Book One – Chapter 8

Yves, though in dire need of a healer, found himself caught between exhaustion and the compulsion of an artefact hunter’s curiosity. He felt pulled by an urgency to scrutinise the spoils, to dissect the arcane.

Items that resisted the corrosive innards of the behemoth hinted at exceptional quality or potent enchantments,  most likely both. Yves did not know what the witch had done, but from the order of things, it seemed that she had basically trailed the Vicha and picked up whatever fell out left and right. That was so stupid that he could not believe it. It was absurd and sickening, a display of reckless ignorance. You did not simply pick up random artefacts from the ground — and then tossed them into a chest or pile with other artefacts, and then expected that absolutely fucking nothing would happen or activate. This was a surefire way to prematurely retire from your artefact hunter career.

It was foolish to carry the unknown without understanding. Proper examination demanded a controlled environment, protective measures, time, and above all, a presently non-dying body. Yves had none of those things, and none of the things he could pick up would be of any use if he died before reaching the north-eastern settlements.

Sensibility screamed for a pragmatic purge of the witch’s sled and all that did not belong to him. And yet, despite the risk for arcane disaster, the hoarder in Yves could not bring himself to abandon the tantalising pile of treasure. He needed to make some alterations to fit all his luggage; rearranging his chest, tossing a trunk of herbs and repurposing a small chest of furs, but in the end, he had kept every single artefact the witch had collected.