“Welcome to Reno. If you quote ‘Folsom Prison Blues’ at any time in my presence, I will smother you with a cushion and leave your body in the desert.”

“Hello to you, too,” said Ross, switching his carry-on to the opposite shoulder. He’d not been off the plane for five minutes and it already felt like he was on another planet: the giant wall ads for “gentlemen’s clubs” sharing space with family-friendly ski resort photos had been weird enough, but the taxidermied animals were another thing entirely. If he hadn’t seen them with his own eyes the notion of slot machines in an airport—most nestled behind the security checkpoints, no less—would’ve seemed like a bad joke at the expense of Nevada as a whole. The tall, wolflike man with well-groomed dreads and a chauffeur’s uniform looming out of the crowd seemed downright normal after staggering past rows of whimsically-themed video poker machines. Ross had to tilt his head up to look him in the face. “C. Ngom, right?” he asked.

“Just Chet is fine,” said Chet. He inclined his head to the duffel bag that was threatening to make Ross crab-walk the rest of the way through the terminal from its weight. “Want some help with that, buddy?”

Riaag Bough-Breaker set his feet and hunkered down behind his shield, axe at the ready. He was the only thing that stood between his charge, one Sarouth White-Hair, and the band of wandering orcs before them, but Riaag was unconcerned; he’d felled far more fearsome opponents than than this sorry lot, and in greater numbers, while Sarouth had divine magics at his command. Between their respective talents it was usually harder keeping unwilling converts alive than fending them off. They glanced at one another and exchanged nods before Sarouth took a deep breath, slammed the butt of his staff down against the earth, and lifted his war-mace above his head with a bellow. The scavengers’ heads snapped up towards the pair of strange men standing over them.

“Hear me!” said Sarouth, his voice fierce and clear. “Agritakh has grown impatient with the blasphemies heaped upon Him by those such as yourselves. I’ve been sent here to bring you a choice: repent, and you’ll be taken fondly to His side. Resist, and you’ll slake His thirst with your blood. Where do you stand, lost children of the hills?”

Fayz the Kind had not been having a very good day.