It was a majestic old staff, reaching to shoulder height, heavy and worn from years of use. The wood was strong and gnarled, with a grip molded comfortably into the oak by the longtime clasp of sturdy fingers. A carved talon atop the pole held an orb of polished amethyst that sparkled with subtle restraint.

It was a trusty walking stick, stained grass-green at its base, a reminder of countless adventures across the heights and vales. The shaft was lined with pocks, scratches, and one long crevice that splintered up its side, threatening to cleave the piece in two. A tattered cut of twine looped around the helve and was abruptly severed, its adornment lost to the wilds.

It was a warrior’s blade, hidden beneath the faintest of clefts in the grip. To unsheathe the ringing steel from its clandestine wood scabbard would rend the air with a clamor. The sword was crafted by a master and disguised with great care, it seems, to hide a dark secret.

We took the staff from the old man, and now he is coming to kill us.