The Search for a Cure

The note had said to come alone. What was the worst that could happen? Could he die again? The very thought made coach StuffnJunk chuckle but the only sound he could manage sounded more like the wind in the trees. This was yet another side effect from his death and resurrection, both at the hands of the traitorous Skaven. Others included the constant pain from the warpstone dagger still embedded in his chest, the inability to feel any warmth, and the complete isolation from the living apart from the Ratlings.

But the note promised a cure. It was probably just a trick from Goblin Gambling, the coach’s old nemesis, but he had to take the chance. Besides, a late-night stroll through the dark forest of Mirkwood should be just the thing to brighten his life, right? This time he couldn’t be sure if the sound was his own laughter, the wind in the trees, or something else. The mind did tend to wander when the senses were dulled, and the forest seemed to absorb all light, sound, and smells.

The cold had numbed his skin to the point that he barely noticed when he walked into the web. The creature barely made a sound as it darted in and out of his vision. He could only assume this was the web-weaver and that his adventure in the forest had come to an early end. The pain in his chest grew suddenly and exponentially, quickly becoming too much to bear. The coach must have passed out, for he awoke in a warm bed with only the slightest bit of light peeking in through an open window.

His eyes were barely open before their was a warpstone dagger at his throat, held by an unknown elf.

“We removed this for you. But it comes at a price. You will renounce the Ratlings and coach our team. You have no choice. The magic required to keep you alive without the cursed dagger requires constant reapplication. Fail us, and you fail yourself. What say you?”

StuffnJunk passed out from the pain again before he could answer…

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