Gunnar’s Mana was running low, so he switched off Dark Sight, letting the holographic arrows of his MiniNav guide him as he sprinted into an unfamiliar part of the city. They were close to the entertainment district, but you’d never know it. The buildings grew progressively dingier by the block. Hobos huddled in doorways, draped in grungy blankets.

Sheira: You still got eyes on her?

Gunnar hadn’t seen Sheira descend from the rooftops. He glanced behind him, but saw only a pair of drunks ambling in the center of the street.

Grippa: Affirmative.

The marker was shifting on Gunnar’s MiniNav as he ran. The arrows switched right as he passed an alley, redirecting him towards a short cut.

Hank: She’s quick, but Hank is built for long distance.

Gunnar: Long distance… underground?

Grippa: She’s slowing down, that’s how we’re keeping up. Pretty winded. Hank too.

Hank: I object this. No mere skirmish can wind me.

Gunnar: Skirmish?

Sheira: What happened to you guys?

Grippa: Just some dumb drunk out for blood.

Gunnar: Yeah, there’s a bunch of them out tonight.

Grippa: Gunnar, you’re getting close. She’s right between us.

Gunnar’s arrow directions shifted again, taking him down another alley. He slowed down, so as not to appear conspicuous as he neared a main thoroughfare. He paused and peered around the corner. There were several more drunks staggering about.

No guild war stopping their good time, Gunnar thought.

A short distance beyond the drunks, he spotted the Rogue. Though walking, she moved at a swift pace. She was shorter than he expected, and strode on wiry limbs. He was tempted to hit her with Scan, but didn’t want to risk tipping her off if she could sense his magic. Her hood was pulled over her head, so it was impossible to tell who she was for sure. Though her movements felt vaguely familiar. And if he was right, it meant that Niall and the rest of the crew had made it back from Mavenport.

But its didn’t really matter who it was, so long as she led them straight to her mistress.

The Rogue turned down another alley, her back to Gunnar. He strode forward, but froze mid-step as a feral growl echoed up the street from behind him.

A drunk hobo in rags staggered toward him. His hood was thrown back to reveal a shriveled face and yellow eyes. Crooked teeth flashed in the low light, and between them was a rusty-looking dirk.

Manslaughter Hobo

Level: 9

HP: 120/120

MP: 40/40

Description: Manslaughter hobos are less threatening than their murderous cousins, because who wouldn’t prefer second-degree killing over the alternative? But look out, unlike their cousins, these mofos rarely turn up alone.

What the hell? Gunnar thought as he read the description, unsure whether naming these mobs after his own supposed crime was the developers rubbing it in, or just a dark coincidence. His mind quickly moved on when he read the last bit.

Gunnar spun around, and sure enough, a second manslaughter hobo had come around the corner.

Both eyed him with malice as they closed in. They were low-level, but he was not in the damn mood.

Gunnar drew his saber and brandished it in front of him. “Hey, asswipes, if you like your heads on your shoulders, I suggest you piss off.”

“Who the hell do yeh think yeh are?” growled the nearest manslaughter hobo. He pulled the blade from between his teeth, brandishing it menacingly, and Gunnar couldn’t help but be impressed that the man had managed to speak as clearly as he did with that jagged mouthful.

“I’m a lot stronger than you,” Gunnar said. “And I’ve got friends on the way, so, that should be all you need to—”

“He weren’t talkin’ to you!” the other hobo said with gritted teeth.

The hobo rushed forward, and in an instant, Gunnar understood both why Grippa and Hank had been delayed, and why these dudes were termed manslaughter.

Gunnar leapt out of their way, narrowly escaping multiple blades as the two manslaughter hobos clashed in the alley. They roared in pain as they dealt damage back and forth. One of them started running past him to escape.

The Rogue had turned a corner up ahead. Gunnar turned to follow, but a blazing pain shot through his shoulder.

He withdrew the rusty dirk, huffing and grunting in agony.

He spun around.

The fleeing hobo lay prostrate on the cobblestone, another blade jutting from his back. Gunnar had apparently been caught in the crossfire—or misfire. The downed manslaughter hobo scrambled to his feet with a moan, and charged his adversary once more.

Gunnar fought the urge to show them both the cost of messing with someone at his level, but he was on a mission, and they were running out of time.

Tossing that long shank of tetanus aside, Gunnar hurried out of the alley, casting Basic Word of Healing with a whisper as he went.

Grippa and Hank trotted up beside him as he reached the alley the Rogue had disappeared down.

“Where’d she go?” Grippa asked. “I thought you were gonna be right on top of her.”

“I got a little caught up,” Gunnar said, pointing behind him. One of the hobos stooped over the other, presumably after killing him.

“We told you to watch out for ’em,” Hank said.

“You didn’t say all those drunks are damn manslaughter hobos.”

“Oh, there’s worse drunks than that,” Hank said ominously.

“The Rogue went this way,” Gunnar said, pointing down the narrow lane ahead as he began to run.

His wound had healed over, but it still left a good tear in his cloak. He just hoped there wasn’t actually a risk of anything like tetanus in this game, knowing how the developers loved the illusion of realism. Always for the most inconvenient game elements.

The three of them hurried down the winding lane. The finer areas of the city were set in a relatively grid-like pattern, but this alley twisted like the insides of a dissected biology lab specimen. The buildings were composed largely of shoddy slabs of wood.

They reached a four-way stop and paused, unsure which direction to go. Gunnar heard the distant echo of another set of manslaughter hobos repeating the exact same exchange he’d heard from the last ones.

“Who the hell do yeh think yeh are?”

“He weren’t talking to you!”

Gunnar couldn’t be sure, but he had a feeling the Rogue must have set them off. There were stumbling drunks and hobos all over this part of the city, but the last ones didn’t trigger until he’d bee close. He followed his gut—technically, his ears—and they took a right turn down another winding lane.

By the time they passed the next set of hobos, the two were faced off near the middle of the road, lashing out with jagged blades. Gunnar ran past what he hoped was their area of effect. A dagger clattered off the wall just behind his head, confirming that their AOE must be larger while engaged in combat. They made it past safely, and soon reached another intersection.

The MiniNav directions had long since faded, as they were tied to Grippa’s line of sight, not the Rogue herself. Gunnar, Hank, and Grippa all glanced at one another.

“Three roads, three of us,” Grippa said.

Gunnar nodded.

Sheira: Where the hell are you guys?

Gunnar: In pursuit!

Sheira: Like hell you are!

A new place marker appeared in Gunnar’s MiniNav, directing them down the lane directly ahead. The three took off, passing widely around another hobo sleeping in a decrepit shop entrance. The lane wended out of sight, weaving amongst poorly crafted dwellings and a literal hole in the wall pub. After turning down one last alley, they reached a dead end.

There was no sign of Sheira.

Or the Rogue.

Just a mean-looking drunk stooped over a drainage grate. As they neared, the man spun in a flash.

Drunken Master

Level: 22

HP: 230/230

MP: 80/80

Description: Don’t let their stuporous demeanor fool you. These guys have moves.

The man’s cloak hung in shreds around a short, but very muscular frame. He bore no weapon, though strange claws extended from his fingers with some sort of barbaric brass knuckle-type weapon. His dark eyes settled on Gunnar and flashed bloodshot red.

“Ah shit,” Gunnar muttered.

The drunken master leapt at him with maniacal fury, arms flying with impressive martial moves.

Gunnar barely managed to draw his saber in time, deflecting one set of claws with a parry. The other claws slashed him across the damn face, and the drunk sent a hard kick to his gut, dealing +40 Damage. The drunk spun and kicked his hand, and his saber went flying.

Gunnar activated Sheer Strength and punched the master as hard as he could. The man staggered back, and Gunnar chucked a throwing blade. It missed the man’s heart and lodged in his shoulder instead. The drunken master growled, pulled the blade free, and brandished the weapon eagerly, having only suffered minor damage.

Gunnar understood now why the hobos he rescued from Sykes had been left to live the destitute lives they had.

This was one mean bastard.

The drunken master leapt forward, but Grippa and Hank converged on him, dealing blows of their own. The drunk’s Health began to plummet, but was not enough to falter the man.

Gunnar parried claws with a dagger and spun out of reach of the next kick. But damn, the creature was quick.

There was no other way to think about this raging kung-fu madman. The man seemed to feel no pain, and had no awareness that he was clearly out-matched between his three opponents. Whether it was some sort of possessed human, or a monster in human clothing, Gunnar didn’t know.

Gunnar took another slash to the chest, but this time, managed to land an Enhanced Blow to the hobo’s side with his Nightblade.

[You have dealt +40 Damage to Drunken Master - Level 22!]

The creature roared with pain, distracted long enough for Grippa to land an attack of his own. Hank leapt in with a short battle axe.

The drunken master floundered on the ground, foaming at the mouth, but struggled to rise.

Gunnar was about to plunge his blade, when a dagger shot past him and lodged in the man’s skull, finishing him off.

[You have defeated Drunken Master - Level 22 with an assist from Hank the Kobold, Grippa, and Sheira. Here’s 5 XP!]

“Sheira?” Hank wondered aloud.

The dusk elf waved from the edge of a rooftop and let out a triumphant whoop!