Rory the Sword-slayer stood looking at the little pile of yellow powder in his hand. It seemed ridiculous that some ground-up flowers could be worth more than gold.
“What’s this called again?” the mighty warrior asked.
“Saffron,” Wilma the Druid responded.
“And it comes from flowers?” Rory asked, seeking confirmation.
“That’s right, Rory,” Alanor the Mage replied.
Rory shook his head in disbelief. Had he had it wrong for all these years? Now what seemed ridiculous to him was that he and his band had spent so much time in dank smelly dungeons, and risked their lives battling Bugbears and Trolls, when mere NPC Farmers held so much wealth.
“Comrades, I have decided to cancel our quest to The Citadel of Quarf. We now have a safer and more profitable endeavour to undertake,” Rory announced.
“What is it?” Debin the Half-elf thief asked greedily.
“Saffron,” Rory replied, pouring the spice back into the small wooden chest.
“What, be farmers?” Debin replied.
“Too much hard work in that,” Rory replied. “I was thinking about raiding florists. Once a Berserker always a Berserker, I always say.”