Ugh, rude people. Rude people are the f*cking WORST. Don’t they know that shit can get you killed?

When the girl implied that Storm was foreign, or lying, or strange in some form, he was upset. When the boy gripped at his sword like it was going to end up anywhere besides halfway up his own ass, the wizard grew angry. When the girl tried to pivot and offer disingenuous help to him, the condescension made his blood positively boil. The energy reverberating about his fists was itching to vaporize these two strangers, positively infuriated with the tandem.

Take a breath. Get Attila the hell out of here. Don’t tip your hand until it is time to blast these two stupid assholes two-thirds to f*cking Salvar.

The smile on the aristocratic face didn’t waver as Storm Veritas slowly, gently descended from his great steed, allowing the energy in his hands to subside within his leather riding gloves. He tapped the muscular neck of the horse and instructed Attila to “take five, eat up”, which was his secret command for “walk, canter, trot, run; quietly get away.” There was no sense in having his ride get wounded with an errant shot; the last one Storm had met went straight for the horse. Travelers were typically monstrous like that.

“I could use help, actually.” He smiled, gently tugging at the riding gloves and folding them into his front vest pocket. The squish-squash of hooves indicated Attila was slowly marching away, keeping the furtive and inauspicious movement about him all the while. “It seems your boy here needs a lesson, and that’s helpful, as I need some prac…”

The F*CK is that!?

In the soft earth between the magician and the two travelers, one of the bony hands that protruded from an otherwise nondescript radius and ulna closed into a fist. Aside from the absurdity of the had-to-be mirage came a very convincing grinding sound, as though bricks or stone were wrested free from mortar. In complete disbelief, Storm stood entirely motionless, glaring at the hand, as if willing it to move again.

“You see that shit!? Someone sneak some drak-bile in my pipe-pouch?"

His glare was answered as the hand reopened, turning at the wrist impossibly as the forearm bones churned through mud as though it were water. The open palm faced down, and moved up as the arm surged up away from the mud before bending at the newly arisen elbow, pressing into the leaf-strewn floor. Fingertips exploded from the mud some two feet away, as the left hand of this abomination began to pull itself free from some magical internment.

Without another word, Storm pulled the Rat from its scabbard behind his hips, the blade humming a cool blue-green as it spun effortlessly into his right hand. His left palm began glowing white with a wild glow. To his right, a second skeletal hand began to move from the ground. Behind him, a third hand erupted not ten feet from where he stood. The rude travelers were also joined by a newly animated hand, and a fourth apparition emerging from the soft, wet earth.

The traveling adventurer was ready to pounce, but first saved his gaze for the kids. Had they been the source of these monstrosities? Was it an elaborate trap to kill and rob the wanderers? It seemed a big-time trap to steal what must be small-time money. Things didn’t add up; Storm asked as much as he accused.

“What the hell are you two up to? Necromancers die just as easy as humans…”