“That’s the guy,” the rogue said, picking a man out of the after work rush.

“Cleric?” the fighter asked.

“Yep, he’s evil,” the cleric answered, “Getting some cultist vibes from him. Violent, too.”

“But we’re violent,” the rogue said, “Are you saying we’re evil?”

“No, we’re not violent,” the fighter said, “We’re peaceful.”

“We kill people,” the cleric argued.

“Yes, we do,” the fighter said, “But we kill people peacefully. Listen, violent people create violence so that there will be more violence. Do we agree?”

“Yes,” the cleric said.

“Good. We don’t create violence so that there will be more violence,” the fighter explained, “We do it so that there will be less violence and more peace. Thankfully, there has been no shortage of people who want more violence and less peace, otherwise we’d have had to stop killing people a long time ago.”

“I’m so glad we’re peaceful,” the rogue agreed, “Otherwise, nobody would recognize us as heroes for our great deeds, nobody would heap treasures upon us, and the righteous would constantly be trying to kill us.”

“I feel like you’re making fun of me,” the cleric grumbled.

“We definitely aren’t,” the fighter said, acutely aware of what happened when the one person who healed them was upset.

“Of course I’m not making fun of you,” the rogue said, “I respect you and your opinions greatly. Now, he’s getting away!”

The cleric thought the rogue sounded almost too happy to drop the conversation. Still, there was justice to dole out and peace to uphold. The cleric, fighter and rogue caught up in short order, even when sticking to side paths and alleyways. The fighter wrapped a meaty hand over the man’s mouth and yanked him into a dumpster that the rogue and cleric were already hiding in.

“Who are-” the man nearly shouted, feeling the rogue press a knife to his throat.

“I want to make sure you know something,” the rogue explained, “This is a magic auto knife. If anyone in here doesn’t whisper, the knife will slit your throat.”

“Not the speaker?” the man asked.

“What, are you kidding?” the rogue asked, “What use would that be?”

“It’d silence the speaker,” the man explained, “That way-”

“Sure, but I want you silent,” the rogue said, “If it worked like that, I’d have to be constantly lunging at people, just for speaking!”

“How automatic is that knife?” the man asked.

“Directed by expert paranoia honed over years of adventuring,” the fighter said proudly, “Namely, anyone who’d disagree with us is clearly evil.”

“You guys sound crazy,” the man remarked.

“I’m sane,” the cleric said, “Now, tell us your evil secrets.”

“N-” the man caught himself. “Do I have to?”

“Yes,” the cleric said, “Well, I suppose you don’t really have to, but then the rogue would gut you like a fish.”

“Well, what if I just don’t talk?” the man asked.

“Do we really need to explain that?” the fighter asked.

“Alright, I don’t know how you caught me,” the man said, “But I-”

“Liar!” the cleric accused.

“I didn’t even say anything,” the man protested.

“Yeah, you didn’t lie to us because I didn’t let you,” the cleric said, “Otherwise I’d have to use my lie catching mace.”

“Is there any way I can survive this?” the man asked, “Or are you just psycho murderers?”

“I take great offense to that,” the fighter said, “You survive this by telling us the truth and answering every question we ask you. Now, what are your evil secrets?”

“I’m part of the Cult of Brass,” the man admitted, “If you don’t know what that is, it’s a cult of people who fight and raid and plunder. We’re led by the White Herald, who grants us enhanced strength and speed. Would you like to join?”

“What?” the cleric muttered.

“We’re a very accepting group,” the man continued, “And you three seem like the exactly kind of violent, unhinged people that we’re looking for.”

“Really?” the rogue said, “And what would members be expected to do?”

“Well, new members go through a hazing ritual,” the man said, “Each of you fight until you’re exhausted, then you fight the Brass Champion. He’s the White Herald’s right hand man, and don’t worry, the power the White Herald grants you will heal your injuries. No sense turning you into cripples.”

“When is this meeting?” the cleric asked.

“Are weapons allowed?” the fighter asked, “Or are we expected to fight unarmed?”

“Are we allowed to kill them?” the rogue asked.

“What?” the cleric and the man asked.

“I mean, you said that this is a fight club,” the rogue explained, “And I’m just innocently wondering, can we really go at it? Is this just some casual scuffle, a bar brawl, or are we talking about all out combat? Cut throat, merciless, brutal throat cutting?”

“I…” the man said, “People don’t usually kill in cult meetings. Usually, the newly inducted get beaten to a nasty pulp. Though, if you were so savage as to kill people in your first meeting, I can only think the White Herald would be impressed. I don’t know if he’ll be there, though. We’re actually a new chapter. The Cult of Brass is a growing brand, we’d be happy if you could join us.”

“It will be my pleasure to meet you all,” the cleric said, “I can’t wait to- if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be right back.”

“Where is she going?” the man asked.

Where the cleric was going was towards a shapeshifter she had spotted. Then she went to drag the shapeshifter into an alleyway, beat the monster to death, and dump the corpse in a dumpster. The shapeshifter didn’t want to break cover, and didn’t have a chance to return to it’s true form until the cleric had shredded the creature with her morning star. The corpse was a nasty, slimy, greasy thing, and would go undetected as more garbage was tossed on top of it throughout the week.

“Don’t worry about it,” the rogue assured him, “We’re professionals.”

“You’re professionals?” the man asked, “I’ve met a few professionals. They tend to keep a, ah, low profile. Very well dressed people, black suits and silk ties. You know what I mean?”

“No,” the fighter remarked, “Silk makes for terrible armor.”

“Well, er, I’ve heard that the best armor,” the man explained, “Is the enemy not drawing their weapons.”

“Well that’s easy!” the rogue said, “Splash some greater glue on the sheath and watch them try to draw their weapon.”

“Or grab their wrist when they try to draw steel,” the fighter added, “Keep their weapon pinned with one hand, and cut their throat with the other.”

“I don’t think you quite understand what I’m saying,” the man said.

“Oh please,” the rogue said, “We’ve been in loads of life and death situations-”

“It’s life or death,” the man corrected.

“No it isn’t,” the fighter said.

“Look, call it whatever you want,” the rogue said, “But these always end with someone, somewhere, dying. I’ve been in life and death scenarios more times than I can remember, but can count life or death on one hand. And did you know, even if what you’re in is a life or death scenario, death is a lot easier.”

“It usually makes people angry at you,” the fighter added, “Which is stupid. We carry swords, not… I don’t know, sticks or something.”

“Eh, a lot of giants only carry sticks,” the rogue said, “And they kill people all the time.”

“It’s like they expect me to hit someone as hard as possible,” the fighter groaned, “And somehow let them live.”

“Hey, I’m finished,” the cleric said, hopping back into the dumpster.

“How’d it go?” the fighter asked.

“Nothing too difficult,” the cleric answered, “Is he giving us answers yet?”

“Yes?” the man guessed.

“Where’s the meeting, and what time is it?” the cleric demanded.

The man told them. Then, he did his best to explain the concept of street addresses to the adventurers, but they were having none of it. The adventurers demanded a list of landmarks that they could use to find the meeting, and the man tried to explain that that was impossible. The adventurers asked if there was nothing but a white void between them and the meeting place, and what could have brought about such a disaster. The man explained that that wasn’t possible, but that he simply didn’t know what the landmarks were, and that even if he did they would all be incredibly common and mundane.

Eventually, after a long and arduous process. The man and the adventurers were able to put together a map of the Kings Head with a path leading to the meeting point, complete with landmarks, street names, travel time, and a date and time for the meeting, 2:00 A.M. next weekend.

Then, the fighter decapitated him.