"Sorry for the delay," the warlock said. "I've been held up outside the city walls. Skeletons are rising from their graves all around the village. It's taken me the better part of the mornin' to knock off enough drybones to make it into Valeia. 'Afternoon, Boo," he said, assenting to the furry familiar perched jauntily on Serath's shoulder. "I take it you've heard the news, then?"
"About Gareth?" Serath said.
"Yes," Sazerac said, "and it appears to be either one of those filthy Serpent Priest assassins tampering with the cider supply . . . or a rumor that I've heard from up north of some of them radical 'goggle-eyes' poisoning brew meant for 'warm-skins'. I'm not sure which one is the culprit, but I aim to get to the bottom of this!" He looked around him. "The big guy will be okay, now. . .just a little shaken, that's all."
Everyone looked rather sick, and quickly pitched the brews they had been about to quaff.
"YOU BETTER BELIEVE I'LL FIND OUT WHAT'S UP!" roared mighty Ditka, recovered and ready to swing. "NOBODY MESSES WITH MY BREW AND LIVES TO TELL ABOUT IT!"
It took everyone a few minutes to calm the berserk barbarian down to reason.
"Well, Sazerac, you're just in time," Serath said. "We were just ready to . . ."
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