Interlude - The Greedy

"Move it, bitch," Sam called out, his voice dripping with boredom as he shoved the porter out of the way. The poor sap hit the ground with an "oomph," flailing before managing to get back on its stubby feet.

"I'm sorry, sir! I had my head in the clouds!" the porter squeaked, clearly trying to apologize. But Sam didn't give a rat's ass. His mind was on more important things—like figuring out his next move.

"Stop broodin', ya dumb shite," came Dilbo's gravelly voice, sounding like a boulder scraping down a hill. Sam felt the urge to snap back with some witty insult, but he reined himself in. Now wasn't the time for banter. Not when the hobbit had sworn up and down that the newbie had a stash of stones worth more than their collective dignity.

Sam glanced over at Dilbo. The dwarf looked like he'd rolled straight out of a garbage pile like always, his armor more rust than metal, but that didn't seem to matter much. He swung his massive axe around like it weighed nothing, his beady eyes always scanning for their next victim. If there was one thing Sam had learned in all his years of adventuring, it was to never judge a dwarf by his cover. Especially not when said dwarf could cleave a man in two without breaking a sweat.

Sam himself was no slouch. Tall for a human and ruggedly handsome, or so the whores kept telling him.

He wasn't one to argue.

Together, he and Dilbo made for an odd pair, like a nobleman and his faithful mutt. But they got the job done, which was more than could be said for most.

Newbies rarely put up much of a fight; they were more like chickens marching to the slaughter. Easy pickings. "Ain't much, but it's a living," Sam mused, swinging his sword in a lazy arc to decapitate a kobold that had wandered too close. The little creature didn't even have time to scream.

"Might even be enough for some watered-down Soma," he muttered to himself, already fantasizing about the cheap booze he'd buy with whatever scraps they could scrape together from today's haul.

"How much more, porter?" Dilbo barked, sounding as irritated as ever. But before the hobbit could answer, something caught their attention.

They both stopped dead in their tracks, their eyes locking onto the sight before them. A boy, barely more than a stripling, lay sprawled out on the ground, looking every bit like a dead fish. Blood pooled beneath his head, mixing with the muck. Nearby, the mangled corpse of a frog shooter lay in the dirt, its bulbous eye staring lifelessly into the void.

"Well, call me Daisy and screw me in the arse," Dilbo laughed, his voice booming through the stillness. "The dumbass got himself killed before we could even get our hands on him." Sam couldn't help but let a grin slip through. There wasn't much to be gained from the newbie anymore, but a good laugh was worth its weight in gold.

"If he got his ass handed to him by a frog, he probably didn't have much worth taking anyway," Sam muttered, stepping over to the frog shooter to pry the magic stone from its corpse.

That's when it hit. Pain, sharp and sudden, tore through him as something pierced his eye. The world tilted, spinning out of control. He didn't even have time to register what had happened before his body crumpled to the ground, his sword slipping from his grasp.

Sam, 38 years old, third-rate adventurer, and all-around unlucky bastard was dead before he even hit the dirt, left wondering in his last moments just how the hell it all went so wrong.

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Dilbo watched in horror as Sam's head jerked back, a sharp claw piercing right through his eye. "Ah, fuck the gods!" he spat, his voice echoing with venom. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. The kid—the one they'd thought was easy prey—was suddenly not so dead after all.

'A trap,' was Dilbo's first thought, and it wasn't an unusual one. Killing a killer was fair game. Hell, there were plenty of times Dilbo had half a mind to cleave Sam's head off himself just for the fun of it. But this was neither here nor there. They'd walked right into a goddamn trap.

'Gotta run,' came the next thought, quick and dirty. His eyes darted to the not-so-dead newbie, now rising to his feet with an agility that belied his previous lifeless sprawl. The kid jumped toward him, his eyes wild and dangerous.

But then Dilbo saw it, the sorry state of the kid's body, wounds covering him like a patchwork quilt. A twisted grin spread across Dilbo's face, and greed sparked in his eyes. He waved his axe threateningly, forcing the boy to stumble back, limping on one leg.

"You call that a fucking jump, ya half-dead bastard?" Dilbo sneered. "I've seen corpses with more life in 'em!" He took in the kid's many wounds, noting how he swayed, barely holding himself up. This fool was more injured than dangerous. "One swing and you'll be gutted like a fish," he taunted, relishing the idea of making short work of this idiot.

The boy's impassive face morphed into a grin. "One arrow for half the gear," he muttered, eyes flicking past Dilbo.

Dilbo blinked, confused for a moment, before his mind caught up. The fucker wasn't even talking to him.

Realization dawned just in time for him to feel the sharp pain of an arrow sinking into the back of his knee. "You filthy whore!" Dilbo roared, pain coursing through his leg as he crumpled to the ground. "I'll gut you like a fish, you backstabbing piece of—"

His brain screamed at him to do something as the were-animal, or whatever the hell this kid was, suddenly lunged at him, claws outstretched and ready to tear him apart. But Dilbo wasn't some greenhorn fresh off the farm. Even on his arse, he knew how to fight. With a grunt, he swung his axe up, using it as a makeshift shield while kicking out with his good leg.

The kick connected, sending the kid sprawling back, but Dilbo wasn't feeling too confident. He was in a real fucking mess now. The bastard was coming at him again, faster this time, like a cornered animal. But there was a wildness to his movements, a desperation that told Dilbo all he needed to know.

The kid was hurting, his wounds more than just for show.

Dilbo steadied himself, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He might be a bit tipsy, but he wasn't out yet.

The bastard's next strike was erratic, and Dilbo saw his chance. He swung his axe with all the strength he could muster. It cut deep into the kid's belly, tearing through flesh and intestines like they were nothing.

"That's what you get for not wearing armor, you dumb fuck!" Dilbo roared, triumph surging through him. He could feel the victory, taste it like the booze he loved so much. He loosened his grip on the axe, ready to push the kid off and watch him bleed out. But then, before he could even blink, the kid's mouth opened wide—too wide. Something sharp and white gleamed in the back of his throat.

Dilbo's eyes widened in disbelief. "What the—" he started, but he never finished. A sharp, bony projectile shot out, much like a frog shooter's tongue, and hit him square in the face.

Dilbo, 45 years old, third-rate adventurer, and self-proclaimed booze connoisseur, died without ever understanding how it had all gone so wrong.