The barkeep surveyed the damage with widening eyes. “I… I hope you mean to pay for that.”

“That was the first of many,” warned Horace. “This crab invasion has just begun.” The glauver attended to his old friend Trapper, offering bandages and antivenom from an old saddlebag.

Suddenly the door burst open and Fysch darted in, raving. Behind him could be seen the street, not its usual cobblestone-black but covered entirely in the luminescent orange waves of millions of spiny, marching crabs. They scurried in every direction at once, up the sides of buildings, pouring through windows, enveloping all they encountered with their sheer volume and one collective heart-stopping hiss.

“You got a back door in this place?” called Horace.

The barkeep nodded meekly and poured himself a glass of his strongest.

“Then we’ll be thanking you for your… hospitality… and bidding you adieu.” The glauver backed out with haste, following the old man Fysch and their limping, weary companion Trapper.

It was time to run. And run.