Jonah was a barbarian, and one with quite a reputation even if he did say so himself. Him and his little mob of marauders had been raiding up and down this trail for decades. On his back sat the choosy sword, it refused any other wielder but him (and grumbled if he had sweaty palms, or left the blood too long, why oh why did he have to pick a sword that could literally talk. They were great in theory but it was nigh on impossible to get the bloody thing to shut the hell up.)

As he and his buddies hung around their favourite ambush spot waiting for their next mark all the birds nearby flew off.

“Must be a big convoy, this should be fun.” Mumbled Choosy quietly so as not to give the game away (they didn’t even try to whisper because regardless of how quietly you do it everybody hears it, those weird hissy noises are a dead giveaway, it’s almost like prey are specially made to hear anything nearby trying to be sneaky or something. Oh... come to think of it if they like their internals to remain internal they probably are. the one’s who don’t mind that? They’re usually the ambusher not the ambushee.)

Jonah tried gesturing a formation to Mark, his second in command.

“Hey Boss what does that signal mean again?” Mark bellowed.

Jonah facepalmed. “You know what? Forget it, circle ambush formation before they get here, and keep it down will ya? We’re trying to ambush, and if you were any louder we might as well have sent out gilded written invitations a week in advance, now move.”

The others snickered at Mark dutifully (he was going to be in so much trouble later, if they joined in and made fun maybe they wouldn’t too, they probably would but hope springs eternal and all that jazz.) Then gradually got into what we suppose could generously be called an encircling formation, assuming the person in question had never seen a circle, was barely familiar with formations, and barely got the an in the sentence. (So most of the gang really, which was a shame, the education facilities for marauder gangs are sorely limited to “pointy ends 101,” and “jabby bits go in enemy not you,” and usually did not include a weapon maintenance class, which is probably a contributing factor in why marauders are so limited in their careers, having a choice between thieving vagabonds, or getting into politics, where they would remain thieving vagabonds, but have to be rich enough to do the job.)

Then the bushes rustled once again, and the mead in Mark’s horn practically jumped out at what he suspected was a massive stomp. “Uhhh boss, I don’t t’ink this is a convoy,” he mumbled nervously.

“How many times do I have to tell you be quiet when we’re prepping an ambush.” Jonah hissed, “I don’t pay you to think.”

“Boss you don’t pay me at all, we rob, you take all the money, I skim a bit off the top and use it to pay me and the boys, and we never talk about it, it’s traditional.”

Jonah really wished he had some willow bark at this moment. (Both for his headache and to cram in Marks big gob to make him shut the hell up, he would have shanked him years ago, but lackeys don’t grow on trees, well except Dryad Dave, but he’d left to seek greener pastures a few years ago, so he didn’t count anymore.)

“OK first off you’re not supposed to tell me that, and if I find out I’m supposed to gut you like a fish in front of the others as an example, but that’s bad for morale so I’m not and you are NOT to tell the others I didn’t or I really will, understand?”

Mark nodded nervously, he didn’t understand much, but he definitely got that guts work better on the inside and keeping them there is a key to career success.

“Secondly remember what I already told you and shut the hell up until the ambush is done, understand?”

Mark nodded again, and held his tongue, if he didn’t he figured the boss would make it possible to hold his tongue in his hands without opening his mouth, and he liked it where it was.

Then the bushes stirred again, and with a crunch of a few trees which didn’t give up their right of way the target appeared.

Mark and the others looked, and looked again at what they were encircling, was that a frikkin stone dragon without wings in a top hat? What the hell? Still they had trained long and hard for this moment, and now that it came they knew exactly what to do. Their killer instincts were roused, and as proper marauders, (certified and everything) they knew exactly what to do. Raising a hair raising war cry they turned and ran the hell away. They were Barbarians not idiots, this was a bloody dragon, and one made of stone at that, were they hell fighting that thing. They didn’t manage to skim anywhere near enough off the top to change their job description from Marauder to attempted dragon slayer, it totally wasn’t worth it.

Jonah on the other hand? He wasn’t certified, meaning he had skipped the “don’t fight several tonnes of bitey death” class, but even if he hadn’t he was full of enough pride to ignore it. So after recalculating the best ambush point he braced himself again. Today Jonah vowed he would become Jonah the Dragon Slayer and finally earn the recognition he truly deserved. He drew choosy, and when the moment was right he pounced.

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Grark suddenly slowed down, pausing for a moment.

“Grark are you okay? What’s going on?” Alyvyn asked via the network,

“Grark okay, just step in something gross, it smell bad, just need to scrape foot.”

It took a few minutes and some irritated growls from Grark, then they were off again.

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A few hours later Mark plucked up the courage and came back, calling on the others to follow a ways behind (that way if he had to scarper they would act as a distraction.) Eventually coming to the final resting place of the jam splat formerly known as Jonah the barbarian. He looked down for a moment, them picked the sword out of the leftovers and walked back to the others.

“OK folks, I’m afraid our boss has fallen, valiantly battling the dragon, with his dying breath he named me new boss.”

“Uhhh if he fought a dragon how was there enough left to name anybody?” one of the thinkers of the group asked.

“To toast the memory of the old boss drinks are on me tonight.”

In a toss up between asking questions that may get you killed, and free beer, well the answer was fairly clear and the gang all gathered round to congratulate the new boss.

Looking upon the scene, and the greasy hand gripping him Choosy sighed. “Great now I’ve got to break in another one,” he grumbled.