"shit shit shit shit! Forty-three years," the older rough-looking man muttered, his voice shaking. "Forty-three years I've been an adventurer. I've killed goblins. I've killed trolls. I've killed things that would make a grown man weep. And in all that time, I have never—never—fought a demonic beast."
"Thirty-one years for me," the younger one said, his knife trembling in his grip. "Never saw one. Never wanted to. Always avoided quests related to them, fuck!"
"Well, that one's right there!"
The mother was huddled against the far side of the carriage, her arms wrapped so tightly around her son that the boy had stopped crying. He was just staring, wide-eyed, at the beast. The bard had dropped his lute. His fingers were white-knuckled around the neck of the instrument, and his mouth was opening and closing without making a sound.
The coachman had fainted. He was slumped in his seat, his reins slack in his hands.
Nathan didn't blame any of them.
