The road North lay through forests that smelled of damp pine needles and someone's hungry anticipation. The trees stood close together, like prison bars, and the sky was the color of an old bruise.

  Our squad had grown. The “Stroboscope of Fate” (or the Captain's mouse click in a tavern) had pulled two more losers out of non-existence, who now marched in our ranks.

  Background: Apprentice History: Kicked out by his master for spilling ink on an expensive scroll. Or did he steal the scroll? Irrelevant. Characteristics: High Intelligence, Bravery: negative value. Holds a crossbow like it’s a vial of nitroglycerin. Status: Terrified

  Background: Caravan Hand History: Ran away from his previous master when the caravan switched from transporting grain to transporting slaves. Claims he has principles. Gunther claims he just has high Fatigue consumption. Characteristics: Knows how to carry heavy loads and take hits with his face. Status: Grim

  We carried the curse of that night in the cemetery — the stench of rotten Ghoul meat. Jem had stuffed the slimy chunks into every spare pocket, but for the rest of us, it was a gas attack.

  "I’m going to throw up," Tobias groaned. He trailed behind, clutching his cracked crossbow to his chest. "We smell like an open grave. This is unsanitary! According to Guild regulations..."

  "You're not in the Guild, you're in deep shit," Dieter grunted.

  The Caravan Hand walked heavily but confidently. Instead of a proper shield, he had a privy door nailed together from planks (we found it at a burned-out farm).

  "Suck it up, student. Gunther said meat is money. And we need money for armor. Or do you want to catch arrows with your clever head?"

  "Silence!" hissed the Sergeant. "Bushes. Right flank."

  Twigs snapped.

  Tobias squealed — a thin, rabbit-like sound — and instantly darted behind a wide pine tree.

  "To arms!" barked the Sergeant. "Dieter, hold the front!"

  Out of the thicket emerged... a man.

  Huge, covered in hair, barefoot. A Wildman. He froze in the middle of the road, flaring his nostrils. In a massive fist, black with dirt, he clutched a canvas sack.

  "Ughhh..." the giant rumbled. "Grr-umm..."

  He held out the sack. The clink of gold.

  "Gold?" Gunther's ears twitched. He reached for the sack, but the Wildman growled low and pressed his hand to his chest. He wasn't giving. He wanted to trade.

  "He needs something," the Captain realized. "But what?"

  Jem stepped forward, moving softly like a cat.

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  "Look at him," said the Jester. "He has gold, but no happiness. He is bored. He craves spectacle. He needs a miracle."

  Jem rummaged in his loot bag, pulled out a long, straight branch and a piece of bright red cloth (a scrap of some nobleman's trousers). With a deft movement, he tied the rag to the stick.

  "Hey, big guy!" the Jester shouted, raising the improvised flag. "Look! Technology! The magic of color! The wind goes whoosh-whoosh! Want it?"

  He waved the “banner.” The red fabric flapped cheerfully in the wind.

  The Wildman froze. His mouth fell open. He had never seen anything so pointless and beautiful.

  "Oooo!" he exhaled in reverence.

  The exchange happened instantly. The Wildman grabbed the stick with both hands like a sacred relic, and Gunther snatched the sack like a vulture.

  "Three hundred and twenty coins," Gunther weighed the loot. "Accepted."

  "That's trash!" whispered a shocked Tobias. "He gave a fortune for a stick with a rag!"

  "It is not trash," Jem objected. "It is an Art Object. Value is in the eye of the beholder."

  "Gramm. Position: Heavy Strike Asset," Gunther noted immediately. "Hiring cost: minus 320 crowns. He paid an entry fee to join the portfolio. Load him up."

  We continued on our way. Gramm walked with us, happy, waving his stick. Tobias eyed him with horror, Dieter — with professional sympathy for an idiot.

  But the smell of meat attracted not only investors.

  Twilight. Shadows. Yellow eyes in the bushes.

  "Direwolves!" screamed Tobias from behind a tree. "Three! They have the Overwhelm perk! We’re all gonna die!"

  "Wolves!" the student corrected himself, remembering he wasn't in a game. "Just wolves! Huge ones!"

  The pack burst onto the road.

  The first wolf, the alpha, leaped at Dieter. The Caravan Hand, used to fending off raiders, raised his "privy-shield."

  CRACK!

  Rotten planks shattered into splinters. Dieter fell, covering his head with his elbows.

  "Holding!" he wheezed as fangs clamped onto his leather bracer. "Shield is written off! Tanking with face!"

  "Help him!" yelled the Sergeant.

  Gramm, our new investor, didn't know formation tactics. But he knew the forest. And he knew what wolves were. They were thieves who stole meat. And right now, this thief was snarling at his new, beautiful Stick. At his Treasure.

  Primal rage flared in the Wildman's eyes.

  With a roar that would have made bears crouch in fear, Gramm charged at the alpha.

  A ball of fur, blood, and madness. The wolf tore at Gramm's throat, but Gramm didn't let go. He didn't hit the beast. He drove his "Relic" — the stick with the red rag — straight into the predator's open maw. Deep. All the way to the stomach.

  "Tobias, shoot!" shouted the Captain.

  Tobias, shaking, raised his crossbow.

  "I can't! I'll hit Gramm! No line of fire!"

  "Shoot, or I fire you!" Gunther barked. "Termination via hanging!"

  Twang.

  The bolt flew into the sky, hitting a crow.

  "Miss!" wailed Tobias. "I told you!"

  But the mad sacrifice of the Wildman bought us time. The wolf choked, gagging on wood and fabric. Knut and the Sergeant worked with spears, finishing off the others. Nasser (somewhere on the flank) distracted the third beast, running in circles and screaming.

  When it was over, the snow was red.

  Gramm lay dead. His throat was torn out.

  But the pack leader was dead too. Sticking out of its maw was the broken shaft of that same stick. The red scrap, wet with blood and saliva, flapped victoriously in the wind. Gramm had killed the enemy with his Investment.

  Dieter sat on the ground, nursing a bitten arm.

  "Fine," the Caravan Hand croaked. "Bone's intact. Had worse. One merchant used to whip me harder."

  Gunther stepped over Gramm's corpse.

  "Asset write-off. Service life: 2 hours. Profit: 320 crowns. The asset protected his investment... literally."

  He looked at Tobias, who was crawling out from behind the tree, wiping snot.

  "Tobias. You spent a bolt. And dealt no damage. The cost of the bolt (3 crowns) will be deducted from your ration."

  "But I... I distracted!" squeaked the Apprentice.

  "You created background noise. Dieter," Gunther nodded to the Caravan Hand. "Competent shield amortization. You tanked the damage, preserving the health of the core roster. Issue him a double ration..." Gunther paused. "Double ration of Strange Meat."

  Dieter spat blood.

  "Better in cash, Herr Accountant."

  We walked on.

  Dieter — our battered but sturdy foundation. Tobias — our cowardly artillery.

  We survived. We became richer by 320 crowns and 3 wolf pelts. But poorer by one Wildman with refined artistic taste.