The mission had been the definition of futility. Seriously, check a recent edition of a dictionary, flip to F for futility, and there is a picture of the Linear Guild breaking into the Order Of the Stick’s tents.
Ignoring the fact that breaking into a tent is somewhere between walking in a strait line while sober and rising from a sitting position, Nale had been quite proud of the mission, until the gods-damned halfling had walked in on the Guild pawing through the fighter’s bags.
To make a short story shorter, they’d cut their losses and ran, taking the bags they’d been holding with them.
Sabine’s had contained spare clothes and armor polish, things you’d expect a fighter to carry. Thog had somehow wound up with a bag of action figures, and was busy destroying their status as mint-condition by removing them from their original packaging and playing with them.
The bag Nale had taken contained something else entirely. Roy’s sword. While Nale had absolutely no clue why any decent fighter would leave their main weapon lying unguarded in their tent, that didn’t mean it wasn’t a windfall for the Guild.
Nale’s original plan of selling it faltered when he began to examine it, hoping to determine its rough value. Greenhilt, despite his shortcomings with not leaving his valuables lying where anyone capable of entering a tent could simply walk off with them, was a scrupulous swordsman, and the sword didn’t show any sign of wear in any way. It gleamed in the candlelight, throwing dancing silver shadows all across the room. Swallowing hard, Nale poked his head out the window. Thog was acting out something vaguely recognizable as Hamlet with the action figures, and Sabine was on an errand in the lower planes.
Nale locked the bedroom door, and turned to where the sword lay shining on the bed, grinning as he stepped out of his pants and towards the sword.