Darin stood at the main gate, dressed in traveling armor that had been patched so many times it practically counted as a personal scrapbook. His warhammer was slung over his back, Grumble curled around one of his boots like a moody shadow, and Steve had somehow curled himself into a perfect spiral and was pretending to sleep—but Darin could see the tail twitching.
He wasn't fooling anyone.
Vincent adjusted his cloak, blinking blearily. "Alright. So. Operation Cluckstorm?"
"We are not calling it that," Alvin growled from behind a scarf and a mountain of rolled maps.
"No, but come on, it's thematic," Vincent said, poking him. "Chicken men. Ice cliffs. General sense of impending doom. Cluckstorm!"
"I will personally remove your kneecaps," Alvin muttered without looking up.
Darin sighed, rubbing his eyes. "How did I end up leading a caravan full of murderers, lunatics, cultists, and poultry-themed jokes?"
