They put a knockout in the tea they served to everyone, and left a note of apology by the sleeping forms. A tear slid down a tired face, weapons strapped on, this would be the last battle. Live or die, the danger would finally be over. But this time, their friends would be spared, they would face it alone. -- Anon Guest
Promise Hardbattle had made the tea ceremony a ritual before facing any enemy. He and his friends sharing one last brew before their next uncertain fate.
"I hate prophecies," he said, nursing his cup as the others sipped at the aromatic liquid. "According to the word of some blind, mad old bat, I don't live to see my fiftieth birthday. And that's tomorrow."
"Prophecies are horseshit," said Doomsong as they stretched their bad leg. "Remember that tea-reader in Nifesbridge? Said I'd die next to my best friend."
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