the smuggler’s bible


The spell, when they find it, is resting on a pedestal in a chamber bathed in its soft, violet light. Bloodtooth kicks over some stones as he enters. He yelps and clutches his stubbed toe.

“Oh, shit,” Snake-in-the-Grass whispers.

“Wait, what?” Bloodtooth turns and finds himself alone in the gloom. Briefly, at least. Looking carefully now he sees them rising from crevices and bolt-holes. A tribe of goblins—thirty or more—fizzing angrily.

His body performs the mindless tasks automatically: sword out, shield up. Bloodtooth takes one step back toward the wall so he can feel something solid behind him.