The woods of Colorada'Sierra were dense that night, the trees standing like silent sentinels beneath the rising moon. Shadows stretched long and thin across the forest floor, crunching softly under the boots of Arthur Highgarden and his team of adventurers. The air was crisp, tinged with the earthy scent of moss and wet leaves.
Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, breaking the near-perfect silence.
Arthur led the group, his short red hair catching faint light as he paused on a moss-covered log to address them. His green eyes swept across the mix of warriors, rogues, and mages.
Confidence radiated from most of them, the smug sort that assumed every mission would unfold as planned. Yet beneath a few smiles and relaxed postures, anxiety rippled like an undercurrent—clenched jaws, trembling hands, fingers drumming against hilts. Arthur noted it all, jaw tight, shoulders squared.
"I'm Arthur Highgarden," he began, voice firm, echoing slightly among the trunks.
"Third Seat Knight of Colorada'Sierra. I will be leading this operation. Listen carefully: first, surround the camp. Any dealers you encounter, apprehend using cuffs or magic-binding spells. Non-lethal if possible.
Second, a secondary team will form a perimeter to prevent escape. Third, locate the warehouses and confiscate all evidence.
Fourth, hold until reinforcements arrive.
Understand?" He asked his voice firm.
A few adventurers nodded with self-satisfied grins, shoulders rolling as if the mission were a stroll through the forest.
One broad-shouldered fighter flexed his fingers around a sword hilt, smirking confidently.
Arthur's gaze sharpened, and the smirk faltered immediately, replaced by a subtle twitch in the corner of his mouth—a mixture of surprise and respect.
"Yes, sir," the fighter muttered, adjusting his stance.
A small mage, fingers twitching on her staff, blinked rapidly. Her cheeks were flushed with nervous energy, lips pressed into a tight line. She swallowed audibly, eyes flicking to
Arthur's determined green gaze. The knight's jaw softened imperceptibly. She was anxious, yes—but alert, and that mattered more than fear.
Arthur's eyes swept past the last of the team. "Questions?"
A scout, pale-skinned and wiry, raised a hand hesitantly. "What if they resist? What if the dealers—" He trailed off, lips pressed together, jaw tight, fingers clenching around his dagger.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. "Respond proportionally. No heroics. Precision, not chaos." His voice carried a sharp authority that left no room for argument. The scout nodded, lips parting slightly, shoulders relaxing just enough to show he'd understood.
With that, they moved through the forest, boots muffled on the soft undergrowth. The scent of damp earth mingled with the faint odor of pine sap. A gentle wind rustled the leaves overhead, carrying the faintest trace of something sweeter, almost cloying, through the trees.
"Do you smell that?" whispered a young adventurer, nose wrinkled. "Thats stuff is loud."
Arthur inhaled cautiously, nostrils flaring. "Stay focused. Almost there."
As they approached a ridge overlooking the clearing, the source of the scent became horrifyingly clear. The weed fields stretched out like a green sea under the moonlight—but flames were already devouring the plants, flickering shadows across the ground and sending clouds of pungent smoke curling into the sky.
Faces in the team went pale. Eyes widened, jaws slack. One dealer, caught mid-run, froze, hand clamped over his mouth in terror.
His eyes darted to the fire, then to the approaching adventurers, then back to the fire again, pupils dilated in panic.
Arthur's pulse quickened. His jaw tightened as green eyes scanned the chaos. "Positions! Engage!"
The clearing erupted into chaos. Dealers scrambled, shoving crates and tossing buckets of water ineffectively at the flames. Some ran screaming into the night, hair damp with sweat, faces streaked with soot and panic. Arthur's team split efficiently, some casting magic spells, others charging with swords and shields. Fists flew, bodies collided, the clash of steel against steel echoing in the night.
One adventurer, a muscular fighter with a scar across his cheek, roared and shoved a dealer to the ground, forcing cuffs onto trembling wrists. The dealer's eyes were wide, mouth open, as if screaming for help that would not come.
Arthur ducked a swinging staff and countered with a precise jab of his sword, catching a fleeing dealer across the shoulder. The man yelped, eyes narrowing in anger and surprise as he collapsed to the ground, clutching the wound.
****
Meanwhile, Oscar moved like a shadow through the periphery. Nineteen, skin a deep brown, eyes yellow and sharp, black dreads falling across his forehead, he slipped unnoticed into the shadows of the warehouse. The chaos outside—the laughter, the screams, the roar of the flames—was his cover.
Inside, crates lined the walls: stacks of cash, prepackaged marijuana, and boxes marked with crude runes. Dust motes floated in the torchlight.
Oscar's eyes narrowed, scanning each corner.
The warehouse smelled strongly of earth, cured plants, and the faint metallic tang of coins. His fingers brushed across the packages, nimble and precise, eyes darting constantly toward the open doorway.
"Perfect," he murmured. Lips curving slightly, he pulled out his bag of holding, a battered, low-grade item from Rune-Tech. Scratches ran across its surface, but its enchanted interior—a three-foot diameter sphere—would hold more than enough for tonight.
As he slipped the bundles into the bag, coins clinking softly, he allowed himself a brief smirk. He had saved meals, endured long shifts caring for horses in a miserly noble's stables, all for this bag. It wasn't fancy—but it was his, and it worked.
Outside, the fire spread faster than anyone anticipated. Flames licked across rows of crops, smoke thickening with every second.
A lone mage mid-chant froze, face contorted in surprise, runes sputtering across her arms. Smoke wafted into her face, tickling nostrils and making her sneeze violently. Ash streaked across flushed cheeks, her hair puffing wildly in static. She looked absurd, ridiculous—and the adventurers burst into laughter.
Even the rogue, usually composed and smug, doubled over, clapping his hands, emerald eyes glinting with mirth as he watched a dealer twirl in confusion. The scout bent over, stomach shaking, eyes watering with laughter. One fighter wiped tears from his eyes, chest heaving, voice hoarse as he cackled.
Arthur coughed violently, shoulders hunched, eyes watering. Napkin pressed to his mouth and nose, he barked, voice sharp but cracked. "Everyone—stop! Focus! This isn't tactical!" His gaze darted from mage to rogue to fighters, every face contorted in some mix of mirth, surprise, or smoke-induced daze.
The mage giggled uncontrollably, runes sputtering as she collapsed onto her knees, coughing. Hair still sticking out like wiry antennas, ash streaking her flushed face, she looked like a caricature of a warlock mid-battle. A dealer, confused, paused in his escape, blinking, then shrugged and began laughing along with her.
Inside the warehouse, Oscar's movements were precise. Bundles slid easily into his ,Bag of Holding, coins rattling faintly. He paused at the door, yellow eyes gleaming as he surveyed the scene. Flames danced in the moonlight, adventurers and dealers alike laughing, dancing, sharing stories. The surreal sight made him smirk.
He ducked back, returning to the crates, pulling out coins and additional packages. Sweat slicked his skin, black dreads sticking to his forehead, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the heavy smoke drifting through the cracks of the warehouse door.
Every so often, his head would tilt slightly, ears catching a cough or a shout, eyes narrowing to slits as he scanned the chaotic battlefield outside.
"Yes… just a little longer," he murmured. Fingers brushing over the another crate, he paused, noting the adventurers trying to maintain some semblance of order but failing spectacularly.
The rogue danced with a dealer, both laughing, hands clapping together in rhythm with the fire's crackle.
Arthur, still coughing, eyes watering, jaw tight, watched incredulously. Green eyes darted from one bizarre scene to another: fighters sharing water with dealers, a mage giggling uncontrollably, the rogue high-fiving a panicked thief. His fists clenched, jaw tight, but he couldn't look away. The absurdity, the unplanned chaos, was complete.
Oscar took a deep breath, lifting another crate into the bag. Coins clinked, and a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips. Chaos outside gave him cover—and for the moment, he had everything he needed. One last glance at the field: flames flickered, smoke twisted, laughter echoed. Perfect cover. Perfect distraction.
He turned back to the remaining crates, ready to continue his work. "Let's see what else they've got," he whispered, shadows of firelight dancing across his brown skin and yellow eyes.
The night in Colorada'Sierra was only just beginning to descend into complete chaos.