Work Text:
5th of Severe Winter, 1992
Cowdenbeath, Kingdom of Dundee
Planet Earth, Solar System
A623433
An explosion rocked the hermit caves beneath Cowdenbeath. Ralathor the hermit looked up from his brewing potion, unimpressed gaze immediately focusing on the dark sorcerer (ex-dark sorcerer?) that was working on his own projects on the other side of the lab. Ever since Ralathor agreed to help Zargothrax learn to be not-evil, the man has declared he shall take residence in the caves as well so Ralathor could keep an eye on him. (Ralathor suspected it was more so Zargothrax had access to his labs.)
“Zargothrax, what are you doing?” Ralathor asked.
“Helping!” Came the very distracted reply from the other mage, who was facing away from him.
“How?”
Zargothrax kept fiddling with something, not facing Ralathor as he spoke. “Remember how you said that mortals heal slowly and die from minor injuries a lot?”
“That wasn’t exactly what I had said, but let’s go with that.” Correcting Zargothrax would come later; right now, Ralathor wanted to know what the ever-loving fuck that madman was up to.
The ex-dark sorcerer turned around to face Ralathor. “So, see these?” Zargorthrax held up a handful of projectiles, the arrowheads glowing a faint pink color.
“They’re arrows,” Ralathor commented.
“Enchanted arrows,” Zargothrax corrected. “Anyone who is hit by one will be healed.”
It took a moment for Ralathor to process what Zargothrax said. “...This is a terrible idea.”
“It is a wonderful idea!” Zargothrax argued. “I can now shoot people until they get better!”
“Zargothrax, no.”
Ralathor was really reconsidering this whole “helping Zargothrax not be evil” stunt. Needless to say, he would need a lot of caffeine, chocolate, and the strongest booze the Hootsman can find.