[The following was inspired by a post on the Writing Prompts subreddit.]
I understood Celeste's reservations regarding Vance's membership to the party. Her paladin training told her to be wary of those who wield godlike powers, and while I'd seen my share of horrific images in the camps, I hadn't seen anything quite like this. None of us were equipped nor trained to deal with matters of the arcane, especially those that fall under the purview of all things eldritch.
My eyes followed where she pointed: the greasy wizard whose robe conveniently disappeared--again--while green glowing ichor poured forth from his lips into a skull-goblet with ruby eyes. He sat atop a dead spider, leaning forward only slightly as if just catching his breath.
"Oh not again," he said between heaves. He wore a pained expression that seemed like he wanted us to believe he was in pain. But I could tell he wasn't. Though he squinted and gritted his teeth, all of the other muscles in his face were relaxed, at least as relaxed as they could be for a man vomiting otherworldly slop.
We picked him up in Hyde's Hollow in a tavern. It was rare to find a scholar outside of a library or university, so Celeste considered it a boon from her god that we found a man capable of reading ancient script in the very place that we sought shelter only days before we planned to arrive at Nettle's Tomb. In truth, he seemed normal enough. But then we left town. She's been cursing him for the last few hours.
The fact that he insisted on riding the spider instead of one of our hired horses should have been a sign.
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