It was around ten in the morning when Zune hammered the last nail into the elevated stage of the set. It wasn’t much, just a flat plane of wood with no backdrop with no furniture, but it was the beginning of something grand.

“Gonna need a couch.” he said to himself. Zune quickly grabbed his rat sack (which was made of rats, and also full of them) and went off to town. He didn’t have any money to spend, but he knew people wouldn’t be able to resist trading for his delicious rats. Everyone loves rats!

The center street of Eden was nearly empty ten minutes from noon as Zune strolled down with his tattered towel hung over him like an assassin’s cloak. The cloak was about as fashionable as a well-loved black mall ninja fedora. The kobold walked up to a store with a sign above it that read “Father Milton’s Combo Sewing and Construction Supply Store” and tapped one of his tiny kobold fists against the dusty wooden door. The door quickly cracked open.

“Sorry we don’t serve criminals.” An old man’s voice screeched the rather poor business policy like a rusty nail on a chalkboard, and slammed the door shut with the enthusiasm of someone who really disliked solicitors. Zune knocked again. He just had to hear the man’s voice again. It sounded like music to his ears, ugly, horrible, completely discordant. It reminded him of home.

Zune sniffled a bit. A single tear rolled down his snouty kobold cheek. He hadn’t thought about home in months. Not since the great Guy Blanco had woken him from his suffering and delivered unto Eden.

“That’s not true! Also that’s really overdramatic! I thought about home yesterday!” Zune yelled at the narrator…because he was feeling rude. I would like to remind Zune that he hadn’t thought of home fondly in months. Is that better?

“Yeah that’s better!” Zune said, satisfied with my apology.

The door shot open. An elderly man in simple brown robes held the legendary sword Amorokyus, Wielder of Dreams (not to be confused with a similar-sounding trademarked sword) at Zune’s throat.

“I said. I don’t. Serve. Criminals.” The man was utterly petrified. His arm was shaking.

“Please! I’m just a kobold. Not a criminal. I brought rats to pay!” Zune held up the squirming rat sack full of rats.

A flash of recognition crossed Father Milton’s face. It was the kobold. Father Milton had bet seventy three gold on the little fellow lasting two months. Technically, it would be cheating to help the kobold. Guilt flowered in his stomach. Real Galadhorn was going to eat this kobold alive. Possibly literally. What would Brestmylc, the god of justice, think of Father Milton for letting such a pathetic and wimpy creature to fend for himself?

I abandoned my vows long ago. A single tear ran down Father Milton’s cheek as he lowered the sword. Maybe, just maybe, he could redeem himself in the eyes of Bristmylc. Afterall, once he had been truly worthy of wielding Amorokyus, Wielder of Dreams.

Father Milton eyed the squirining rat sack full of rats. He knew what he had to do, even if he could never truly redeem himself to Brestmylc.

“I renounce my bet!” he yelled, and he let the kobold inside. After a few minutes of discussion Father Milton traded a sewing machine, a plethora of canvas, some strong oak wood, some nice velvet fabric, and a variety-set of canvas paints for three rats. Father Milton knew the rats weren’t a fair trade, but he had to honor the kobold’s insistence on trading for the goods.

Zune walked back out onto the main street, passing by the very loud quadruple-stacked saloons on his way east, out of Eden and back to his stage. It was the first time in Eden’s history that the crime rate lowered to 111%.

Real Galadhorn sharpened his cursed blade, Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering on a bloody whetstone as he watched Zune pass by the saloon window. He grinned (well, technically it was the sword grinning, but we’ll get to that later), and then he laughed loudly enough for all of the other patrons to hear. Everyone in the saloon eyed the mad technically-not-a-criminal with fear in their eyes. Galadhorn would kill the kobold eventually. At the last possible moment. He couldn’t wait to see the hope leaving the eyes of every gambling moron in Eden. It brought him happiness to see dreams crushed. Or rather, it brought Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering happiness. It was like being happy.

“Soon.” Galadhorn said, grimly looking at his reflection in the bloody black steel of Killer-throatslitter-taxevasion-littering. A single tear rolled down his cheek.

Everyone in the saloon returned to good cheer, except for the newcomer who had arrived that afternoon. Something was strange about this woman. Something…otherworldly. She sat at the saloon bar, slamming down a set of silver pieces. A strange leather hat adorned her head. Like a fedora, but fashionable, well-worn, and made of cowhide. Strange glyphs spelled a warding spell: Made in USA.

This woman, it seemed to those in the saloon, probably had no backstory involving any of the events of the narrative. Also, she looked dangerous. And for both of these reasons, the other patrons ignored her as she poured out libations for a fallen comrade. A single tear rolled down her cheek as she thought of a flashback involving events of the current narrative.