The Peculiar Affairs of Dugolas Rodgrigo & Derek the Fluorescent

Coffee & Death

Wiping his virgin lips of volcanic brewed coffee, Derek (slouched in his favorite cushioned sofa) contemplated the purpose of existence once again. A morbid ideology of the world beyond his tower. All died: whether from peaceful illness or from a plunged spearhead through the pelvis;  a resurrected heap of flesh or an ancient beast of legend.  All died...  apart from him. "Fucking tower." He spat. Cussing as he glowered out the window. An eternal prison. He guarded the ninth great relic of the world from the evil wrath of... somebody? That was half the problem, nobody actually told him who he was protecting it from. Some bloody useless prick of a dark lord he assumed, that was the stereotype fashion in stories anyway. Derek sighed.  It had been nine hundred and seventy four years, the least the guy could do was show up once in a while. Maybe send some underlings? Anything? He couldn't remember the last time he'd conjured a fireball at at a foe; The uncomfortable boil as his pores flooded and evaporated simultaneously, and the musty stench impeded through his orange robes as a result. The only impressive thing Derek had done since his duty within the tower was...   does mastering the art of extreme temperature coffee brewing count? He could in fact make an incredible cuppa, for those who could drink it without agonizingly burning themselves to death. But I suppose you aren't here to listen about an old wizards talent of crafting heated beverages. You're here for a story, an adventure. I make no promises this will be a good one, but it's something. Something... peculiar.