the smuggler’s bible

Branbildon the Wise-Head

Branbildon the Wise-Head sits cross-legged on the damp dungeon floor for fifteen minutes considering the dagger that fell out of the goblin’s pack when the rest of it evaporated in his fireball. He thinks he can detect a faint blue glow coming from the blade. And then there’s the matter of the runes.

At least Branbildon figures the black smudges are runes. The light is really terrible down there.

He reaches out a hand, stops and draws it back.

“Hmmm,” he says. “Maybe with the proper grounding…”

“Oh, my god,” the dagger chimes petulantly. “You are the slowest goddamn wizard.”