Welcome back to The High Life!

We're ready to give you a glimpse of the selection of weapons available to Adepts. If you like to pick off opponents from a distance and stay away from the thickest fighting, this class is for you.

Also, read on to find out how our band of unwilling allies—a Scavenger, an Adventurer, and an Apprentice—will fare when they finally face Étienne, the Duck with the sharpest palate and wits to match.

Let's dive in! ⬇️

The Adept's Armory

Imagine facing a wave of truffle monsters, their fangs snapping at you while they charge towards your warband. An Adventurer charges ahead, wielding dual swords to mete out damage as quickly as possible. But your enemies aren't the rank and file—they're bigger, faster, and they hit much harder.

You're an Adept, armed with a short bow, releasing volleys of arrows in a wide cone to hit multiple enemies in one go. Those who are closer take two, three hits, and the damage stacks up.

Switch to your throwing knives—after all, the Adventurer isn't the only one who knows how to use blade weapons. Adepts are all about precision, so you hit home every time a knife leaves your hand. The best part is you'll never run out of blades, because you're equipped with special recall technology that returns them to your hands.

When your war band faces down enemies with heavier armor or heftier health bars, the crossbow is your best bet. It takes time to reload, but it can discharge three arrows in one go, each delivering enough force to send an opponent flying across the battlefield. The power here is unmatched.

No matter which weapon is in your hands, the Adept is a force to be reckoned with and a valuable addition to any group of warriors who step into the Chaos Arena.

Wine, Blood, and Broken Deals — A Tale from Highstreet: Café

PART 4

Beneath The Elixir, in a vaulted cellar that smelled of old oak and silent judgment, Étienne stood before a trembling apprentice sommelier and held up a decanter with all the solemnity of a priest brandishing holy relics.

“This,” he said, swirling the dark ruby wine, “is a 685 Lavande Noir. Grown on a cursed slope in pre-war Loire. Only fifteen bottles survived the frostfire blight of '86. It is not—repeat, not—to be poured like cheap sangria into a goblet still steaming from the wash.”

The apprentice swallowed. “Y-yes, Monsieur Étienne.”

Étienne lowered the decanter, inspecting it as if it might explode from offense. “Wine is memory. It is mortality suspended. It does not taste the same if it's rushed.”

He was about to launch into his usual tirade against mismatched pairings when the flap of wings broke the sanctity of the cellar.

A pigeon landed on the stone sill. It bore a scroll, sealed with melted wax and flecks of dirt.

Étienne raised a brow, broke the seal, and read silently.

“The Scavenger is coming. With guests.”

He stood motionless for a beat. Then, without a word, he turned, placed the scroll onto a silver tray, and walked calmly to the far end of the cellar.

He passed rows of priceless vintages, ignored the ancient sabers mounted on the wall, and opened a hidden drawer beneath the rack labeled Unpairable. From it, he removed a sleek obsidian bottle with no label—only a single wax-stamped letter: E.

He murmured to himself: “Very well. If it's a confrontation they want…”

He selected three crystal glasses and set them in a perfect triangle.

“A balanced flight,” he said.

“Sharp. Smoky. And one with… unfinished notes.”

🜯

The Adventurer adjusted her cloak as they crested the final hill. Ahead, carved into the cliffs like a fortress built of vanity, stood The Elixir—all polished stone, dark wood, and stained-glass windows that shimmered like fermenting jewels.

A wrought-iron gate blocked the entrance. It did not open.

“I don't suppose he's the type to welcome old enemies with open arms,” the Scavenger muttered.

The Adept wiped his palms on his robe. “This is insane. Why are we here again?”

The Adventurer stepped forward. “Because we started this. And because whatever this is, it needs finishing.”

The gate groaned open with theatrical timing. From within the courtyard, a voice echoed—rich, dry, and utterly unimpressed.

“Ah,” Étienne drawled, emerging from the shadows at the top of the stairwell, swirling a glass of wine the color of fresh bruises.

“A trio of battered palates. One seeking redemption, one seeking recognition… and one still unsure if this is all a fever dream.”

He took a sip. His eyes glittered like the edge of a corkscrew.

“I've been expecting you.”

To be continued…

Highstreet Chronicles: Into the Chaos Gardens #16

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