Grendel had a brother, a twin named Ursus—a name, if memory served, that meant "bear" in the tongue of long-forgotten empires, though I could not be certain. Whatever his name signified, he was no mere legend, but a shadowed figure lurking in the annals of forgotten lore.
But these revelations paled beside the folly of our own making. We—brave warriors, seasoned adventurers—had been rendered fools by a single draught of poisoned tea. The brew had been foul from the first sip, a concoction so wretched it should have roused suspicion in even the dullest of minds. Yet we drank, and now we paid dearly for our negligence. Our coin was gone, pilfered from our very pouches as we writhed in delirium.
“She robbed us!” Winston bellowed, his voice a tempest of wrath fit to shake the very stones of
