One moment you’re on top of the world.
(Or tournament hill for that matter)
The other moment the world comes crashing down on you.
(Bit like the lake and its approval of my swimming skills)
How did I get into this again?
So you enter the tent of the newly crowned king with a band of racial misfits – hey, I’m an expert on the matter – only to discover that said king is missing a piece of his throat. And a few pints of blood too many. The only other person inside the room is a paralyzed sword lord’s niece with drawn dagger. Outside there are guards who can and will enter any moment.
Stop. Think fast.
Look around you.
There’s no blood on the lady’s dagger. It’s not us terrifying her. The tent’s eastern side is torn. (Am I the only one actually noticing the cloaked figure sprinting away? These guys are blind as bats). Fine, time for a runner. Throw in the odd spell or two and snatch the assassin. Failing that, vanish yourself and get out of town. Tough luck on the gang but… wait… how come my feet are not moving? Why is the tent spinning around? And what in Andoletta’s name is that creature?
We have 30 seconds before the guards come bursting in. Two choices.
Teleport to the south to stop some brigant leader invading lands which owe me nothing.
Stay behind on home turf labouring for the cause, trying not to get apprehended in this set-up.
Faint echoes of shouts outside are sipping in. The world will crash around us if these guys don’t make up their mind fast. Do the math. You know these odds. You’ve been there before.
Damn it all.
Time to go South.