"Deal. And now pour me another one."
With that final toast, the night lost its brakes.
They drank deep into the evening, passing the homemade liquor like it was sacred. It burned going down, then settled warm in the belly. Laughter rang out over the crackling fire—rough, hoarse, genuine. For Charles, it had been a long time since he'd felt that kind of warmth: a moment where no one wanted anything from him, no angles, no threats. Just people, fire, and drink. Faces blurred, toasts collided with half-sung songs—someone nearly tumbled into the firepit, someone swore eternal brotherhood over spilled potatoes. Then nothing.
Morning came like a hammer to the skull. Charles sat hunched at the communal table, nursing a cup of warm goat's milk, willing it to stay down. Around him, the villagers greeted him like a returning war hero—slaps on the shoulder, hearty grins, teasing about how well he held his liquor. From that day on, he wasn't just a guest—he was one of them. He rubbed his temples and muttered, "Shit… the homemade booze really is magical."
The next two days passed with Charles lingering around the outskirts of the village. The younger men helped him scout the hills and grasslands, following faint tracks left by a scattered flock of Sand Dusters. Together, they observed the birds' movements—skittish, disorganized, alert. Not easy prey. Charles devised a strategy: short, false raids to lure small groups away, then strike when they broke formation. Feint, retreat, isolate, kill. He'd done it before, and it worked at first. The birds chased him, scattered, and died. Eventually, though, the flock grew wary. They noticed their kin never returned. The lures stopped working. The flock refused to split.
Charles didn't push it. He wasn't about to charge into six-foot-tall birds with razor talons just to prove a point. He'd thinned their numbers—twelve kills in total. Enough for the village to breathe easier. Enough to pad his purse by another gold. Easy coin. Too easy. Something didn't sit right. These weren't the cunning, hard-to-kill beasts the guild had described. He chewed on that thought like gristle in stew. Someone's milking the danger for gold.
He packed up his trophies—cleaned feet and feathers, the parts buyers actually wanted—and prepared to leave. But the farmers had other plans. They were organizing a full caravan, loaded with everything they could harvest: sacks of wheat, bundles of root vegetables, carefully dried herbs. It wasn't just trade. It was a gamble. They were throwing everything they had into the trip, trusting Charles to secure a fair deal. It delayed him another day. Not that he could refuse. Their eyes glowed with hope and quiet desperation. He muttered, "What I wouldn't do for money," watching an old man struggle to hoist a basket of turnips onto a wagon.
The journey back to the city dragged—two days, twice the usual time. Dust rose around oxen hooves. Charles felt the sun burn his neck and the wind sting his eyes. They moved at a crawl, stopping often to rest oxen and horses. The farmers treated it like a pleasant outing—laughing, sharing stories, singing rustic songs as they traveled. They passed around cheese, dried meat, and hard bread like it was a picnic. Charles walked in silence, head tilted back, staring at the endless blue sky. Emotionally, he was drained. He didn't understand how people could treat time so lightly. Didn't they feel the weight of every wasted hour? By the time they reached the city gates, he was ready to walk away from them all.
Then came the taxes. Two hours standing in the dust while bored clerks in creased uniforms counted every sack, tallied every crate, and recorded every unit. Charles said nothing. Just waited, eyes half-lidded, jaw tight. Eventually, they were through.
Their first stop was The Wandering Hearth. Charles expected Matilda, the innkeeper, to be thrilled about the sudden influx of paying customers. She was—until he mentioned the farmers planned to share a room. Then her smile turned to fire.
"We're a respectable establishment," she snapped, arms crossed beneath her apron. "Not some cheap shithole. You're eight grown men. You'll take two rooms. That's me being generous." One of the farmers opened his mouth to protest. She cut him off with a glare. "No backtalk—or sleep in the stables." They shut up quickly.
With lodging sorted, Charles headed for the Hunter's Guild. This time, he avoided the main entrance, taking the side door that led to the butcher room. No way was he letting Swen yell at him again for breaking some invisible rule. He found Brian at the front desk, flipping through parchment. Weird to imagine him with a pen. A knife? Sure, that he could see. They exchanged a few words, and Charles took the chance to vent about Swen. Brian just chuckled.
"He barks a lot, but he's solid. Honest guy, actually. Doesn't play favorites, doesn't cheat. You could do worse."
Charles raised an eyebrow. "Really? Always thought he was one clipboard away from throttling someone."
Brian smirked. Charles pushed open the door to the main hall. Swen spotted him immediately.
"Back so soon?"
"Are you always here?" Charles asked. "Don't they have anyone more… attractive?"
Swen rolled his eyes. "Very funny. What happened to the polite rookie from last week?"
"He realized you're not as scary as you look. And that you don't destroy livelihoods over paperwork."
Swen laughed. "Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment. Now let's see how you did, mister clever."
Charles turned in his kills and pocketed his silver, then asked about Gerart. Apparently, the old hunter had returned the previous morning—furious. The beast they'd been tracking had escaped. No bounty. No payout. Charles rolled his eyes. Figures. He checked the usual haunts—inns, pubs, a few brothels. No sign. Gerart hadn't even bothered to mention where he lived.
Charles was heading back toward the inn, debating whether to write the man off entirely—when someone slammed into his shoulder.
"Watch where you're going, you blind—oh! Charley boy!" It was Gerart, smiling like nothing ever happened.
"I was just looking for you. How are you? Want to join me for another quest? Like old times?"
Charles scowled. This bastard's really trying to use me as bait again.
"Absolutely not," he said. "But… I do have something for you."
Gerart tilted his head. "How much?"
"Several gold. Maybe more."
"…What's the catch? Who's dying?"
"No one. You just pretend to own a farm and help sell the crops. Simple. You get five percent."
Gerart considered it, then grinned. "I'm in."
Convincing the farmers was another matter. They didn't trust Gerart's face. Not even a little. But after some coaxing—and a few vague promises—they agreed. Charles and Gerart made their way into the market and chose a large, opulent shop with polished wood, big glass windows, and velvet-lined counters. The kind of place that didn't deal in small change.
Inside sat a fat dwarf behind the counter, his white beard long enough to drag on the floor. Golden chains hung from his neck like anchors, and every finger sparkled with a different gemstone.
"Welcome, friends!" the dwarf called. "I am Gustave. Here to buy or sell?"
Gerart cleared his throat, trying to sound confident. "Selling. Fifty bushels of wheat and a mix of vegetables."
The dwarf narrowed his eyes. "I haven't seen you before. You one of those folks buying up human farms lately?"
"Cough… Others are doing that too?"
"Hah! Of course. They'd be fools not to. Free money lying around, ripe for the taking. I bought one myself—figure I'll retire in style."
Free money, Charles thought. There it is again. Something's not right in this city.
"Will you buy?" Gustave paused, stroking his beard. "For a fellow farmer, I'll offer the market buying price. But I'll need someone to inspect your goods first. Please, enjoy some elvish wine while you wait."
Inspection complete. Money exchanged hands. Ninety gold total. Not quite the real market rate, but close. Five each for Charles and Gerart.
Back at the inn, the farmers waited anxiously. "It took you a long time," one said. "Didn't work, did it?"
"How much did we get?" another asked. "Thirty? Maybe forty?"
Charles held up the receipt. "Ninety gold." Silence. Then a cheer erupted—one man first, then the others, floodgates broken. Laughter, backslaps, even a few tears. Matilda shot them dirty looks, but none of them cared. One of the elders clasped Charles's hand, eyes wet.
"For this… you'll be remembered as the savior of our village. I'll recommend you to every soul we know on the plains."
Charles managed a tired smile. "That's nice. Just don't recommend me as free labor."