Dain "Hamfisted" Haller wasn't drunk, but he was drinking.

  "And pow! Cerlon Hammerstrike took out the Nearian spider portal with one crushing blow!" Dain never held back when he told a story. This time, he slammed his tankard down, sloshing some of his beer onto the counter.

  "Alright, Grandpa, you win. Cerlon Hammerstrike was the best." Dain knew when he was getting placated. The Everbear damned, roadkill serving tavern. And the moron called him a grandpa. If Dain was certain of one thing, it was that he was no grandpa. He always used protection.

  The burly [Brawler] stood up from his barstool, tankard in hand, staring down the mouthy barkeep.

  "Where's Parti?" he asked, consciously not slurring his words. He hadn't drunk enough to be drunk.

  "Your party left an hour ago," a mini-skirted waitress informed him as she dodged his swinging jug.

  "Nah, not my party. I need my paaaaaar-teee." Dain looked for his date. "Parti Thyme." The waitress, her apron covering up her considerable assets, gave him a confused expression. "Parti Thyme, the [Alchemist]?"

  Dain gave an exaggerated nod. Who else would he be talking about?

  “Oh, yeah, she's more of a [Dealer]. You should probably find your [Party].” She spun off to serve another customer.

  Dain considered his options, the world growing a little fuzzy. If the barkeep had wanted his mug, the guy didn't speak up. It was probably best, as Dain wasn't exactly known for his restraint. [Brawlers] tended to get their classes in bars rather than battlefields.

  It was all coming back to him. He'd had a fight with his team. Faesis and Trau had wanted to go out while Midi volunteered to stay at the camp, guarding their supplies. Dain had thought she was just being dull. They had a warding, and no one messed with campsites at the Ceaparean Drift because of all the nobility. Piss off the wrong noble glamping on the edge of the desert, and you end up in an eternal slumber.

  Dain wandered off, muttering after Faesis and Trau. He thought their campsite was west of the main strip?

  It wasn't until the sun was high in the air and a scorpion had targeted his nose that Dain woke up. His head throbbed, and his nose was swelling by the second. He hadn't even been able to squish the little arachnid. His heavy fist had smashed into the wrong double of the creature. Blinking, he sat up.

  Where was he?

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  "Hello?" A better question was where were his pants? Dain rubbed his crusty eyes, immediately regretting it as they started burning. He tried to stand, only to be tripped by the discovery of his pants wrapped around his ankles.

  A raven cawed at him, wheeling in the sky. Judgy little bastard.

  Dain pulled up his pants, dancing around as he tried to shake out the sand that had nested in them. Fully clothed, he felt a little less exposed, although he was penniless, weaponless, and hadn’t had a clue where he was. Dain knew he'd be fine. This wasn't the first time he'd woken up in the proverbial ditch, and it surely would not be the last.

  With a yawn, he started walking. Was he going in the right direction? Only the raven knows.

  He vaguely remembered leaving the bar, trying to find Faesis and Trau, then giving up and stumbling towards the campsite. Or were they at the campsite? The night was a bit of a blur.

  The only items he had on him besides his clothes and boots was a tankard and a flier advertising a 'good time.'

  What the hell?

  The sun beat down on the red corridor, the canyon walls rising around him like the jaws of a trap. His hangover had moved beyond a simple headache as dehydration set in. More than once he raised the empty tankard to his parched mouth, only to be disappointed.

  This definitely hadn't been the party he'd been promised. More of a booby trap.

  A dull thunk echoed in the dusty air, followed by a muffled curse as pain radiated through his foot. Looking down, Dain blinked.

  His numbed senses did nothing to dull the throb as his toe screamed at the insult. Blinking, he tried to clear his vision. Had he simply bent a toenail back, or, as his foot claimed, broken it?

  “Mother of a pox-riddled byx!” he swore, trying to wiggle his toes.

  Was he hallucinating? By the pain in his right foot, he suspected not, but he couldn't wrap his mind around the shaft of polished wood protruding from the ground. He’d stubbed his toe on a large blacksmith’s hammer? What looked to be a rudimentary iron ingot sat embedded in the ash handle.

  Dull inscriptions sat under a coating of red dust. Maybe it was worth something?

  Dain shrugged, a weapon was a weapon. He bent down to pick it up. The hammer's shaft was smooth, it hadn't been sitting in the sun for too long.

  He brought it up to his shoulder, like in one of those mining recruitment ads, only to blink. Looking down, the haft of the hammer sitting resolutely in the dust. Was it slimy?

  Sweat dribbled down Dain's face as he gripped the haft with both hands and pulled.

  For the second time in the day, he found himself, a tipped-over tea kettle, eating dirt. The hammer sat shining like an untouchable mirage not six feet away from him.

  He blinked; the throbbing in his head matched that of his behind.

  Standing up, he eyed his nemesis.

  Wrapping both hands around the shaft, he tugged.

  "Whatcha doing, buddy?" A feminine voice cut through his self-appointed task. He looked up, blinking at his teammate Midi.

  "I was just." Dain pointed down at the offending hammer, only to find it gone. A tiny pill bug wriggled in its place, as though suddenly exposed. Blinking, he searched for an excuse for his current state. "I was just peeing."

  "Uh huh." She nodded sagely. "Well, when you're done... peeing... let me know and I'll throw down a rope. Just..." A water canteen hit the dirt. "Wash your hands first, will you?"