"Monsters are like humans: there are neither good nor bad."

Foki The Deaf.

Derren grabbed the knob, pulled it down and pushed. The ruckus inside threw him back and the smell turned his cheerful rictus into a sour grimace. Horse. Sawdust. Sweat. That's what it smelled like. He wrinkled his nose and frowned but moved forward with a determined stride.

He noticed an empty space at one of the tables made of boards in a corner. A good, unobtrusive spot with a view of almost the whole place. He walked past other tables occupied by red faces and splashed beards, amid the din of conversations punctuated by shameless laughter, the clanking of spoons and the dull clatter of pitchers clinking and spraying foam on the food. As he passed the bar, he pointed to the huge pot full of tripe and politely asked for some mulled wine.

The stool sagged as he rested his butt on it. He must have smelled pretty bad too, the way the guy sitting next to him parted. Or maybe it was the way he looked. His hair was a tangled, branch–colored scruff, decorated with wisps of dried mud that acted as fruit. A scar ran diagonally across his forehead, stopping at his right eyebrow. His pale face was stained with dried blood that he had not even bothered to wash off. He well knew that his crooked nose was not pleasing to the eye, and he often had to strain to keep his brown eyes from looking hostile. He was tired and hungry. And in those conditions it is never easy to smile.

When the casserole arrived, he grabbed the ladle and began to eat as if his life depended on it, totally ignoring the steaming jug of wine. He swallowed the tripe almost without chewing and the sauce warmly caressed his throat, giving him the most primal pleasure. Finally, when he felt full, he decided to arch his lips in a mock smile.

“Forgive my manners, my good man, I have had a long and tiring journey, as you will have seen for yourself.”

What was he doing talking like this in a dingy tavern? The two men closest to him turned to him. They looked at him as if he were a jester in the middle of a naval battle. Next to him, a gentleman with a bristly face and a potbellied belly. Opposite him, a lean, stooped old man with a wiry face and four white hairs on his chin.

“Don't worry, hunter,” muttered the fat man next to him.

“There's nothing like mulled wine after a long and tiring journey,” said the old man in front of him, raising his jug.

Derren nodded and did the same. He couldn't agree more. Both mugs clinked and a third, held by the chubby man, motioned to approach. Derren clinked his mug again with vigor. Perhaps too much, for the tallowy man seemed surprised. They all drank. Then the old man opened his mouth again.

“You're a little late... A dozen guys like you have already shown up this week. Just yesterday two of your buddies were here. A toasted guy and a bald guy. Lovely couple. I didn't know that toasted guys could also be hunters.”

“Anyone who passes the test can be a hunter. A dozen, you say?”

“Uh–huh,” he nodded. “The last arrivals left this morning for the Fangs. They're probably dead by now. Since that damned monster showed up, no one dares to go in there anymore. The loggers are out of work and the chimneys are dying of disgust. In the meantime... the wine warms us up. The tavern is a sure value.”

“Lucky the real cold hasn't arrived yet. Has anyone here seen that monster?”

“No, only its works of art.”

“So, someone must have gone looking for them to bring them back for you to see.”

“Yes, at first,” said the fat man.

“Gobb's men went exploring several times to see why many of the villagers were no longer returning,” the more talkative one continued, his voice cracking. “They found the odd corpse and brought it back for Biken, our learned healer, to keep an eye on. In the end we all discovered to our horror the rotting remains of our neighbors. They all had some sting in them, cracked skin and purplish stains all over their bodies. Half of their men are still there, somewhere in the Fangs, probably rotting. In the mud or in the monster's stomach.”

Derren weighed those words. He sipped some more from his jug, for he had been told that grapes were good for sharpening the mind.

“They call it a dragonfly. Someone must have seen it,” he insisted.

“The soldiers who returned tell that they saw a gigantic shadow flying over them. A shadow in the shape of a dragonfly. Some say it had beetle claws, others speak of mammoth–like tusks, some even mentioned bull antlers on its head,” the old man shrugged. “You know how we are, we like to talk about what we see, but more about what we have never seen.”

“No hunter has returned yet?”

The fat man lowered his gaze to his own jug, self–consciously. The stooped old man shook his head.

“Since the first one arrived, an vast bearded guy from the Plateau about a week ago, none have returned to this village.”

Then a short silence formed in the area, enveloped in the general hubbub of the tavern. But Derren discovered in that muteness the fear so poorly hidden on the faces of the two villagers. He liked that part of his job: freeing people from fear. What learned healer was capable of that? There was no doctor in all of Edalom capable of doing something like that. But he could help them. He could drive fear away from that village. And he would.

“Tell me, hunter, how much is your life worth?” asked the fat man in a fit of curiosity.

“Three thousand silver shields.”

Neither was surprised to hear the figure. Strange thing, Derren thought. He was sure neither of them could count to three thousand. He deduced that they would surely have discussed the subject with their traveling companions the day before.

“Some went in for less. As far as I know, there is nothing to buy in hell.”

“What makes you think they are dead? Hunters are not like Gobb's men. If there are twelve like me in that forest... believe me, that dragonfly's hours are numbered.”

The mulled wine had been good for him, although not better than the tripe. He felt his strength renewed, but not enough to delay much longer the moment to go to bed. He went to the innkeeper and told him how good his dinner had been and asked for a room, hoping for a small discount.

As he crossed the room again, along with the innkeeper and his bundle of keys, the words of a foreign conversation reached his ears.

“They say that when it burns, the flames turn black and crows come out of her body! The burning is tomorrow morning, come, it will be fun!”

“I don't know... Maybe it's dangerous... I don't think she'll let herself be set on fire just like that. What if she curses us all?”

He was tempted to stand up and ask, but decided he would wait for the next morning. Burns... He'd seen too many. And the only thing blackening was the skin, not the flames.