When the next morning came, Teclos reached the pub to find the others already gathered.
Derrick stood near the counter, rubbing at his neck while Marek handed him a waterskin that smelled more like ale than water.
Wallace was quiet as always, checking the edge of his longsword with a satisfied expression and practiced ease.
Milo adjusted the straps of his shield, his broad frame making it look almost small on his back.
Garren leaned against the wall with his crossbow across his shoulder, half-asleep.
And Vera stood apart from the rest, silent, hidden in the corner of the room, and already fully prepared.
Pete was sitting at a table with his spear across his lap, looking like he had either just woken up or had never gone to sleep.
Falcon looked him over and sighed.
"Try not to vomit in the dungeon or on anyone."
Pete raised one thumb and burped. "No promises."
Teclos shook his head.
'Ah yes, Zamas's "elites" in action.'
