The ceiling of Walter's alchemy shack was still smoldering. A Walter-shaped hole sizzled with residual glitter magic as the Magical Law Enforcement Division (MLE) searched the ruins for clues—while Walter and Heisenbones were already miles away.
By miles, we mean slightly underground, in a tavern known to every disreputable magic-user west of the Enchanted DMV:
The Drunk Spellbook.
The tavern smelled like burnt toast, wet owl, and at least one felony. It was where banned sorcerers, cursed gamblers, and off-duty necromancers gathered to get absolutely hexed.
Walter pushed through the swinging stone doors with Heisenbones behind him, wearing a cloak and sunglasses. No one questioned why a skeleton was wearing sunglasses underground. This was The Drunk Spellbook. Weirder things had happened. Just last week, someone turned into a potato trying to pay in exposure.
"Ahh," Heisenbones sighed, sliding onto a barstool. "Home sweet legally ambiguous home."
Walter pulled his hood down and whispered, "Let's keep a low profile. The MLE's probably sweeping the whole region for 'unauthorized potion dispersal' and 'cheese-based religious cults.'"
A troll bartender looked up from polishing a flaming mug. "Name?"
"Uh… W-Walter," he said before realizing. "I mean… Walterio the Beige. Totally regular wizard guy."
The troll squinted. "The guy that turned a whole town into a love-addled mob?"
"…Nope. That guy sounds… wildly irresponsible. Probably handsome, though."
The troll shrugged. "Your funeral."
Enter: Slippery Linda
Just as Walter was beginning to enjoy the smell of fried griffin wings and the slow jazz of cursed saxophones, a shadow loomed behind him.
"You've got a real talent for chaos, sugar spell."
Walter turned.
Standing before him was a tall, dangerously confident enchantress in a coat made of stitched-together wanted posters. Her eyes sparkled with illegal knowledge. Her belt was full of potions, and one boot had a knife sticking out of it labeled "Definitely Not Poisoned."
"I'm Slippery Linda," she said with a wink. "I sell hexes, secrets, and occasionally illegal cheese."
Heisenbones gave her a nod. "Name checks out."
Linda leaned in. "Word on the spellvine says you cooked up a love potion so potent it broke three marriage oaths and sparked the first public group therapy session in Mudwater history."
Walter tried to play it cool. "I… dabble."
"I like that," she grinned. "You've got potential. Dangerous, messy potential."
Walter sipped from a drink called "The Dementia Daiquiri" and immediately forgot his own name for twelve seconds. "Go on."
Linda pulled out a scroll. "There's a buyer. Big money. Wants a shipment of potions that can bypass Guild tracking—spells that are so illegal, the Guild doesn't even admit they exist."
Walter's eyes lit up like a firework fueled by narcissism.
She slid the scroll across the table. "You in?"
Heisenbones leaned over. "Walter, remember what happened last time you said yes without reading the fine print?"
Walter nodded. "I woke up married to a statue and technically owned a cursed mansion."
"And?"
He grinned. "Best Tuesday of my life. I'm in."
The First Real Gig
Linda took them to a secret lab carved into the back of a cave shaped like a screaming frog.
There, she introduced them to her "assistant"—a depressed mimic chest named Trevor who only opened if complimented, and even then reluctantly.
They got to work.
Objective: Create three "Super-Banned" potions for black market delivery:
Potion of Mild Time Travel (returns you to five seconds ago and causes intense déjà vu),
Truth Serum but it's Petty Truths Only, and
Summon Debt Collector, which calls a spectral figure who asks you about your unpaid magical student loans.
Walter was in his element. Cackling. Mixing. Brewing chaos.
Heisenbones guarded the cave while drawing new gang logos in the dirt. "How about a snake wearing sunglasses… riding a broom… with a dollar sign tattoo?"
Trevor muttered from the corner, "You guys are gonna die horribly."
Meanwhile: The MLE Moves In
Back in Mudwater, Captain Sevrin of the MLE glared at a map of the region. He wore his paladin armor like a guy who slept in it by choice. His enchanted mustache twitched.
"Sir," his junior officer said, holding up a scroll. "We've traced a residual magic trail—glitter-based propulsion system. Standard potion fireworks. Leads straight into the Bone Hills."
Sevrin nodded. "So the fugitive's hiding in the densest cluster of banned magic in the entire continent?"
"Yes, sir."
He slammed his gauntlet on the table. "Pack the anti-chaos wands. We're going in."