Day One of Week Thirty-Two

The day started just fine. I stepped out into the shifting twilight, the broad glowing horizon stretched out before me, feeling the morning wind swirling across my scalp. I felt it extra sharp as it swirled between my legs, squatting in a bush as I was, but I’m a man of constitution, and business had to be done. I hopped back to dress and shave, just as Madeline started on a morning stew. I informed her of yesterday’s success, but there wasn’t much to tell. I leaned back in my comfortable, expensive folding chair, feet crossed on the table set up by her wagon, watching her bustle and organize as I ate and the rest of the camp rustled into wakefulness.

“Say, Mr. Miles,” Madeline said, all drawl and curious like she is. “I fixed up the spare wheel like you asked. How was the trip? Good haul, I see.”

“Indeed. Hard work and determination, that’s the stuff,” I said, patting my face dry as the smells of her pot wafted on the air. “Plenty and potent, by the smell. Speaking of smells, Madeline, that one is divine.”

“It’s the onions, Mister Miles,” she said with that sun-shine smile of hers, tying her dirty blonde hair into that ponytail she’s fond of. “Caramelized and sweet as a plum! Covers the Piss smells real well since it’s still all sitting there.” She nodded behind her, to Stefan’s bulky, bulging wagon where the barrels and assorted containers still sat, unemptied. “That stuffs got an oniony quality of its own, I’d say.”

I strained around to frown at the unused product, feeling more than a little miffed. Piss doesn’t purify itself, and we’d been scheduled to leave soon. Any longer and oniony is the best-case scenario. Wasted time is wasted money, and risked spoiling delicate product. Still, we’re partners and need to keep a unified face on those sorts of things.

“Oh, you know, we’re trying to add a bit of age to it first. Don’t want the stuff to be too ripe. Nice bit of musk to it. Like wine, it’s the age that brings the expense. Please, dear Madeline, let me worry about it.”

Madeline’s face twisted in on itself sourly as she pondered, obviously having decided to go ahead and worry about it. Well, not my problem.

Here let’s have a brief interlude. At the end of that night, just before writing this entry, in fact, I showed Stefan my first entry, expecting him to be proud and grateful and encouraging. Instead, he laughed at my ‘colourless prose’, and the ‘complete lack of actual reflection or base-level consideration on the days’ events’. So let's try some reflection.

Lying is the first part of business. Manipulation, obfuscation, and, I dare say, fabrication, are keys to management. Now it’s certainly ‘true’ that spoiled Dragon Piss emits fumes that can melt lungs and, strangely enough, the teeth. It’s ‘true’ that if Madeline ever tried testing it we’d choke on our melting flesh and molars. But the truth is flimsy, and with my careful guidance, she’ll never make the attempt. Smart as a whip as she may be, she’ll never have a mind for business, chemistry, lies, or anything else that makes any real money. No point letting her know how close to death you all are at that moment – all that matters is that she’s content to let Stefan and I deal with it.

How’s that, you skeletal prick?

I finished my meal, spotted Raufa, roused and crossing the grassy space to the bushes for her own encounter with the bracing breeze. As usual, no sign of May and Henrique. I had promised I'd bring one or both of them into town, but the sheer laziness of sleeping past sunrise set my mind against it. I donned my hat, slung my arms through a solid cotton suit jacket, and set off towards town alone. As I passed out from the circled wagons the broad open sky of the Daedrus plains greeted me, the town itself a mere couple rolled hills ahead.

Vegalhold. A typical morning in a typical Third-Round town. Folks wandering out to the fields, checking crops, occasionally wielding a druidic Contract on a plant or two, the usual nonsense of the agriculturally inclined. All the settled non-combatants going about their business. Stalls going up, guards patrolling or changing shifts, the occasional Moketta scuttling about on those stick feet. Made me feel rather homesick and nostalgic, while also bringing on regular sick. These sorts of people have no ambition anymore. Not for the Contest, and not for themselves. Sticking out like a zit on Myria’s lovely plains, doing nothing but pissing days away, and not in the money-making sense like my fine self. A nice factory, I decided, would do the place good. Maybe a few warehouses, or one of those metal Windmills the Moketta had started putting up. Beautiful, horizon destroying industry. I spent a few moments mentally placing a few smoke-spewers across the landscape, and my mood lightened.

I’d at least got to enjoy a little recognition for my efforts as I walked down the muddy street towards that Mayor’s office. Out from the, generously put, homely buildings, shops and houses of that main thoroughfare came the first risers of the town-folk. A few of them had spotted the scaly fiend flying off the day before and recognized me from my initial visit well enough to put things together. I made sure to repeat the company name a few times, despite the usual disgusted scowls.

Once I reached the mayor’s office, that big honking block of a building slapped at the end of the street, I didn’t bother knocking. The assistant kicked herself up off her chair, somehow managing to smile through her surprise and assured me the Mayor would be happy to see me. After a few minutes, she showed me inside.

“Mayor… Buh-uh…Trandont!” Swift recovery, good memory as always. I stepped into the ill-lit, cramped office. “You’re so happy to see me, I'm sure.” I reached over the desk for a shake.

The thin man didn’t even stand. One hand rested thoughtfully beneath his chin. The other worried the collar hem of his suit – shit cotton, no finishes or flourishes, decently fit. “Not really, but the suggestion is appreciated,” he said, finally accepting my grip. A loose and dangly thing. Unimpressive. “I admit I’m surprised.”

“I told you not to be,” I said, lounging in the wooden chair opposite. “I promised results.”

“Except I never actually asked for them,” he said. “We had no agreement.”

Eyebrows peaked I held his eyes as I reached into my vest and retrieved the request for aid, posted across half the continent. I flipped it open, skimmed the contents.

“Dragon, mountains, blah. Yes. ‘To whomsoever safely extracts the guilty Dragon from its lair, such that it no longer attacks locals and their properties, shall be awarded a sum of 150 oranges, payable upon confirmation of said deed.’ Nothing here about any who nor how Mr. Trandont.”

“Mayor,” Mr. Trandont said. “No, there was not, but it’s hardly binding. Not sworn to Myria, or even signed. I never accepted your help, nor believed you would succeed. I don’t even know how you did it, and I don’t want to know.”

“We expertly extracted its urine via proprietary techniques known only to select individuals, ensuring the highest quality Dragon Piss, and –“

Trandont raised his hand, eyes closed against slipping patience.

“I don’t want to hear about that… stuff. I’ll pay you, just accept it.”

“You don’t care to try our merchandise, Trandont?” I asked, leaning forward with my award-winning smile. “I’m sure you’re a married man. Our distilled product is the perfect-“

“I said I don’t want to hear it!” The man all but yelled at me. He fetched a bound stack of notes from his draw and tossed them into my lap. “And I’d rather my people not have to hear it, either. You and your company are causing plenty of trouble as it is.”

I let out a breath, feeling myself deflate as I counted the money. Given enough time I could have educated him on Dragon Piss’ many uses. A lost cause, undesiring of my help even as they so desperately needed it.

“Well, I am sorry to hear that. I had thought this deal was working out well. May I at least know what sort of trouble my people are causing? It’s not good publicity, and I’d hate to leave here having lessened the public’s view of my company.”

“Not your people, per se,” Trandont said, though he sounded rather non-committal. “Yesterday I was visited by a few honest Dragon Hunters, real professional-looking sort, seemed fairly well Contracted. I told them they were welcome to take a shot.” His lips pursed, his eyes flashed at me. “I didn’t even think to mention you. Shortly after, the Dragon flew off. The man came back. He was rather upset.”

I stuck my lower lip out, nodding out at the window. “I could understand that. Come all this way to lose the job. It surely is a pity, I wish them better luck next time.”

A smirk erupted over his intertwined fingers.

“Well, you’re welcome to wish them luck yourself. They’re still here.” Trandont stood and stepped towards the window, peering out. He turned to me and smiled, condescending and churlish. “If you could please meet them outside? As I said this has nothing to do with me or my town. Our business is concluded. Have a nice day.”

He stuck out his hand, quick and easy. I took it and stood as I shook, smiling back.

“And you as well, Mayor,” I said, grabbing my coat and stepping outside. “Lovely town.”

Trandont’s face was a frown in the second before I shut the door.

Feeling light and at ease I hopped down each step and entered the street with a smile, spotting the men in question just now nearing through the smattering of townsfolk, a bit of cloud cover looming over the otherwise brightening day. A nice little ambush they’d concocted, well laid.

“Yes, gentlemen?” I called across the way. “I hear you need me?”

A gaggle of four fellows, arranged just so, tightly fitting oiled leather armor about their bodies, even a few plates of shiny metal on a couple, goggles about their chins, chain coifs, and caps hung behind their necks. Yes indeed, I’d spotted true Dragon Hunters, sheer pent-up sexual tension and greasy, unwholesome chivalry pure radiating off them.

The false knight that stopped before I had his mouth so creased and puckered he might well have been holding in vomit. Dressed up in their delicate uniform as he was –even though that the job was done, and such attire had no use – he pulled at various pieces, adjusting as if for comfort as he glared down at me.

“You are the one, then. Sir, you’ve mocked our noble trade before this entire town, and I for one will not stand for it!” Hard eyed and clean-shaven, the youngster flung his voice as loud as he could, glancing about to check his efforts at making a scene. A modest success thus far. “No writ from Vo, no professional courtesy, nothing but…” He swallowed his next words. “You’ve made a fool of us, and it won’t stand!”

I considered them, the crowd this boy has deliberately attracted and scratched at my cheek.

“You want some money?”

Every face squirmed at the accusation, the very thought unraveling their minds. It had been an honest offer, but evidently, these men took their bravado rather seriously.

“You mock us!” This leader of theirs worked at his glove. “You are nothing but a fiend. I need nothing but satisfaction!” Eyes wide and frightening he held his glove high, ready to strike.

A proper gathering now, due to the excitement of threatened violence gawking at the two opposing newcomers, ready to see me beaten blue and bloody by these strong, handsome, noble workers for the common good. Quite the opportunity.

“Satisfaction?” I asked, brandishing a smile. “Why my boy, then I have just the thing for you. A small dose of refined, straight from the source Dragon Piss is just the thing to get you up and rearing, and both you and your lady love a healthy dose of satisfaction!”

As a picking needle unravels unwanted stitching, my words utterly unraveled the Dragon Hunter's constructed bravado as, facing them, I spoke to all around. I retrieved from my back pocket my handy flask of product - watered down, of course - but ready for sampling.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, many of you have wondered just what I and my company have been doing camping outside your lovely town. Well, here is the answer! Dragon Piss!”

On cue, more than a few faces cringed. I shook my head sadly. “Perhaps a little uncouth for some, but I assure you this is truly powerful stuff! One drop of this will set your lover wild, and get you fired up for as long as you need it!” Drake-engraved flask held high, I paced the edges of the gathering, popped the lid, and let all get a whiff of the stuff. Deep, booming, and viscous with charisma I pour my voice over the crowd like thick webbing binds a fly. “Potent beyond belief, the last remnants of Alaxian heritage left, the only piece of a Dragon’s power you’ll ever get your hands on! Legally obtained with our proprietary techniques, this stuff sells like mad to city officials and rulers alike, because they all know the potency of our product! One drop contains as many as one-hundred and fifty Apples of power!”

“If you, like these fine gentlemen, need a boost in your life, please! Come down to the caravan just a stone's throw from your town. The Dragon Piss Merchants are happy to give you our entire stock, at a surprisingly low price! Merely five oranges per fluid ounce. Yes indeed, even that small amount will keep you bouncing all day!”

I paused before the Dragon Hunters and held out the flask. “How about it gentlemen? Care for a free sample?”

A backhanded slap knocked the flask from my hand. The merchandise spilled, soaking into the dry, cracking dirt. Its trademark stench began a-wafting in the breeze.

“Filthy pig!” the man squealed. A high shrill followed the drawing of a long, shiny knife. He stuck it towards me. “Keep your filth away! You disgust me.”

“You just damaged my goods,” I said. “As a venerable, registered business owner of Vo, I am legally authorized to extract compensation.”

For future reference, the relevant section of said contract.

Upon receipt of (Class II) physical, legal or emotional damage as defined in Myrian Contractual Definitions (vol. III) by any individual not legally authorized under the Communal Agreement to do so (Hereby referred to as ‘Aggressor’ or ‘Aggressors’), the Contractor (Herman Inkarlos) does hereby deem the Recipient (Oskar Sleeman Miles) legal Power equal to up to the amount of Five-Hundred (500) Apples, withdrawable from the Communal funds of the Druidic Circle, up until the Aggressor(s) has been observed by Myria to have sufficiently compensated, redeemed or suffered adequately as defined in Myrian Contractual Standards (Vol. I, 3rd Edition).

The following restrictions and definitions of applicable uses of withdrawn Power apply:

- The Recipient may not cause Overt or Needless suffering upon the Aggressor(s), as defined in Myrian Contractual Definitions (Vol. I, 3rd Edition) with the use of withdrawn Power.

- The Recipient may not apply withdrawn Power to any individuals but the Aggressor(s), may not knowingly damage or take ownership of any property save for the Aggressors(s), and may not in any way cause any uninvolved individuals to become injured or financially disadvantaged with the use of withdrawn Power.

- The Recipient may apply the withdrawn power in these ways:

o Conjuration of One(1) or more Vines (see Druidic Power Theory) up to the maximum Apple allotment, originating from the Recipients hands, chest, or back usable with full range of motion and strength, to be used to restrain or injure the Aggressor(s), or obtain legal substance which might constitute compensation or sufficient punishment.

o Manipulation of Wind-Currents about the Aggressor(s) to attempt hindrance or injury, in the pursuit of obtaining compensation or sufficient punishment.

o Healing of received injuries in the events which led to the activation of this Contract, in the pursuit of compensation or sufficient punishment, or injuries which obstruct said pursuit.

I despise legal-ese. I’m not doing that again.

I correctly assumed that only the man before me, who had struck me and damaged my property, would be counted by Myria as the aggressor. Having met the terms of the agreement, I felt Myria grant the contract’s power to me, the wind around me not quite an extension, but certainly wieldable, and that tingling feeling as if certain areas of my hands, back, and chest could grow green and wriggling at a moment's notice. Quite the premium contract, all things considered, but business requires protection, and I ought to get my money's worth.

A gesture and a gust of wind to the face sent the man sputtering. With the other outstretched hand, I flung forward a vine and bound his legs, the man toppling into a plume on the dusty road. The crowd stepped back. I gripped the vine like a lasso, extending and tightening its length up the villain’s torso.

“You let him go or I’ll whap you good!” The braver of the two remaining goons hefted a cudgel high. The other quivered uselessly on the spot.

“And I’ll whip you right back, sonny,” I said. “Mine is a legally acquired contract from Vo and has activated fairly from his attack. You’re in the wrong here, so unless you feel like brandishing something illegal, I’d back off.”

“This is quite enough I say!” That mayor-man’s voice called through the crowd. He and some local guard in local blue and black uniform stomped up beside the two of us. “I’ll not have this sort of business in my town! Mister Miles, you are hereby ordered to dismiss your conjuration and free this man!”

I glanced sideways at the bespectacled man. “My contract appeals to Myria, whose authority supersedes your own. I must acquire adequate compensation or inflict sufficient punishment upon this man before I am legally obliged to let him go. Nevertheless, in deference to you, I’ll do so quickly and with little hassle, if you’ll kindly ask this fellow to lower his stick.”

A withered hand ran through the mayor’s hair, only to fall to his hips as he huffed and glanced about the crowd. The guard beside him seemed to merely stare at me all the while, dreamy and dull like a maiden waiting to be bedded.

“Do you swear before Myria?” the Mayor asked loudly, having decided on something suitably impressive sounding.

“I do so.”

“Fine,” he said. “Be on with it. Lower that stick, young man!”

“It’s a cudgel,” the Dragon-Hunter muttered, lowering the stick and stepping back.

I let out a low, mournful hum, at the misplaced passion of these men, licked my lips, and spoke.

“To keep it brief, ladies and gentlemen, here lies my competitor. Dragon Hunters. More than half die in the first five years, you know. And all they have to do is scare the things off.” I shifted my tone, raising my face up an inch, displaying pride and confidence to all.“My company executes the same task and more, shooing the scaly fiends away, and acquiring a potent yield all the while, all for a modest sum. A modesty these toothless peacocks can only boast about.”

Withdrawing the vine I felt the contract relinquish, their humiliation having completed the punishment clause adequately in Myria’s eyes. However she couldn’t stop me from kicking the competition one more time. A hand to my chest for emphasis, I spun slowly on the spot, meeting each eye as my gaze passed them.

“I need neither boast nor posture. With the Dragon’s departure, you all witnessed the first fruits of our labour yesterday afternoon, and for a modicum of your hard earned Oranges, you can taste the second, far sweeter yield. These boys have nothing to show, save for a spot of piss of their own.”

The crowd, on the verge of swaying, let out a few sparse, embarrassed chuckles. The Mayor scowled, twisted his finger in circles impatiently. Well, leave them with a laugh, I always say.

“Our business is complete, people of Vegalhold, but I hope the next time our scaled cousins come hunting your livestock, you’ll keep Oskar Sleeman Miles and his incredible Dragon Piss Merchants in mind! Enjoy the rest of your day.”

Not a bad pitch, considering the improvisation requirement, though that joke about them pissing their pants would have landed better if they had pissed their pants. Oh well, notes for next time.