.

“Goddamn idiot,” Bloodtooth says, wading through the dust. He pops the skull off of the moldering pile and tucks it away. Weeks later he manages to dig himself out of the now-ancient tomb and heads into town, praying to Crom those stingy bastards will pay for bones.

They do not.