Last Resort

Dugan sat on a rock with his chin in his hands wondering where he was, and why he was where he was.

‘There is not enough time.’ said the man with the crooked finger, his first words besides ‘Do hurry up lad’ since he’d appeared at Dugan’s house that morning.

‘No time for what?’ Dugan ventured, rising.

The man ceased pacing. ‘Why, to assemble a Motley Crew of course.’

‘Do- Do we need one?’

‘Do we need– ha! All the more certainly for such a question.’

Dugan fidgeted and tried to recall how this had started. Something about money, and Father’s death.

‘I still don’t know why you want me,’ he muttered.

‘Because, and do not take this too harshly now, but you were the most miserable poor wretch I could find at such intolerably late notice.’

Dugan, for that very reason, was no stranger to insults. He found himself looking again at the crooked finger. ‘Are you a Spellcaster?’

‘I much prefer Conjuror if you would not mind. Now, a tavern, that will be the trick. Do you know of any?’

‘I’ve never-’

‘Of course not.’ The Conjuror sighed. ‘How about you begin with a direction?’

‘I don’t even know where we are.’

‘Fate, lad, will lead us, as it leads all of us. Save for the stubborn who it will drag,’ he added.