You might not always know when you’re on someone’s shit-list… but there’ll be signs.
And that’s how I found myself pushing my way through the gathering crowd to find…
…a smoking outhouse.
“What in the actual fu…”
“Are you from the hunter’s guild? Please tell me you’re from the hunter’s guild,” the man said, his voice tight with desperation.
I glanced around, trying to make sense of the scene before answering. Then I turned back to the smoldering, blackened structure and gave a noncommittal nod.
What the hell had Tabatha gotten me into now? This isn’t a hunter’s job. This is city sanitations problem.
I should have known. The signs were there.
I’m a tracker, for god’s sake. I should have seen them the moment Tabatha called me over, the quick glance to Trogg, the glee in her eye knowing what she was about to do.
“There’s a bounty your… unique abilities are perfect for,” she sneered, actually sneered, before looking back down at her paperwork.
The snickers from behind me, including the deep rumble that passed for the orc’s laughter, confirmed it.
Trogg and his merry band of cronies.
An orc who’s had it out for me since day one. I don’t even know why.
I narrowed my eyes. I didn’t bother to look. I knew exactly where he’d be. At the center table, leaning back in a chair that groaned under his bulk, legs spread wide, taking up as much space as possible. Some alpha-male bullshit or something.
Which is funny, because orcs make terrible hunters outside of group tactics. They’re most effective when they use all that bulk to herd their prey into a prepared kill zone.
They’re too big and too loud. Trogg can’t sneak up on a blind and deaf Moonkin to save their life.
“Hmph. Funny,” I said, looking straight up at the woman. “I guess all the hunters sitting around are too incompetent to get the job done. Isn’t that right, Trogg?”
The laughter quieted.
I snatched the bounty.
And here I am.
I should have made an excuse. Or better yet, just disappeared into the crowd. I have the skills. Would have been easy.
Left this ridiculous scene to the people most capable of dealing with it.
Instead I said.
“What… what is going on here?”
The official looked relieved enough to cry. “Thank the fates. It’s still in there. We think.”
The workers all nodded behind him, like nervous pigeons agreeing with their keeper.
I raised an eyebrow. “Define it.”
He shifted awkwardly. “Growling. Smoke. A man claimed he was bitten… mid-use. Says something scorched his—”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I get it,” I said, cutting him off before I got too many details.
Stepping forward, I crouched beside the door. The air shimmered faintly, carrying a heat that didn’t belong in an outhouse. A quick rune scan picked up traces of mana — fire-based.
I glanced back at the workers. “Do you use fire magic to clean these?”
“Definitely not,” said a balding man in a stained jumpsuit. The tag over his chest read Jerryl. “Methane’s highly flammable.”
“That’s very true. Thanks, Jerryl.”
He stammered something and shuffled back into the group.
A few blackened splinters along the frame caught my eye, along with a small set of claw marks. Whatever it was, it wasn’t large, maybe the size of a cat.
I pulled a charm from my belt, the same one I use for pest containment, and traced a quick stabilizing circle on the ground. “Stand back, if this goes wrong,” I muttered, “don’t breathe the fumes.”
A few steps behind me, “Fumes,” someone asked nervously, “What kind of fumes?”
“It’s a flaming outhouse. What kind of fumes do you think?” I said, and eased the door open.
I heard the crowd lean in.
Because humans, when faced with potential disaster, always think:
“Closer.”
Hot air rushed out, carrying the unmistakable scent of sulfur and… ugh, compost. My goggles fogged instantly. Through the haze, two glowing orange eyes blinked up at me.
“Hello there,” I whispered, trying my damnedest not to breathe.
The creature was curled on the seat board like a smug housecat, its scales pulsing with faint ember light. I slid my goggles up to my forehead so I could actually see what I was doing.
A juvenile drake, barely a hatchling, drawn to the heat of decomposition. Its chest rose and fell with a low rumble, equal parts purr and warning.
“You’re not supposed to be this far north,” I murmured. “What are you doing all the way out here?”
I kept my eyes on the drake and called over my shoulder. “I need food. Something warm. Anything that smells sweet.”
Behind me, I heard shuffling, a few half-whispered arguments, and then hurried footsteps.
“Here, here you go!” someone said.
I reached back without looking. A metal cylinder pressed into my hand, radiating heat.
It was a thermos.
I risked a quick glance as I twisted the lid.
The scent of spiced cider put up a good fight against the other smells in the confined space.
I wrinkled my nose. “This should do.”
The drake sniffed at the air, chirped once, then began to lean forward. Its long neck stretched as far as it could without moving its claws from the seat. A slow, cautious reach. The kind you see when a creature wants the treat but doesn’t want to admit it.
“Come on,” I whispered.
I almost had it when someone behind me shouted, “Is it safe?”
The drake startled, belched a ball of flame, and the world went orange.
When the smoke cleared, the outhouse door was gone. I was covered in soot, most of my gear was singed around the edges, and the drake was sitting squarely in my arms, tongue happily lapping at the cider.
I sighed.
“Let’s get you somewhere safe and warm.”
I brought the drake back to the guild conservatory, wrapped in my still-smoldering cloak.
It went right to sleep on the warming stones, belly up, tiny embers flickering from its nostrils.
“He looks comfy,” Lars said, stepping up behind me.
“He does,” I replied. “Adorable little menace, isn’t he?”
By the next morning, the story had already twisted into something legendary.
Word around the guild hall was that I’d nearly burned down the city foricae and “attacked a public facility with an experimental weapon.”
Someone even claimed the city council was sending a cleaning invoice to the guild.
“City council sent these over,” Malcolm said, setting a small box on my table.
“As a thank-you for not destroying the sanitation infrastructure, I suppose.”
I was mid-sip of my steaming coffee. The coconut milk was perfect, creamy and smooth.
He slid the box toward me.
I narrowed my eyes. After six months in the guild, I no longer trusted “gifts” from my so-called guildmates.
Malcolm must have noticed my hesitation because he hurriedly added, “No one’s touched them. I brought them straight from city hall myself.”
I opened the box and held one out toward him.
He put both hands up and shook his head.
“They’re legit, I swear. And I know better than to come between you and your cinnamon buns. Hell, everyone knows that.”
I tore it in half. Steam curled upward, carrying that warm, intoxicating scent of cinnamon.
Damn, I love these things.
Grinning, he added, “Half the hall swears they saw you wrestling a fire serpent in a toilet.”
Pulling my eyes away from the delectable pastry, I corrected him.
“Drake. And it was barely bigger than a ferret.”
He nodded. “Well, good job nonetheless. Most of these trigger-happy fools would’ve blown that latrine sky-high. They’d still be cleaning shit off the surrounding walls.”
As he left, I caught Tabatha pretending not to listen, her hands moving papers that didn’t need moving.
Behind me, the room hummed with whispers.
“Fire serpent,” someone said.
“Septic explosion,” said another.
“Tabatha says she saw smoke coming from Izzy’s boots,” someone else replied.
I bit into the bun. Warm, soft, perfect.
Let them talk.
